Vow of Obedience (17 page)

Locking the back door and taking off her own apron she stood for a moment, irresolute.

Then before she could give herself time to think she went into the passage and lifted the telephone receiver.

Her call was answered at once.

‘Police station. May I help you?’

‘Would that be Constable Stephens?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Is that …?’

‘Sister Joan from the Daughters of Compassion. I was wondering if Sergeant Barratt was available.’

‘Let me have a look at the duty roster, Sister. No, no tonight he has time off. He doesn’t come on duty again until Monday morning. Did you want to leave a message?’

‘No message,’ said Sister Joan and replaced the receiver gently.

On Sundays manual work was kept to a minimum so that in the morning before High Mass there was time for longer private devotions. In the afternoons there was leisure to read, to write letters, to catch up on work left unfinished during the week. Sister Joan enjoyed the Sabbath seeing it as a blank page on which she could write her plans for a week ahead which she hoped to make perfect. That she hadn’t yet succeeded in her aim didn’t spoil the possibility that one day she might do so.

On this Sunday it was Father Malone who came to offer the mass, and joined the community for coffee afterwards in the refectory. There was something infinitely reassuring about the small, elderly priest in his shabby cassock, Sister Joan thought, sipping her own coffee and watching the two oldest nuns giggling like teenagers as he joked with them.

Catching her eye he excused himself and came over to her.

‘Good morning, Sister. You will have heard that Sister Hilaria is making good progress?’

‘Yes, Father. It’s good news.’

‘Apparently she recalls nothing of the accident. Shock, I daresay. The mind puts up a protective shield. I am giving Mother Dorothy a lift to the hospital and then she will have lunch with Father Stephens and myself at the presbytery.’

‘It will do her good to have a break for an hour or two,’ Sister Joan said.

‘Indeed it will. Being the prioress carries heavy
responsibilities
. The two girls are to be buried tomorrow. One funeral following another. I understand that a representative will attend from this convent.’

‘Mother Dorothy hasn’t said.’

‘Mother Dorothy hasn’t said what?’ The prioress had joined them.

‘Who is to represent the Daughters of Compassion at the funerals tomorrow,’ Sister Joan said.

‘I will be sending you and Sister David,’ Mother Dorothy informed her. ‘As you already know both sets of parents slightly you seem to be the obvious choice.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘And Sister Perpetua will be in charge while I am lunching at the presbytery. If you have time this afternoon, Sister, you could take Lilith out for some exercise.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

She had planned to spend an hour sorting out her thoughts on the two murders and on Sister Hilaria’s accident, but she could think as well on horseback as in a chair.

Even so it was past three before she had finished washing up and clearing away. Saddling up the pony she glanced skywards, noting the scudding grey clouds lit by an occasional ray of sunlight. Winter was drawing in steadily. In the spring she would be thirty-seven. Thirty-seven in years and about six years old in common sense, she reflected with wry humour, mounting up and waving her hand to Sister Teresa who had settled herself at the kitchen table with a couple of vegetarian recipe books, presumably in the hope of creating some new and tasty dish for the community to relish.

Hope, she thought, springs eternal and set Lilith at a trot for the main gates. At this end of the year the moors lost their colours, blending into grey and brown with only the occasional red-berried holly bush to remind the world that Christmas was on the way. It would be a sad time for the Pendon and Davies families. Could any parent ever come to terms with the murder of a child?

She took the narrower track that led to the school, partly because Lilith had swerved automatically in that direction, partly because she wanted to talk to Luther Lee again and thought he was more likely to follow her in that direction. To seek for him in the Romany camp probably would be useless, since he would avoid her and Padraic Lee would erect a protective screen for his cousin to hide behind.

The school door yielded to her tentative push and her blood chilled. The police had locked up when they had completed their investigations. Bending to the lock she saw the telltale scratches where force had been applied.

With an overwhelming sense of
déjà
vu
she pushed the door wider and stepped into the passage. On her left, empty hooks and the washbasins and lavatory met her gaze; on the right, the door into the classroom stood ajar. The empty desks and the bare blackboard reminded her of the pupils she had taught here, now scattered into the ‘big’ school, and probably forgetting her rapidly in the way of children.

Someone had entered the room behind her. She heard hurried breathing and slowly turned, pinning a casual smile to her face though her heart had begun to race.

