In the bustling hospital, where nurses struggled to get to their duties on time, fighting stress and tiredness, someone was taking advantage of that. Drugs were being taken from a unit to which a great many people could gain access without much trouble, and then the drugs taken were entered belatedly in the register. A nurse on duty went to the toilet while an elderly woman died of a heart attack that shouldn’t have occurred, and the same nurse sat at a reception desk while one of the children in her charge vanished into thin air, leaving smears of blood behind. Someone gave Madge Lee and Luther foil-wrapped tablets and now Madge Lee was dead, killed by one bottle of brandy that had turned up mysteriously minus its cap at the same time Sister Meecham’s secret tipple had disappeared from the office. And Sister Collet had wept bitterly when she had received a legacy of a modest ring.
The names revolved in her mind endlessly like a litany. Sophie Meecham, Tracy Collet, Ceri Williams, Sister Merryl, Sister Warren, Sister Croft, Dr Meredith, Dr Geeson — a name was missing and she didn’t know which one it was nor which face fitted it. Someone else linked with — what?
‘Let us say grace.’ Mother Dorothy had folded her napkin and rose, folding her narrow hands.
Sister Joan bowed her head and crossed herself. On her mind the faces were imprinted, some smiling and full face, others in profile, one walking away, growing smaller and smaller until she receded into nothing, like Amy.
Like Amy . . . like Amy Foster. Foster. Sister Foster was on men’s surgical giving a drink of tea to a patient on the night Louisa Cummings was killed. Sister Foster would do anything for a man. Someone had said that casually when she’d made enquiries. Foster. It wasn’t an unusual name but she hadn’t come across it very often in Cornwall. Was there a connection of some kind? An instinct deeper than logic told her that there was.
‘Sister Joan, you seemed somewhat absent-minded during lunch,’ Mother Dorothy said.
‘Mother?’ Sister Joan hastily assumed an alert expression.
‘You picked up a fork with which to eat your soup,’ Mother Dorothy said dryly. ‘I can appreciate your anxiety. We are all anxious about the child but since there’s nothing further we can do in a practical sense then please concentrate your attention on the duties you have here. A wandering mind is a slothful mind, Sister, and since our little discussion this afternoon is to be on the subject of sloth then you may care to jot down your thoughts on it after you’ve mucked out the stable.’
‘Yes, Mother Dorothy,’ Sister Joan said, and set her soul in patience to await the morrow.
It came on laggard feet, crawling through the hours that stretched themselves across the intervening time.
Father Stephens came to offer the Mass, his movements as graceful as if he watched himself in a mirror, his voice teasing out the sensuousness of the words. Definitely a candidate for a bishopric, Sister Joan thought, then found within herself a tiny pocket of compassion for a young priest with ambition who finds himself as assistant to a much loved and respected old pastor.
Mother Dorothy excused herself during breakfast and went off to telephone the police, returning as Father Stephens was just leaving to inform the community that nothing further had been discovered.
By 10.30 Sister Joan was helping both the Prioress and Sister Perpetua into the van and Sister Martha bustled up with a sheaf of dahlias in varying shades of bronze and gold.
‘Will you please find out if anyone has seen Luther?’ she begged. ‘I’m becoming quite seriously concerned about him.’
‘Yes, of course, Sister. Anything we hear we’ll relay on our return.’ Mother Dorothy nodded approval at the sheaf.
As they drove through the gates on to the bumpy track she said, ‘Sister Joan, you will not need to pick us up after the service and lunch with Father Malone. Father Stephens informed me this morning that he will bring us both back to the convent, so you are free to use the extra time to make what enquiries you deem necessary.’
‘About the little girl?’ Sister Perpetua asked.
‘That and other matters, Sister. There are certain irregularities in the procedures at St Keyne’s which require to be addressed.’
‘If something’s going on down there,’ Sister Perpetua returned with energy, ‘I’d like it stopped before Sister Mary Concepta has to have another check-up!’
Brother Cuthbert emerged from his stone hermitage and waved to them, his freckled young face anxious as he loped towards the van.
