A VOW OF COMPASSION an utterly gripping crime mystery

by Black, Veronica

  ‘Not officially. How are you, Miss Fleetwood?’

  Shirley Fleetwood who wasn’t quite sure enough of herself not to resent being called by her Christian name looked gratified at the formal mode of address.

  ‘Busy as usual,’ she said. ‘Not that I complain! I enjoy my work. I’m here today to assess a child called—’ She consulted a paper in her hand. ‘Amy Foster. Cruelty case. Happily it was the foster parents and not the natural parents who were charged. Foster as with a small f.’

  ‘Surely cruelty is bad from whomever it comes,’ Sister Joan demurred.

  ‘But the child hadn’t bonded with them. Of course they ought to have been checked out far more carefully. We do try but a few occasionally slip through the net. It gives the department a bad name.’

  ‘It can’t be awfully good for the children either,’ Sister Joan said dryly.

  ‘Children are resilient.’ Shirley Fleetwood bestowed her faintly superior smile upon the smaller woman and went past her as a nurse approached.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Fleetwood. Sister.’

  It was the nurse she had seen on her previous visit here. Sister Joan had the impression that she wasn’t overjoyed to see either of them. Efficient, good hearted, a stickler for routine — Sister Joan firmly checked her thoughts, reminding herself that it wasn’t fair to judge anyone from a few minutes’ acquaintanceship.

  ‘I’m meeting Sister Collet here,’ she said.

  ‘She’s not here,’ the nurse said. ‘You’re welcome to wait. You’ve come about Amy, Miss Fleetwood?’

  ‘How is she, Nurse?’ Shirley Fleetwood asked.

  ‘Sister.’ The nurse looked slightly offended. ‘Sister Warren. All the nurses are Sisters at St Keyne’s.’

  ‘Sister Warren.’ Shirley Fleetwood raised her eyebrows slightly as if the pretensions of a mere nurse amused her. ‘Has there been any further incident of self-harm?’

  ‘She seems to have settled in much better but quite honestly she requires able-bodied children as her companions.’

  The two of them went off together, briskly professional, each one guarding her territory. Sister Joan felt like yelling after them, ‘Who cares what other people call you, for Heaven’s sake? There’s a small child here who bangs her face against the wall and needs more than competence and socially correct jargon to heal her spirit!’

  It wouldn’t have done any good. She sat down on a bench and folded hands and lips together.

  ‘It’s Sister Joan, isn’t it?’ A middle-aged nurse came out of a small room nearby and crossed to greet her, hand outstretched, plump face beaming. ‘I nursed Sister Hilaria when she had her accident. How is she now?’

  ‘Fully recovered, thank God! It’s Sister Merryl?’

  ‘Oh, we’re all sisters now,’ the other said with a note of scorn in her voice. ‘I tell you where equality’s the rule pride in one’s work simply falls through the floor. I mean what’s the use of working hard for promotion when every jumped-up junior can go swanning round calling herself ward sister or whatever? It’s supposed to make the patients feel that they’re in fully trained, professional hands. Well, let me tell you that patients aren’t daft. They know who’s experienced and who’s not the instant the needle goes in! I made staff nurse and I’m proud of it, but who cares these days? I’ve been toying with the idea of going into private nursing. It would give me time to get to know the patient instead of being shifted from one section to another the way it is now.’

  ‘You didn’t nurse Mrs Cummings at any time, did you?’ Sister Joan broke into the flow.

  ‘Was that the patient who came in for a hip-replacement operation and had a heart attack? No, I was doing a stint over in casualty that week. See what I mean? No chance to get really involved with the patients, to make them understand that they’re individuals. I suppose it makes for detachment but it hasn’t got much to do with compassion.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right, Sister Merryl,’ Sister Joan agreed.

  ‘Were you waiting for someone?’ the nurse enquired.

  ‘For Sister Collet. I was supposed to meet her here.’

  ‘Oh, Tracy Collet is never where she’s supposed to be,’ Sister Merryl said impatiently. ‘Flits about like a moth does Sister Collet! She’s a nice enough girl but she’s flutter-brained. Sister Meecham now is much steadier. She never forgets to sign the poison register and then rushes back an hour later and scribbles down something illegible.’

