A VOW OF POVERTY an utterly gripping crime mystery

by Veronica Black

  ‘Did the caller give his name?’

  ‘No. I should have asked for it — I always do if anyone rings up but it was still early and I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘Did Jane Sinclair get many telephone calls?’ Sister Joan asked.

  Anne Dalton shook her head, tucking a stray strand behind her ear.

  ‘Her mother rang a couple of times and an old schoolfriend rang her up. She told me that she and her friend were hoping to get together when the friend came down to Cornwall in the summer.’

  ‘Did she mention the friend’s name?’ Detective Sergeant Mill asked.

  ‘Susie something or other. They hadn’t met for years.’

  ‘That seems to be all then. A couple of the police team will be along later to make more detailed checks on her rooms. We’d like to get that finished with before her parents come.’ He rose, absentmindedly helping himself to another biscuit.

  ‘Would you like one, Sister?’ Anne Dalton proffered the plate. ‘You’ve not eaten anything.’

  ‘I’d love one but I’m in enough trouble already up at the convent,’ Sister Joan said lightly. ‘I seem to be running in circles to catch my own tail these days.’

  ‘They must be very strict at the convent,’ the other said sympathetically. ‘Like being back in Victorian times I shouldn’t wonder!’

  ‘Well, we’re spared whalebone corsets,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘They do look uncomfortable, don’t they?’ Anne Dalton agreed. ‘Interesting to look through those old photographs though, don’t you think? All sitting up so straight with feathers in their hats! I’ve had many a smile over some of them.’

  ‘You collect old photographs?’

  ‘My late husband did. He liked old things. Always going off to auctions and such like. He brought back several old photograph albums during his time. Sometimes when I’m feeling a bit low I get them out and have a look through them. I was only showing them to Miss Sinclair a few nights ago. She came down for a cup of tea with me and I had one of the old albums out so she was looking through it.’

  ‘I don’t suppose that I could borrow it, could I? The one she was looking through?’

  ‘Yes, of course you can, Sister. It’s in the bookcase.’ Anne Dalton crossed to it and drew it out. ‘This will be particularly interesting for you. The album came from the Tarquin house — you call it Cornwall House now, don’t you? Keep it as long as you like.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sister Joan said. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Seems funny that we sat here looking at those old photographs,’ Anne Dalton said, ‘and not knowing what was going to happen in the next couple of days to the poor girl. Life’s very odd, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very.’ Sister Joan took the album firmly and risked another question, conscious of the detective hovering in the hall near the front door. ‘You were looking at this recently, you say?’

  ‘Thursday — no, Wednesday evening. Quite late on actually. Usually I try to be in bed by eleven but there’d been a good film on television and I wasn’t too sleepy so I popped upstairs to see if Miss Sinclair fancied a pot of tea and a bit of a chat.’

  ‘And she was up?’

  ‘Staring through the landing window into the old graveyard,’ Anne Dalton said. ‘Mind you, she told me she liked looking out there. Some people wouldn’t, you know. She came down for the tea and we chatted a bit and I showed her the album. She took it upstairs, as a matter of fact, to have a look at it and brought it down the next morning.’

  ‘Did she seem — was there anything in her manner that struck you as different?’ It was a risky question to ask since many people were apt to imagine things after the event. Anne Dalton, however, didn’t seem to be one of these. She answered at once,

  ‘Not that I noticed, Sister. She was a bit pale but we’d sat up late chatting.’

  ‘Thank you for the loan of the album,’ Sister Joan said, tucking it under her arm. ‘I’ll see you get it back very soon. And thank you for the tea.’

  ‘I think I might make myself a fresh pot,’ the landlady said. ‘All this has upset me more than I care to let on. You never know what’s coming next, do you?’

  ‘Indeed you don’t.’ Sister Joan smiled and hurried out to where Detective Sergeant Mill waited.

  ‘Sorry I was so long,’ she apologized as they got back into the car. ‘I wanted to smooth over the rough edges. You were a bit abrupt with her, you know.’

