A VOW OF COMPASSION an utterly gripping crime mystery

by Black, Veronica

  A happy conclusion meant finding Amy alive, Sister Joan reflected, her beads sliding between finger and thumb. How often were missing children found safe and sound?

  At breakfast the next morning Father Malone gently lamented the insecurity of modern life.

  ‘When I was a little lad in Ireland didn’t we run out into the fields and play safely until bedtime and now little ones aren’t safe anywhere? I must confess to you, Sisters, that I’ve no compassion at all on those who steal children! None at all!’

  ‘Neither did our Blessed Lord,’ Sister David said.

  ‘Mind you, we don’t know for certain that she was kidnapped,’ Sister Teresa ventured.

  ‘She could hardly have climbed a wall all by herself,’ Mother Dorothy frowned. ‘She was with other children in the walled garden behind the children’s unit when she disappeared, all of them apparently unsupervised for a few minutes. I rang the police first thing this morning straight after Mass but so far there’s no information. We intend to search the house and enclosure on our own account this morning, though I’m positive she’s not here.’

  ‘We’d’ve heard her running around,’ Sister Katherine said.

  They were all thinking of finding a live child, to be pulled from some hidy-hole and scolded and hugged. Not even Mother Dorothy was allowing herself to consider what must be only too likely.

  ‘Yes, of course you would!’ Father Malone had evidently grasped the darker possibility since he spoke too quickly and heartily, setting his cup down on the long table as he said, ‘Well, I must be getting back. There’s to be an incident room set up at the station in case anybody has any news. God bless, Sisters!’

  ‘Who’s to search where?’ Sister Perpetua asked. ‘I must tell you now that Sister Marie’s still feeling poorly after her operation and I can’t have my old ladies running round the place getting upset and overexcited.’

  ‘Sister Marie will stay by the telephone in case word comes from the police,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘Sister Gabrielle and Sister Mary Concepta will join Sister Hilaria and Sister Bernadette in the chapel to pray for the safety of the little girl; Sister David and I will search the house upstairs and downstairs; the rest of you will search the grounds and outbuildings. Sister Joan, make the postulancy your field of operations if you please, and take Alice with you.’

  The postulancy had once been a small dower house at the far end of the sunken tennis court. Since the Daughters of Compassion had taken over the property it had served as a postulancy where Sister Hilaria could train the one or two novices who applied each year to join the order in this part of Cornwall. Sister Joan never made her way along the path past the enclosure gardens and the convent cemetery without imagining long ago moonlit evenings when some daring beau might have prevailed on a daughter of the Tarquin family to stroll with him, arms entwined, nor went down across the weed-marred court with its rusting posts without picturing the girls in white dresses and young men in flannels who had once played there and were long gone, many of them killed in both World Wars.

  She called Alice and set off, walking slowly, conscientiously parting the bushes, with the sinking feeling that this was all a waste of time. Whoever had taken Amy would hardly have trekked up five miles from town to deposit her on convent land. People who stole children generally had an escape route planned — a nearby house or flat, a car, someone who would cover for them if they were questioned.

  She walked across the old tennis court and let herself in at the front door of the two-storey cottage where Sister Hilaria and Sister Bernadette must surely rattle around in a building converted to house six. Inside and out, walls and ceilings were whitewashed, white-slatted blinds and long white curtains protected the small windows. A passage with a narrow staircase directly ahead gave on to a small kitchen where tea and soup could be brewed, a room conserved as a library where books suitable for the innocent eyes of novices were neatly ranged on the shelves, a parlour for Sister Hilaria which was as bleak and bare as all the other rooms. On the other side of the passage, a long room furnished with desks and benches served as study with, behind it, another long room where novice mistress and charge held their recreation. Sister Joan, looking at the table on which a Scrabble set, and several dogeared jigsaws were stacked made up her mind to suggest that a couple of new games might be provided out of Louisa Cummings’s legacy. She went up the stairs, looking into each of the six cells, only two now occupied, and looked also in the two tiny bathrooms at the end of the passage. The postulancy hummed with silence.