  ‘Someone’s done that recently? Sister Collet?’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t really talking about anyone in particular,’ Sister Merryl said, looking suddenly embarrassed. ‘It’s just general muddle. No old-style matron would stand for it. I’d better get on. Is the social worker here yet?’

  ‘To assess Amy Foster, yes.’

  ‘Poor little mite!’ The plump face quivered slightly. ‘People who ill-treat children ought to be locked up and the key thrown away in my opinion. It’s a sad world, Sister Joan.’

  ‘In many ways, yes.’

  Rising, she consulted the fob watch pinned to her habit. Odd but there were many resemblances between nuns and nurses. Both wore uniforms designed to desex them; both wore fob watches and lived according to a routine; both were urged to practise detachment from earthly cares. Nurses were trained to regard their patients with impersonal sympathy; nuns were supposed to carry that to its logical conclusion and detach their affections from every other human being on earth.

  She really couldn’t justify waiting any longer. Going through the door, leaving the high-pitched chatter of the children behind, Sister Joan found herself thinking about poison registers. Someone, whether Sister Collet or another, had obviously taken something and forgotten to sign for it. That sounded inexcusably careless. However it wasn’t likely that she’d learn any more by direct questioning. She’d go back to the main reception area, leave her apologies for Sister Collet and drive back to the convent.

  ‘Sister Joan!’ Sophie Meecham was running to catch her up, face flushed with exertion.

  ‘Good afternoon, Sister Meecham.’

  Sister Joan paused politely, whatever else she’d intended to say driven out of her head as the other said, ‘Someone should’ve informed me that you were paying another visit but it’s off duty and out of mind anyway. Is anything wrong? Why are you here?’

  ‘Only to give something to Sister Collet,’ Sister Joan said, taken aback by the other’s unexpected vehemence. ‘She was due to give me a note for Mother Prioress but she must’ve been delayed.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s only that — one does like to be kept informed,’ Sophie Meecham said. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude, but I pride myself as chief ward sister in keeping everything running smoothly and when visitors start wandering about — though naturally you’re always welcome—’

  ‘Who’s in charge of the poisons cupboard?’ Sister Joan asked.

  ‘The poisons cupboard?’ Sophie Meecham echoed. ‘We don’t have anything like that. We have a drugs unit which is always kept locked. Anyone who requires anything must get the key and sign for what they take. Some of the more volatile substances are kept under refrigeration, of course.’

  ‘Who keeps the keys?’ Sister Joan asked.

  ‘Each of the four regular doctors has a key and I have one. There’s a spare key kept in the manager’s office, and his office is locked at night. Why do you want to know all this anyway? There’s nothing missing from the drugs unit!’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Sister Joan said mildly.

  ‘I’d better get back on the ward. Shall I tell Sister Collet that you’ve left?’

  ‘If you don’t mind. Ask her to post the note to Mother Dorothy. Thank you. Sister Meecham.’

  Sophie Meecham stood for an instant, poised as if she were about to soar upwards from the gravel and fly into the hot blue sky. Her mouth was slightly open. A faint quiver of her lips promised words that never came as she turned and headed in the opposite direction.

  ‘My,
oh my!’ Sister Joan said under her breath. ‘Now what pressed her panic button, I wonder?’

  She walked on thoughtfully towards the van, her mind teeming with possibilities.

  FOUR

  There was nothing tangible on which to base her suspicions, only the feeling that something wasn’t right, didn’t gel. Seated in the library, jotting down various points that had occurred to her, Sister Joan couldn’t help wondering if she’d reached the stage when anything unexplained was built up by her own imagination as a mystery to be solved. She looked down frowningly at her scribbled notes.

  Louisa Cummings, 75, widow. Mild heart condition. Waiting for hip replacement. Died of heart attack after muddle over operation schedule. Cremated.

  Dr Geeson, thirtyish, smart-aleck surgeon. Not as confident as he makes himself out to be? Has access to drugs.

  Sophie Meecham, 30 odd, chief ward sister. Made the rounds of the wards and found Mrs Cummings. Very agitated about my asking questions.