‘Good morning, Mother Prioress. Sisters. Is there any news of the little girl who’s missing? There were police searching the moors until quite late last night. I went along with them for part of the time until Detective Sergeant Mill decided we might be walking over valuable evidence and not see it in the dark.’
‘No word as yet, Brother Cuthbert,’ Mother Dorothy said.
‘I have been praying about it,’ Brother Cuthbert said. ‘My own feeling is that some lady who has no children of her own saw Amy Foster and decided to take her home. Unwise but not malicious, don’t you think? Are you going to the funeral service for Padraic Lee’s wife?’
‘To the requiem,’ Sister Joan said.
‘She was a Catholic, of course! I’d forgotten. I must make haste then.’
‘You’d better come with us,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Otherwise you’ll be late.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Sister.’ His cheerful face had lengthened slightly. ‘The truth is that I’m more at ease working on engines than riding in them, but needs must—’
‘When Sister Joan drives,’ Sister Perpetua said dryly. ‘Lock up and jump in.’
‘Oh, I never bother to lock up,’ the young monk said, opening the door and clambering up beside Sister Perpetua. ‘It would be dreadful if someone needed shelter and I was out and they couldn’t get in. Anyway I’ve nothing worth the stealing. Do you think Luther will be at the funeral? I understand he’s not been seen for a couple of days.’
‘Probably not, but I’m sure he will turn up sooner or later. He always does,’ Sister Joan said.
‘He fears death,’ Brother Cuthbert said in a wondering tone. ‘Now I can’t pretend that I would welcome death if it came too soon because the world is such a marvellous place that I want to enjoy it for as long as possible, but I daresay there are even greater delights in store for us when we are finally called.’
‘You’re always so optimistic,’ Sister Joan said.
Usually his cheerfully placid nature soothed and cheered her but this morning she had too much on her mind. There were too many loose ends to be tied up, too many answers waiting for questions she hadn’t yet formulated in her own mind.
‘I know,’ Brother Cuthbert said apologetically. ‘It irritates people terribly at times but it’s habitual with me, I’m afraid.’
‘God preserve us from long-faced saints!’ Mother Dorothy said, quoting St Teresa. ‘You go right on being cheerful, Brother Cuthbert. You may drop us here, Sister, on the corner. We can walk the last few yards to the church. Your time is your own now until tea this afternoon. I trust you’ll make full use of it.’
‘I will, Mother,’ Sister Joan said, and held in her impatience as the three climbed down from the van.
First stop the hospital, she thought, and drove off the moment the doors were shut.
EIGHT
The hospital presented its normal aspect of half-organized bustle. There were two police constables in the forecourt, neither of them known to her, which meant that men from other local forces had been drafted in. Both of them glanced incuriously towards Sister Joan but made no move to question her as she climbed down from the vehicle and went into the main building.
Ceri Williams was on the reception desk. She looked tired, her usually rosy face slightly drawn as she greeted Sister Joan.
‘You’ve not heard anything, I suppose? About Amy, I mean?’
‘Not a thing,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I’m here to make a flying visit round the wards. Is it all right if I go up?’
‘Yes
, of course. I’m going off duty in a few minutes,’ Ceri Williams said. ‘Was there anything you wanted to ask me?’
‘I’m not really here to ask questions,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I daresay the police have grilled everybody thoroughly.’
‘Those of us who were on the premises,’ Ceri Williams said. ‘I felt ever so sorry for Sister Collet. She was at the reception desk in the children’s unit. I suppose she should have checked in the wards to see the children but those who weren’t out in the garden were either in their beds or resting in the playroom so she figured there wasn’t much need. I’d just gone off duty and I had looked in on all the children, including the ones in the garden.’
‘Did you see Amy?’
‘She was sitting by the back wall,’ Sister Williams said, screwing up her eyes as she recreated the scene mentally. ‘She never would play with the other children. Miss Fleetwood fears she may be traumatized so severely that she will never be entirely normal. Isn’t that just awful!’
‘I hope Shirley Fleetwood’s wrong,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Thank you, Sister. Maybe I’ll see you later.’