  Outside Alice barked loudly. Sister Joan ran down the stairs in a manner that would have certainly excited Mother Dorothy’s wrath had she been present, opened the front door and saw Sister Meecham fending off Alice with a shoulder bag.

  ‘She won’t hurt you!’ Sister Joan called the dog sharply to heel, hiding her surprise when Alice actually obeyed. ‘She’s still in training. It’s Sister Meecham, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sophie Meecham, yes.’

  The other stood still, looking vaguely sheepish.

  ‘May I help you?’ Sister Joan felt the inadequacy of the question.

  ‘I came for a walk,’ Sophie Meecham said. ‘To get away from things for a bit. It must be very peaceful here in the convent.’

  ‘Not always. We don’t shut out the world entirely, you know,’ Sister Joan said gently.

  ‘I suppose not.’ The other hesitated, then said abruptly, ‘But Catholics can make confession, can’t they? Get things off their chest? And the priest can’t say anything, not even if they admit to a murder?’

  ‘No, the seal of the confessional is very strict.’ Sister Joan waited a moment, then said, ‘Was there something about a murder that troubles you? I’m not a priest but—’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Sophie Meecham said. ‘No, I was just thinking of the worst thing anybody could possibly do and still be able to confess it. I suppose the priest sets punishment?’

  ‘Penance; but that generally means setting right the wrong done as far as possible and saying a certain number of prayers. It’s not exactly punishment, more a balancing up the ledger. Is there any news of the little girl? Of Amy?’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ Sophie Meecham said. ‘No, the police set up an incident room and they’re going round the town, asking people.’

  ‘Sister Collet must be feeling very upset,’ Sister Joan said. ‘She was on duty in the children’s unit, wasn’t she?’

  ‘On the reception desk, yes.’

  ‘And she was on ward duty when Mrs Cummings died.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s a good nurse?’

  The other’s cheeks flamed suddenly. Sophie Meecham said in a voice that vibrated with suppressed anger, ‘She doesn’t do her work conscientiously! Always wool-gathering! Very pleasant and she does care about the patients but that’s not enough! You can’t mix private and public. It doesn’t work. It never works!’

  ‘Sister Meecham, can’t you tell me what’s worrying you?’ Sister Joan asked.

  ‘Are you under the seal of the confessional?’ the other demanded.

  ‘Well, no, not exactly! I couldn’t promise not to pass on what you had to say, but I’d use the greatest discretion.’

  ‘I don’t have anything to tell you,’ Sister Meecham said, and walked away rapidly.

  Sister Joan stared after the retreating figure, biting her lip, wanting to run after her, shake information out of her, but it would have been quite useless. She went back inside the postulancy, double-checked the rooms, locked up and continued her search of the grounds with the increasing conviction that she’d do better to sit down and think through recent events instead of running around like a headless chicken.

  ‘Anything?’

  Sister Katherine joined her as she emerged from the shrubbery walk.

  ‘Not a sign of anyone or anything,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘We’ve been just about everywhere,’ Sister Katherine said. ‘There’s nothing at all. I’m not e
ven sure what we’re looking for. A child wouldn’t stay hidden all night so near without someone hearing, and I can’t face — the other thing.’

  ‘That she might be dead?’ Sister Joan felt a fleeting pity as the other nun’s pale face paled further and her slim fingers involuntarily clenched. Sister Katherine was wise never to leave the enclosure because her gentleness was ill equipped to deal with the reality of the world beyond.

  ‘Sister, why don’t you go back to the main house and make tea for everybody?’ she said. ‘I’m sure Mother Dorothy will approve. Looking for someone who’s disappeared is never very nice even when it’s highly unlikely that you’ll find anything.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister.’

  Sister Katherine glided away, clearly relieved. Sister Joan shook her head mentally and walked through into the acre of land which comprised the enclosure garden. A wall ran round it and a further wall blocked off a triangular piece of ground used as the convent cemetery. In the main garden, root vegetables, beans and cabbages mingled with the now feathery fronds of asparagus, bramble bushes, herbs, trees heavy with apples and pears. Sister Martha sold the surplus in the market, having provided sufficient for the entire community.