  ‘You’re right.’ He threw her a rueful look as they drove off. ‘I’m afraid it’s a case of kicking the dog because you’ve had a bad day at work.’

  ‘Murder cases don’t usually have that effect on you.’

  ‘They don’t exactly fill me with joy either,’ he said. ‘Oh, it’s not only that. Home life isn’t all roses!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a tone that warned him not to say any more, not to transgress the bounds they had set.

  ‘I intend going to the pub and having a stiff whisky,’ he said. ‘Feel like joining me, Sister?’

  ‘And get excommunicated? Don’t tempt me!’

  Equilibrium restored they grinned at each other.

  ‘I’ll have to make do with Constable Petrie then,’ he said. ‘All that chat at the end — I assume it had a point?’

  ‘It might help fill out the picture,’ she answered. ‘Jane Sinclair rang me on Thursday and asked me to meet her the following morning.’

  ‘Mentioning Grant Tarquin and the cemetery.’

  ‘And resurrection. Obviously she didn’t want to go into details over the phone. It occurred to me that the chat with Anne Dalton the previous night had something to do with it — maybe something that was said or something she saw. The album comes from the estate.’

  ‘I heard. It sounds like a long shot.’

  ‘Do you want the album yourself?’

  ‘You look at it, Sister.’ He sounded tolerant. ‘If there’s anything worth anything in it then let me know. I have to concern myself with the nitty gritty of the enquiry. Fingerprints, measurements, possible leads, you know.’

  He sounded weary. Now wasn’t the moment to tell him about the footprints in the storerooms and the little graveyard chapel. She said meekly, ‘Yes, of course.’

  They had turned on to the moorland track. Around them the mist crept whitely, pressing against the windows, stroking long, damp fingers down the glass. Even inside the car the air felt clammy. The lights of the convent were dimly glowing patches of orange.

  ‘Will you be in trouble?’ he asked, skirting the outer walls of the enclosure and drawing up before the front door.

  ‘Probably. Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘It’s no new state for me to be in!’

  ‘Didn’t your namesake have the same problem?’

  ‘Who? Oh, Jeanne d’Arc! I don’t really think you can compare the two. Mother Dorothy certainly won’t have me burned at the stake.’

  ‘Is that you, Petrie?’ Detective Sergeant Mill had wound down the window to address the figure looming out of the encircling whiteness.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The young constable bent to peer in. ‘The pony’s safe in her stall. Good evening, Sister! Not illegally parking anywhere today?’

  ‘Thanks awfully for reminding me!’ Sister Joan said bitterly as she alighted from the passenger seat. ‘I’d forgotten all about it, and then I wouldn’t have made a full and perfect general confession! Did Sister Teresa give you some tea?’

  ‘Indeed she did, Sister. Home baked scones with jam and cream too. Very tasty!’

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said, as his constable got into the car.

  She lifted her hand and went in, noticing that the front door had been left ajar. From the antechamber leading to the parlour Mother Dorothy called, ‘Close the front door, Sister, and come in here for a moment, please!’

  ‘“Will you come into my parlour”,’ Sister Joan muttered under her breath, closing the heavy door and stepping to the left. ‘Good evening, Mother Prio
ress. I’m afraid I was delayed.’

  ‘But not it seems without due cause,’ Mother Dorothy said judiciously. ‘I understand from Constable Petrie that a young woman has been murdered over on the industrial estate, and that you knew her.’

  ‘I only met her once,’ Sister Joan said. ‘She worked for a telephone answering firm, and I wished to make enquiries concerning someone who was offering to remove unwanted scrap metal etcetera from old houses. She’d never met the gentleman and his estimate was too high anyway.’

  ‘A very neat précis of what I suspect is a very much longer story. Come into the parlour, Sister.’

  Said the spider to the fly.

  In the parlour she knelt for the greeting that was never omitted, and stood, not having been invited to take one of the stools, while Mother Dorothy put the flat-topped desk between them, tilting the lamp on it so that its beam fell on Sister Joan’s face.

  We have ways of making you talk, Sister Joan thought, and choked back a nervous giggle.