She went up the staircase, turning in the direction of the men’s surgical ward.
‘Sister Joan, is there any news?’
Sister Warren, something nearer human weakness in her resolute expression, looked up from the desk as Sister Joan went in. Of the four occupants of the ward two were reading the newspapers, a third drinking a cup of coffee, the fourth sufficiently lively to send a long low wolf whistle in Sister Joan’s direction. Sister Joan flapped her hand at him in mock reproof and spoke to Sister Warren.
‘I’m actually looking for Sister Foster. She was on duty in this ward on the night Mrs Cummings died.’
‘We get moved around so much that we’re seldom in the same place more than once or twice a month,’ Sister Warren said. ‘The duty roster’s in the office. I think Sister Meecham’s there.’
‘Thanks. I’ll take a look.’ Sister Joan turned to go as the other detained her, lowering her voice.
‘You’ll have heard about the little girl, of course. The height of inefficiency if you want my opinion. At the very least Sister Collet deserves a severe reprimand. Sister Meecham is altogether too lenient with the staff and of course complaints to the manager do absolutely no good at all. That wretched individual is hardly ever here!’
‘I’ve not heard anything,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Thank you.’
There seemed to be precious little friendship among the nurses, she reflected, as she made her way to the office. Sisters Warren and Merryl had scant sympathy with the modern way of doing things and the other nurses seemed to be in a constant state of agitation which had very little to do with patient care.
The office door was partly open, the room itself empty. Sister Joan went in and looked round at the filing cabinets, the shiny computer, the flat-topped desk on which some X-ray photographs were ranged. The duty roster for the month was on the wall. Sister Foster was off duty until the evening.
‘What are you doing here, Sister?’
Dr Geeson had paused at the door and was staring at her.
‘Sister Meecham isn’t here,’ Sister Joan evaded.
‘Unauthorized persons really cannot be allowed to wander round the hospital,’ he said.
‘No, of course not.’ Sister Joan regarded him gravely.
‘You wished to see Sister Meecham?’
‘I saw her yesterday. She came by the convent.’
‘I’ve no idea where she is.’ He spoke coldly, obviously waiting for her to leave. If he dared, Sister Joan thought with a prickle of amusement, he’d give me a good hard shove through the door.
‘Thank you anyway, Doctor.’ She nodded pleasantly and went out again.
Sister Foster wasn’t on duty which, with any luck, meant she was in the residents’ unit. Sister Joan went down the stairs again, left the main building and crossed the forecourt. The door of the residents’ unit was unlocked and she pushed it ajar and went in. The common room where she had spoken to Tracy Collet was deserted. She stood uncertainly in the entrance hall as a slim figure descended the narrow staircase.
‘Sister Prince?’
‘Yes — and you’re—?’
‘Sister Joan from the convent. Are you just going on duty?’
‘To casualty,’ Carol Prince said. ‘Did you want to see somebody?’
‘Does Sister Foster live in this unit?’
‘Betty Foster? Yes. Not that she spends many nights in her own bed,’ the other said with a disparaging air. ‘Number four. Go on up.’
She scooted past, intent on getting to casualty on time.
Number Four was on the upper storey, a neat white card printed with the name. She lifted her hand and tapped.
There was an appreciable pause before the door opened. A tallish young woman, hair pulled back into a ponytail, held it open, one eyebrow slightly raised as she contemplated the smaller woman before her.
‘Are you collecting for something?’ she enquired.
‘Sister Foster? No, I’m not collecting for anything. My name is Sister Joan and I’d be grateful if I might have a few words.’
‘I’m off duty.’ Betty Foster sounded distinctly unwelcoming.
‘It’s about Amy,’ Sister Joan said.
Betty Foster opened the door wider, turned her back and walked across the room within, hips swaying under her silky housecoat. She wore no make-up but it was easy to tell that when she was dressed and painted she would look extremely attractive. Filled with the promise of sexuality, Sister Joan thought, watching the other light a cigarette and blow a perfect smoke ring before she turned, leaning against the chest of drawers and nodding towards a chair.