  Tracy Collet, twenties, ward sister. Felt uneasy because bedcovers were smooth.

  Ceri Williams, early twenties, student nurse. Seems pleasant.

  Ward Sister Merryl, forties? Seems dissatisfied with new customs at hospital.

  Carol Prince, twenties, student nurse. Seems frank and open. Not in hospital when Louisa Cummings died.

  And that was it, Sister Joan mused, reading over the notes again. Nobody had any apparent motive for killing Mrs Cummings except Mother Dorothy herself. Sister Joan indulged in a brief fantasy of her superior creeping through the night-shrouded wards in order to kill off her godmother while Sister Collet was in the toilet but the picture was simply too ridiculous to sustain. In any case Mother Dorothy hadn’t even known she was the chief — the sole — beneficiary.

  The plain truth was that there was absolutely nothing to investigate. Old ladies did get sudden, fatal heart attacks. Obviously everything needful had been done at the time. Professional jealousies, occasional muddles in hospital routine, and the tendency of medical staff to stick together in the face of outside criticism were not in themselves suspicious.

  A footfall sounded on the spiral stair. Sister Marie’s head appeared, her cheek still slightly flushed and swollen.

  ‘Sister Joan, Mother Dorothy just had a call from the hospital to say there’s a bed free tomorrow so they can fit me in for the dental treatment,’ she said.

  ‘At last!’ Sister Joan folded up the paper on which her notes were scribbled and put it inside the cover of her spiritual diary. ‘They don’t seem to mind these days that people are left in pain.’

  ‘Actually it hardly hurts at all,’ Sister Marie said, ‘as long as I don’t chew on that side, and I can take the occasional aspirin.’

  ‘You’ve taken so many recently that you’re positively rattling!’ Sister Joan scolded. ‘Does Mother Dorothy want me to give you a lift in tomorrow?’

  ‘I have to be there by nine in the morning, and I mustn’t eat or drink beforehand,’ Sister Marie said dolefully. ‘They’ll probably let me go home later in the day but the bed’s still available if I have to stay the full twenty-four hours. I am really not looking forward to it.’

  ‘St Apollonia had all her teeth knocked out by the Roman guards,’ Sister David said, appearing unexpectedly from below.

  ‘That’s not much comfort,’ Sister Marie protested. ‘Anyway I’m not a saint.’

  ‘You could pretend to be one.’ Sister David arrived at the top of the stairs. ‘I do that sometimes.’

  ‘Do you really?’ Sister Joan stared at the rabbity little face under the short black veil. ‘Which saints do you pretend to be?’

  ‘It depends what I’m doing at the time,’ Sister David said primly. ‘If I’m polishing in the chapel I pretend to be St Thérèse of Lisieux — she loved looking after the altar — and when I’m taking dictation from Mother Dorothy then I pretend I’m Teresa of Avila who wrote such marvellous things.’

  She ended on a somewhat doubtful note as if she wasn’t certain whether her habit was quite moral.

  Sister Joan said, ‘Wasn’t it St Ignatius Loyola who said that if one puts oneself into a position of prayer the prayerful emotion will follow? You may attain sanctity in just that way, Sister David!’

  ‘Heigh ho then!’ Sister Marie laughed. ‘Make way, oh St Keyne’s, for St Apollonia!’

  Following them down the stairs, Sister Joan thought for the umpteenth time that her fellow nuns never lost the power to surprise her.

  ‘I couldn’t stand being cooped up with a crowd of fellows,’ Detective Sergeant Mill had once observed, ‘and I don’t understand how anyone can stand being cooped up with a mob of people of the same sex and all wearing the same clothes.’

  Detective Sergeant Alan Mill was an avowed agnostic and wouldn’t have understood anyway, she thought tolerantly. The truth was that her companions in the convent were as varied as flowers in a meadow, each one quite different from the others, yet all bound by the same vows, the same beliefs and aspirations. If he were to make that remark now she would feel confident enough to argue with him, she thought, and inadvertently heaved a sigh. There would be no discreet collaboration between convent nun and cop this time. The bald fact was that there wasn’t anything to unravel.

  ‘Sister Joan, are you doing anything in particular?’ Sister Katherine was in the front hall, two large cardboard boxes at her feet.