  ‘In the past,’ Mother Dorothy said, ‘you have helped out in certain investigations. This I allowed because we are all bound to serve the ends of truth and justice. I must confess that I am anxious at the ease with which you appear to become involved in such matters. No, I don’t require to be told that it’s not your fault. It begins to look as if part of your raison d’être is to assist in such investigations from time to time. However you must guard against neglecting your spiritual life and you must remember that your present task is to clear out those storerooms. Should anything be found there worth the selling that will help our present financial situation very greatly. I have a question to ask you.’

  ‘Yes, Mother Dorothy?’

  ‘In view of the fact that you are now apparently helping the police again do you feel able to make full confession before your sisters today?’

  ‘Not without going into a lot of irrelevant detail, Mother.’

  ‘In that case you will retain your seat during confession and leave the matter to me. You will accept the penance imposed?’

  ‘Yes, Mother Prioress.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister.’ For the first time her superior smiled, its warmth transcending the austere countenance. ‘What is that under your arm?’

  ‘It’s an album of Victorian photographs, Mother. It came originally from this house, and it was thought that—’

  ‘Take it up to the library before you take your place in chapel. Sister David will like to see it as well. Dominus vobiscum.’

  ‘Et cum spiritu tuo.’

  Sister Joan knelt briefly and went ahead of the prioress into the chapel passage.

  The rest of the community were already in their places, save for Sister Hilaria and Bernadette. The novice mistress made her own general confession privately to Mother Prioress while Bernadette, as postulant, made hers to Mother Hilaria and was not expected until she became a novice proper to humble herself before the rest. It was humbling too, Sister Joan thought, going up the spiral staircase at the side of the Lady Altar, to have to stand up and confess all the trifling little faults which, tiny in themselves, blotted the perfection of the living rule.

  In the library she switched on the lamp, laid the photograph album on top of one of the low bookcases, then abruptly changed her mind and thrust it in among a pile of old Latin missals where it was completely inconspicuous. She made a mental note to show the book to Sister David and went down the stairs again, taking her place as Mother Dorothy entered.

  ‘Let us make a good confession, my daughters.’

  Mother Dorothy dealt with sin as briskly as she dealt with anything else. The nuns rose, voices chiming together, ‘I confess to You, oh Lord, to you, my sisters, that I have sinned exceedingly, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault—’

  Clenched fists beat softly on modestly confined breasts. This was a cleansing process.

  ‘Sit.’ Mother Dorothy inclined her head and took her own seat.

  The space before the altar was empty, waiting for the first penitent. There was the usual pause before Sister Gabrielle, giving the lead as usual, rose and made her way, stick tapping, to what Sister Teresa had nicknamed the hot seat.

  ‘I confess to you, my sisters, that I have fallen asleep twice this week during morning meditation,’ she said. ‘I also confess Sister Perpetua for failing to wake me up.’

  ‘Perhaps Sister Perpetua was about to confess that herself, Sister Gabrielle,’ Mother Dorothy said.

  ‘I was not, Mother Prioress.’ Sister Perpetua stood up in her place. ‘I don’t regard it as a fault to allow an elderly lady to enjoy a brief nap wherever she happens to be!’

  ‘It was an omission, Sister Perpetua. I believe our Lord would regard it as such. Didn’t He reproach His friends when they failed to watch with Him in the Garden of Gethsemane?’ Mother Dorothy said.

  ‘May the Lord’s Will be done.’ Sister Perpetua sat down.

  ‘Was there anything else, Sister Gabrielle?’ The prioress glanced at her.

  ‘I also confess to a lack of charity,’ Sister Gabrielle said. ‘Sister Perpetua left me to snore on with the best intentions.’

  ‘The road to Hell is paved with them so we are told. Was there anything else?’

  ‘No, Mother.’

  ‘Sister Perpetua? Do you wish to make your confession now?’

  Sister Perpetua exchanged places with Sister Gabrielle.

  ‘I confess to you, my sisters, that I have been short-tempered this week.’