‘Good afternoon, Luther. How are you today?’

‘Not doing no harm,’ Luther said whiningly.

‘Of course not. Why should you be?’ She sat down in the seat from which she had, so recently, surveyed her young pupils and studied him thoughtfully.

‘It were hard to get in,’ Luther said, ‘but I broke the lock. I can break any lock into any place.’

‘If you had asked me I could have lent you the key,’ she told him.

‘Then they’d know I was here,’ Luther said. ‘I don’t plan on anyone knowing. If I stay here they won’t find me.’

‘They? Who are they?’

‘Police,’ he muttered. ‘Bobbies asking questions – always bloody asking questions.’

‘If you know anything that can help them,’ she began, but it was evidently the wrong thing to say.

He shook his shaggy head vehemently, saying in a tone blended from fear and obstinacy, ‘I don’t know nothing and I don’t see nothing. You tell them that, Sister. You tell them that.’

‘But you did see who knocked Sister Hilaria over, didn’t you? You were – behind the wall? And Sister Hilaria went through the gate and Padraic’s pick-up van came and knocked her over, and drove off as you ran out to help. Was that how it was?’

‘I never saw,’ Luther repeated. ‘You tell them now when they ask you. I never saw. And you never saw me, Sister. You never did.’

‘If you’re hiding from someone this isn’t a good place to be,’ she argued. ‘In camp you’d be with your people. Padraic wouldn’t let anyone bother you.’

She was wasting her breath. He merely fixed glittering black eyes on her, said in a threatening tone, ‘Don’t you tell on me, Sister. Don’t you dare!’

‘Luther, wait …’ She half rose, but he had turned and loped out, shutting the door with a little slam.

Sister Joan subsided into the seat again with a muffled exclamation of impatience. Luther knew something
important
, she was convinced, and with his muddled view of the law preferred to hide rather than speak out. If she went after him now she would only make matters worse. If only Sister Hilaria would remember what had happened. Meanwhile there was no point in hanging round here. She took a last look about the memory filled room and went out again, remounting with the distinct impression that Luther watched from one of the nearby thickets of bracken and bramble.

She completed the ride back without incident and had just led Lilith into the stable when Mother Dorothy came into the yard.

‘You will be happy to hear that Sister Hilaria is making good progress,’ she said briskly.

‘Does she remember what happened to her?’

‘She recalls going to the gate but nothing after that until she woke briefly in the hospital. The doctor assures me that she will recall the entire sequence of events in time, but this cannot be hurried.’

‘And there is still a police officer with her?’

‘A Constable Stephens, Sister. Apparently what she will have to say when she does remember may have a bearing on these other crimes. At least so the police think. For my own part I shall be glad when this whole unpleasant business is over and we can get back to normal.’

‘After the funerals tomorrow may I go to the public library?’ Sister Joan asked abruptly.

‘Yes, of course. I’ll inform Sister David so that she can get out any books she requires. Our own library will have to be brought up to date when finances permit.’

She gave her briskly dismissive little nod, without questioning further. And if she had asked questions, Sister Joan thought, I’m not sure how I would have answered her, save to say that I’m acting on a hunch.

The rest of the day passed in Sabbath calm. That a killer
had struck twice, had probably attempted a third time, that the two novices were now in the main house, were items not mentioned. For Sister Marie and Sister Elizabeth, forbidden to join in the recreation of the professed members of the community, the day must have seemed long as they sat reading in their allotted cells, and helped Sister Teresa to prepare supper – a meal which was as bland as usual despite her reading of the recipe book. It was as if, by unspoken consent, they drew the sanctuary of the cloister around them, shutting out what was unpleasant and frightening.

For perhaps the first time in her religious life Sister Joan was glad when Sunday came to an end and the grand silence heralded the quiet night.

Funerals were not her favourite way of spending a morning, but at funerals one sometimes glimpsed people with their masks torn away for a single, searing moment. Fastening her seat belt the next morning and glancing at Sister David, she said politely, ‘Did Mother Dorothy tell you we have leave to go to the public library?’

‘Yes indeed, Sister, and I’m very glad of it,’ Sister David returned promptly. ‘I want to look up some references about Saint Augustine which don’t seem to be in our own library. I am writing a series of booklets about the lives of the Saints for children. In alphabetical order, you understand, and one must get the facts right.’