‘You can sit down if you like,’ she said reluctantly. ‘The police have already asked some questions. I wasn’t on duty yesterday anyway. I’ve had a bit of a cold so I took a couple of days owing to me. I wasn’t here anyway.’
‘You went out when you had a cold?’ Sister Joan commented mildly, seating herself.
‘A gentleman friend offered to run me over to Penzance. We had a very nice lunch. He rang the police and confirmed what I said. So I really can’t help you any further. You’re the nun who helps out the police now and then, aren’t you?’
‘Now and then. Strictly in an amateur capacity. I’ve no official standing.’
‘Well, I can’t add anything to what I’ve already said,’ Betty Foster said.
‘You didn’t see Amy yesterday then? But you do work in the children’s unit sometimes?’
‘We all take turns in every department. What of it?’
‘Did it worry you that Amy was damaging herself? Banging her head and scratching her arms and legs?’
‘I suppose.’ Betty Foster turned abruptly and stubbed out the cigarette in a saucer. There was a sudden tension in the set of her shoulders.
‘It would certainly worry me if my daughter was in such a state,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Yes, but—’ Betty Foster swung back to face her. ‘How did you know? Has someone guessed? I haven’t said one word! Not to the police, not to anybody! How did you find out?’
‘Actually I didn’t,’ Sister Joan confessed. ‘I simply thought that Foster wasn’t a local name and someone mentioned that you were — rather susceptible to the opposite sex, so I made a random guess and it paid off. Did you take the job here because of Amy?’
‘No, of course not! Amy wasn’t here when I took up my post two years back.’
‘You’re not from round here originally?’
‘Essex. I did my nurse’s training in London, in Battersea. I had to drop out for a year when Amy was born. She was put in a children’s home. I never agreed to permanent adoption. She was to be fostered until I’d got enough together to get a little flat and have her with me. I never gave her away.’
‘The father wouldn’t help?’
‘I don’t want anything off him,’ Betty Foster said. ‘Anyway he’s always denied that Am
y was his.’
‘So you applied for a job at St Keyne’s so that you could be near Amy. Did you go and see her?’
‘No. She doesn’t know anything about me. Nobody does. It was just the worst luck that she was brought to St Keyne’s when her foster parents ill-treated her.’
‘You must’ve been unhappy about that. About her being ill-treated, I mean?’
‘If they hadn’t been put in gaol I’d’ve killed them!’ Betty Foster said. ‘It’s not her fault that she was born, poor thing! She’s ready for nursery school now, so if I can get a flat and only work days she could be with me. I’ve been saving up and some of my gentlemen friends have been very generous.’
‘And I take it the rest of the staff aren’t aware of your — extracurricular activities?’
‘They know I have gentlemen friends,’ Betty Foster said, ‘but they don’t know about Amy. At least — no, why would they know? Who’d tell?’
‘What about the social worker? Shirley Fleetwood?’
‘Shirley Fleetwood doesn’t see what’s under her nose,’ Betty Foster said scornfully. ‘I mean, my name’s in Amy’s file but I didn’t notify my change of address when I left London, so she never made the connection. I send money for Amy regularly from a London bank. Not much but I’m saving up for the future for us.’
‘With the help of your gentlemen friends?’
‘Nothing wrong with that!’ Betty Foster gave a high, hard little laugh. ‘Get what you can while the juices are flowing and then get out, that’s my motto!’
‘It takes all sorts,’ Sister Joan said, heroically concealing her own opinion.
‘And now she’s been taken.’ Betty Foster sat down abruptly on the end of the unmade bed. ‘It’s like a nightmare! Just as I was seeing my way clear to having her with me someone takes her!’
‘Have you told the police that you’re her natural mother?’
‘Nothing to do with them!’ was the sulky response. ‘I wasn’t on duty and so my friend told them and, as he doesn’t know about Amy and I wasn’t on duty anyway, the police constable never asked me any more questions. But it’s upset me more than I care to say.’
A VOW OF COMPASSION an utterly gripping crime mystery Page 13