  Sister Perpetua always confessed to a short temper. Sister Joan’s attention wandered. If the public had to stand up once a week and confess all their little faults, all their meannesses and omissions of virtue to their neighbours, would society improve? And how many angels could dance on the point of a pin? The question was irrelevant. Perhaps the whole ritual was irrelevant — this catalogue of shabby little faults admitted by a group of semi-cloistered women when, on a cold slab in the morgue, a nice, ordinary girl lay dead, strangled, and a couple of shocked and grieving parents made ready to travel down and identify her.

  ‘Sister Gabrielle, for your penance, watch and wait for two hours in the chapel here between midnight and five in the morning,’ Mother Dorothy was saying. ‘Sister Perpetua, since you lack patience, perhaps you may learn it by absenting yourself from recreation for two evenings next week and cleaning the brasses.’

  Jane Sinclair had looked through the album and the next day had phoned up and asked for a meeting. She had been in the habit of gazing through the landing window of her flat into the old churchyard. She had mentioned Grant Tarquin and resurrection. There had been half prints in the dust around the tombs, the one tomb medieval, the other a modern reproduction.

  ‘Since Sister Joan is helping the authorities with an investigation she feels unable to make a full confession at this time.’ Mother Dorothy was speaking again. ‘She has kindly empowered me with the task of setting her a penance. I know that she has wasted money unnecessarily this week so she will be pleased to donate the remaining portion of her pocket money until the New Year to the missions. God’s Will be done.’

  ‘God’s Will be done,’ Sister Joan echoed.

  If the poor were truly blessed, she thought wryly, then she was surely the most blessed sister in the order.

  Six

  During supper — tomato and courgette pie with mashed potatoes and a syrup sponge pudding — and thank God for Sister Teresa who was a splendid little cook — Sister Joan tried to fix her attention upon the reading. It was the legend of some obscure child saint who sounded like the most appalling little prig. Her mind, however, flitted away to the afternoon’s events. The old chapel with its tombs and the half prints in the dust, Lilith’s being cut free — for heaven’s sake! that fact had gone clean out of her mind when Detective Sergeant Mill had informed her of Jane Sinclair’s murder! Someone had cut the pony’s rein, leaving her rider momentarily stranded in a misty graveyard with its leaning headstones and long gras
s. That meant someone had seen her go into the cemetery, had hidden, then when she was looking at Grant Tarquin’s grave, had cut the rein and led Lilith silently along the grass verge to the road.

  A chill ran down her back as she tried not to contemplate what might have happened if the detective hadn’t arrived. She wondered if Detective Sergeant Mill had properly taken in what she had told him about someone having cut the rein. Probably he had tucked it away for future reference but his conscious attention had been on Jane Sinclair and her death.

  The reading had ended without her hearing it. Presumably the priggish little horror had been gathered to the angels. Mother Dorothy smiled her thanks to Sister Martha.

  ‘Very nicely read, Sister. The innocence of children is something we must all aspire to emulate. Sister Joan, next week you will be reading the book at suppertime, I believe? I think we would all enjoy hearing the story of Jeanne d’Arc again. Will you choose relevant extracts from one of her biographies? Sister David has reached Jeanne d’Arc in her series of booklets for children so she will be glad to help you.’

  ‘Yes, Mother Prioress.’ Sister Joan bowed her head.

  Not Marina Warner’s work, she reflected as they rose for grace. Too intellectual and with an edge of scepticism which she personally relished but wouldn’t have suited everybody. She’d be on safer ground with the biography that Vita Sackville-West had written.

  ‘I’ll be happy to help you, Sister,’ Sister David whispered as they filed into the recreation room. ‘You’re going to be very busy clearing out the storerooms and helping the police. You are helping them again, aren’t you?’

  ‘Only in a very minor way,’ Sister Joan murmured back. ‘I’ll be glad of your help with Jeanne d’Arc though. I’ll get the extracts marked tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Sister Joan and Sister David, Sister Martha needs help with winding her wool and Sister Katherine would like a partner for a game of Scrabble,’ Mother Dorothy said, frowning slightly.