‘For children?’ Sister Joan cast her an interested glance. ‘That’s a change from your usual translations, isn’t it?’

‘Mother Dorothy feels they might sell well,’ Sister David said, ducking her head modestly. ‘Actually it will be quite a little adventure for me to try a new line for a change.’

So little Sister David, all timidity and spectacles, occasionally dreamed of change too. Sister Joan, driving towards town, scolded herself for not giving sufficient credit to her sisters for being more original than they appeared on the surface.

Outside the parish church there were two lines of dark cars, two hearses. The two victims were evidently to share a requiem mass. Slipping unobtrusively into a back pew she prayed briefly, then allowed her eyes to range swiftly over the congregation.

The immediate relatives were at the front; she could see their backs, the dark clothes and armbands of the two fathers,
the mothers in veiled hats.

There was a large contingent of schoolchildren in their uniforms, probably from Valerie’s old school, neighbours who greeted one another in carefully hushed voices, and, conspicuous despite their plain clothes, several police officers. She caught Detective Sergeant Mill’s eye and inclined her head slightly. He was escorting Daisy Barratt into one of the pews, his dark head slightly bent. Sergeant Barratt must be on duty elsewhere then.

In front of the altar the two flower-decked coffins lay on trestles. For the two girls, at least, all questions were answered, all fears fled. Bowing her head she resolved silently that if, through her help, their killer could be found and any further deaths prevented then she would not hold back.

Though the mass had been a shared one the mourners formed two separate groups, the respective sets of parents scarcely glancing at one another. It was as if by acknowledging a parallel grief they feared to diminish the terrible reality of their own loss.

‘Sister Joan, are you coming to the cemetery?’ Daisy Barratt approached shyly as the processions formed.

‘Sister David and I, yes. It’s only a short walk. Good afternoon, Detective Sergeant Mill.’

‘Sisters.’ He acknowledged them both gravely.

‘Detective Sergeant Mill was kind enough to escort me,’ Daisy said with a little, flirtatious, upward look. ‘Mark is on duty at the hospital.’

‘The hospital?’ Sister Joan’s voice was sharp.

‘With Sister Hilaria,’ Daisy said. ‘He volunteered.’

‘He is certainly conscientious,’ Sister Joan said. Her mouth felt dry.

‘Oh, we get used to being grass widows,’ Daisy said. ‘Of course I don’t know any of the people here – those poor girls – but Mark felt I ought to come. Oh, we’re moving off now. Nice to have seen you again.’

They moved off
en
masse
in an ungainly procession. The few shops between the church and the cemetery had their blinds drawn down in the old-fashioned way of showing respect. Sister David and Sister Joan brought up the rear, the former with her rosary beads sliding through her prayerful fingers, the latter trying not to think of Sister Hilaria with
bandaged head and quiet breathing alone in the side ward with the impeccably correct and efficient Sergeant Barratt.

Each funeral drew in turn to its close. The parents stood, still private in their separate grieving, as the mourners moved from one grave to the next. Nobody from the Romany camp was present which wasn’t surprising since instinctively they shied away from death.

‘Shall we visit Sister Hilaria before we go to the public library?’ she asked, as finally they left the few scattered knots of mourners standing in the bleak wind.

‘Mother Dorothy went yesterday with Father Malone,’ Sister David reminded her.

‘It won’t hurt to pay a quick call. Mother Dorothy dislikes telephoning the hospital too often so she will be glad of news.’

‘I’ll be glad to see Sister Hilaria,’ Sister David said. ‘It leaves a big gap, her being absent from the community.’

‘Yes. Yes, you’re right.’ There was faint surprise in Sister Joan’s voice. Her companion’s remark had been a perceptive one. Sister Hilaria drifted through the days, seldom it seemed speaking to any purpose, yet without her there was something valuable lacking from the community.

‘May I offer you a lift?’ Daisy Barratt, slowing her Mini to a crawl, put her head out of the window.

‘Thank you but we’re going to the hospital,’ Sister Joan began.

‘I can run you there,’ Daisy said eagerly. ‘It will give me the opportunity to ask Mark what he fancies for supper tonight.’

‘It must be difficult when one’s husband is on night duty,’ Sister Joan remarked as both nuns squeezed themselves in. ‘I mean, especially on Saturday nights, when most couples like to go out together.’