  She was there now, peering up into the trees as if she hoped to find a small girl seated on the branches.

  ‘No luck, Sister?’ Sister Joan joined her.

  ‘I think this is a waste of time,’ Sister Martha said frankly, lowering her gaze. ‘I honestly don’t believe that we’ll find anyone here. But it makes us feel useful, I suppose. I’m praying the weather holds so that I can get in the Conference pears before the squirrels beat me to it. Luther was supposed to come and help me today and he’s usually very reliable but he hasn’t turned up. Too excited by all the goings on in town, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ll lend you a hand if you like, Sister,’ Sister Joan offered. ‘There’s nothing in the postulancy either.’

  ‘There’s a fruit skip over there.’ Sister Martha looked pleased to be doing something practical. ‘Sister Teresa wants to pickle some of the pears this year. That will make a nice change when we have cheese. Sister David says the Romans were very fond of pickled fruit.’

  ‘They ate dormice too,’ Sister Joan reminded her. ‘Better tell those squirrels of yours to watch out!’

  Sister Martha laughed, then abruptly sobered, her small face troubled.

  ‘Is it wrong to joke at a time like this?’ she asked anxiously. ‘The truth is that I don’t want to think about that poor little girl! That’s cowardly of me, I know, but Father Malone was saying this morning that she has no parents and that the people she was with before abused her. Poor little thing! I can’t bear to think about it, Sister, and I know Sister Katherine feels the same way. You’ve just missed a couple of ripe ones, Sister!’

  ‘Sorry!’ Sister Joan scrambled up the ladder again.

  In the back of her mind something was stirring. Something that Sister Martha had said. It tied up with something else casually heard, but she couldn’t remember either of the remarks. Words thrown away casually clung to the edges of her memory but never came fully into focus.

  ‘I hope Luther’s all right,’ Sister Martha was saying. ‘One never knows how he might react when anything out of the ordinary happens. Yet he’s generally so reliable.’

  ‘There’s Madge Lee’s funeral tomorrow morning,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘And Luther’s afraid of death. Can you imagine what that must be like?’

  ‘Very easily,’ Sister Joan said soberly.

  ‘I think it’s splendid of you to be able to put yourself into another person’s mind and understand how they think,’ Sister Martha said earnestly. ‘It’s no wonder people confide in you, Sister!’

  ‘Not always.’ Sister Joan thought of Sophie Meecham, shoulders tight as she marched away.

  They gathered in the kitchen for the unofficial cup of tea, each one coming in and answering enquiring looks with a silent shake of the head. Sister Gabrielle plodded in, her hawk face seamed and browned, her stick tapping impatiently.

  ‘If I pray any longer,’ she announced, ‘it’s going to sound like nagging! Is that tea? Nothing like a good cup of tea to get the mind working clearly. Sister Hilaria has gone over to the postulancy with Bernadette for something to drink there. Water, no doubt. I’m not made of such stern stuff!’

  ‘Would you like your tea here or in the Infirmary?’ Sister Teresa asked.

  ‘Here, of course!’ Sister Gabrielle looked with some satisfaction round the large, shiny kitchen. ‘I really fail to see why once we reach a certain age we get shunted into the infirmary like naughty children. Someone get me a chair though. My knees are cracking like fireworks. Sister Mary Concepta, do sit down and stop fidgeting! I’m sure our combined prayers will have achieved some result!’

  She lowered herself into the hastily provided chair with a grunt and sipped her tea.

  The Prioress came in with Sister David at her heels. Looking at her, Sister Joan found herself wondering what would have to happen short of an earthquake to throw Mother Dorothy into a panic. Probably not even an earthquake! The only sign of agitation her superior displayed was an added edge to her voice, a sharper gleam from the eyes behind the round spectacles.