  ‘Nothing, Sister.’

  The linen mistress so seldom asked for anything that Sister Joan gave her an encouraging smile.

  ‘I’ve been using some material left over from the new curtains in the recreation room,’ Sister Katherine said. ‘I’ve made several dresses and a couple of kilts from that and other odds and ends. Mother Dorothy agrees that it might be nice to give them to the Lee children. Mr Lee has been so very kind in supplying us with freshly caught fish.’

  Poached from someone else’s trout stream, Sister Joan thought with an inward grin, answering aloud, ‘That was a lovely idea of yours, Sister Katherine. Padraic Lee does his best but it’s hard for a man to try to bring up two girls by himself.’

  ‘It’s such a pity his wife suffers from such bad health,’ Sister Katherine said.

  Did she truly not know that Mrs Lee was a hopeless alcoholic? Evidently not. There was no hint of shared knowledge in the wide grey eyes, no guile in the delicate face. Sister Katherine spent her days in the enclosure, performing her religious duties with quiet grace, spending the rest of her time mending, darning, washing, ironing, and tracing exquisite embroidery on vestments and bridal gowns and first communion dresses.

  ‘Mother Dorothy has given her permission for you to leave the grounds,’ she said now.

  ‘In that case I’ll drive over to the Romany camp.’

  She bent and picked up one of the cardboard boxes while Sister Katherine took the other.

  At the van she paused. ‘Why not ask Mother Dorothy if you can come with me?’ she suggested. ‘After all, you made the garments.’

  ‘Oh, no, Sister!’ Sister Katherine took a step away from the van. ‘I really don’t want any credit for them, and I would never leave the enclosure unless it was absolutely necessary. I often think how glad you must be to get home again after one of your errands of mercy!’

  Sister Joan climbed into the van brimful with undeserved glory which lasted about two minutes before she reminded herself that one cannot climb to Heaven on the opinions of others.

  She turned aside on to the bumpy track that cut away towards the Romany camp. There had been gypsies on the moor for hundreds of years, and though several new-age travellers had joined them from time to time, stayed a little while and then decamped, leaving only their litter behind, the Romanies themselves had persisted down through the generations. Lees and Evanses and Treddicks and Smiths had clung to their traditions, even, she suspected, to their joyous pagan worship which ran like a dark and vital current beneath the smooth skin of newer faiths.

  A small car parked awkwardly at
the side of the track and accompanied by a female figure waving her down made her heart sink.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Fleetwood.’ She drew to a halt and wound down the window. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘A puncture,’ Shirley Fleetwood said, ‘and I can’t get the wheel off.’

  Glory be! So even self-satisfied social workers aren’t perfect!

  Sister Joan said, ‘Climb in and I’ll give you a lift. I take it that you were on your way to the camp?’

  ‘To see the Lees,’ Shirley Fleetwood said, climbing in and smoothing down her bob of dark hair.

  ‘You’ll not be welcome.’ Sister Joan set the van bouncing forward again.

  ‘That won’t be anything new!’

  There was a weary amusement in the other’s voice which caused Sister Joan to look at her with more sympathy.

  ‘They’re proud, independent people,’ she said gently. ‘They distrust officialdom even when it’s couched in a friendly form.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to have stopped them drawing their unemployment benefit,’ Shirley Fleetwood said.

  Sister Joan laughed. ‘Indeed not,’ she agreed. ‘But that doesn’t mean that they stomach personal interference. Are you going to see Padraic for any particular reason or is it just a general call? I can tell you now that Padraic’s two daughters are clean, bright, well fed and beloved. He’s an excellent father.’

  ‘You like him?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Sister Joan said. ‘He’s not always acted strictly according to law but he’s never done anything very serious and he’s always been very kind to the community.’

  ‘It isn’t really about his children,’ Shirley Fleetwood said. ‘It’s about his wife. You may not know but she’s—’

  ‘An alcoholic,’ Sister Joan said. ‘You’ll never get Padraic to admit it publicly. Not even privately come to that! He keeps up the fiction that she’s something of an invalid.’

  ‘Invalids don’t get into public brawls and smash pub windows,’ Shirley Fleetwood said.