  She said, ‘A telephone call has come from the police — from Constable Petrie. So far they have not found the child but they have found some smears of dried blood on the wall of the garden behind the children’s unit. I’m afraid that is a most disquieting discovery but we must continue to pray and to hope. I take it that none of you found anything?’

  She looked about the semicircle of faces.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ Sister Perpetua said.

  ‘Well, it was what might be termed a long shot.’ The Prioress used the idiom with delicate emphasis. ‘There is nothing more of a practical nature we can do except keep our eyes and ears open for any unusual event. And, of course, it goes without saying that we shall continue to pray for the little girl’s safety. To my mind that is the most practical course of action we can take.’

  ‘Amen,’ Sister Gabrielle said.

  ‘There is one further matter.’ Mother Dorothy frowned slightly. ‘Nobody seems to have seen Luther for the past forty-eight hours. Padraic rang earlier to ask if his cousin had turned up here to help Sister Martha as he promised. Nobody has seen Luther?’

  ‘Not since the other evening,’ Sister Joan said. ‘He was hanging round the main gate. The mourning for Madge Lee had upset him. He’s probably gone to ground until the funeral is over.’

  In the depths of her pocket the foil-wrapped tablet felt as heavy as a stone. She wished that it was possible to have her chat with Detective Sergeant Mill sooner than the time arranged, but he would have his time fully occupied with the hunt for Amy.

  ‘You can’t think there’s any connection!’ Sister Martha exclaimed suddenly, her face flaming. ‘Poor Luther is one of the gentlest creatures alive. He’d never hurt a child!’

  ‘Amy had the habit of hurting herself,’ Sister Joan said. ‘She frequently banged her head against the nearest solid object or scratched at her arms and legs. Abused children often feel worthless and guilty and try to punish themselves I understand.’

  ‘Poor little mite!’ Sister Katherine had winced. ‘Surely she should’ve been watched more carefully then, not left unsupervised in the garden?’

  ‘I believe that they are short staffed in St Keyne’s,’ Mother Dorothy said, ‘and the changeover to being Trust maintained hasn’t gone altogether smoothly. We can’t expect immediate perfection in any organization.’

  ‘Time’s getting on.’ Mother Dorothy spoke briskly. ‘We’ll return to our normal routine for the rest of the day. Sister Martha, can you supply a nice bouquet of flowers for Madge Lee?’

  ‘Yes, Mother Dorothy.’

  The routine of the convent resumed its even rhythm. Sister Teresa started to prepare the simple lunch of soup, a salad sandwich and a piece of fruit which varied only on Christmas
Day when there was poached salmon with a mustard cream dressing. Sister Joan helped put out the plates and cut bread and count apples into a large wooden bowl while her mind continued to be teased by something spoken that she could no longer hear clearly.

  If she went on trying to remember she never would remember! She carried the food upstairs to the graciously proportioned room that had been a drawing-room but was now divided into two, with double doors opening into the back section which was used as a room in which the nightly recreation could be held.

  Lunch was a silent meal, unlike breakfast where talking was allowed or supper during which one of the sisters read from a devotional book. Sister Joan let her gaze move slowly over her companions. Sister Gabrielle had stomped her way upstairs, but Sister Mary Concepta had stayed in the infirmary with Sister Marie and Sister Teresa, being the lay sister, ate as she always did after she had served the others. Odd. Sister Joan thought, how women dressed exactly alike and performing the same actions, could still look different. All the rules and routine in the world couldn’t stamp out one’s own individual personality. Mother Dorothy ate neatly and swiftly, only occasionally raising her head to let the light from the wide landing gleam on her spectacles. Sister Hilaria seemed not to notice she was eating at all. She dipped her spoon into the watercress soup, lifted it, and held it poised in the air for a moment as if she wasn’t certain what it was doing there before conveying it to her mouth, while at her side Sister Bernadette ate with the hearty appetite of a young woman who enjoys food and has no dark or secret side.

  I’m wool-gathering! Sister Joan thought impatiently. We all have our dark and secret side. The world itself has another face and the moon a side it never shows.