Vow of Penance (8 page)

‘I’m sure it will be splendid, Father,’ she said kindly and left him to his musings.

Outside the pale sun had strengthened. She walked to the bakery and went in.

‘I’ve a nice big treacle tart, Sister, or a plum pie.’ The girl behind the counter looked as if she sampled her own wares, her face dimpled and soft.

‘The plum tart, please.’

Sylvie Potter might have dentures and find treacle tart too sticky. She might also be allergic to plums, Sister Joan thought. Perhaps it would have been wiser to buy both. Sister Joan bit her lip, aware in some part of herself that it was much more comforting to worry about food than about the possibility of that other person who waited to retrieve the handbag from the refuse bin.

‘Terrible about what happened, isn’t it?’ the girl behind the counter said.

‘About Mrs Fairly, you mean? Yes, very sad.’

‘I was at benediction last evening. I saw you there.’

‘Oh, you’re a member of the parish! I’m sorry. I can’t seem to concentrate on any one thing for more than two minutes today,’ Sister Joan apologized.

‘It was quite a shock.’ The girl slid the tart expertly into a cardboard case.

‘Did you know her well?’

‘Not really.’ The girl spun blue paper ribbon round the box and sliced it off neatly. ‘She was always very pleasant though. Very quiet and ladylike. Mind you, she
didn’t come from round here, you know. She and her husband came from up north. He took early retirement because of a bad heart and she used to clean and cook on a daily basis for Father Malone. Then her husband died and she went to live at the presbytery. Less lonely for her. And then the sisters came to the old Tarquin house and – mind you I was still at school then. I did think of becoming a nun myself at one time but it was just a passing fancy. No real vocation. No, have the tart on me, Sister. My Eddie owns the bakery now and he’d want me to show our respects under the circumstances.’

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

‘I’ll tell you something for free, Sister.’ The other leaned her plump frame on the counter. ‘Mrs Fairly wouldn’t have killed herself, not in a thousand years. She just wouldn’t have done such a thing. Why, there was a man in here last year some time, trying to give out information on euthanasia and Mrs Fairly spoke up real sharp, told him life was a gift from God and He’d take it back when He was ready. She got quite angry about it. So she wouldn’t have done it to herself, now would she?’

‘I’m sure she didn’t,’ Sister Joan said warmly. ‘Thank you for the tart. Mrs Fairly’s niece is expected.’

‘And you won’t be eating any of that yourself it’s being Lent. That was one of the reasons I decided that the religious life wasn’t for me. Too much penance and fasting.’

‘But excellent as a slimming diet,’ Sister Joan said with a twinkle.

Her spirits had lifted as she left the bakery. There were still nice, decent people in the world who cared about other people and didn’t go round slashing at trees and innocent flowers and—

The body found by the side of the railway line had been mutilated, slashed, made less than human. The speeding train would inflict horrific injuries but would the victim have been flung to the side? She shivered, the
brightness of her mood fading a little. There was almost certainly no connection between the events. All of them were symptoms of a darkness that needed to be fought.

The station was almost deserted save for the spare frame of Father Timothy who stood on the platform, peering anxiously up the track.

‘Is there any sign of Miss Potter, Father?’ Sister Joan joined him.

‘The third train came in twenty minutes ago.’ He turned a worried face towards her, ‘And there was no sign of anyone called Miss Potter. I asked several ladies. Or are you here to tell me there’s been another telephone call?’

‘Not as far as I know. Father Stephens suggested I might come and find out if she had arrived.’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘She may have rung up since I came out. The next train isn’t until three or thereabouts. You can’t wait here for ever.’

‘I shall come back this afternoon if there’s been no word. I do feel she ought to have given us more information.’

‘I daresay she couldn’t think very clearly,’ Sister Joan said. ‘She and her aunt were apparently very close.’

‘It is never wise to form close personal attachments, Sister.’ He spoke gravely as they left the station together. ‘God is jealous. He does not create us to form personal attachments. He creates us to serve Him only.’

‘But surely human affection can be a reflection of Divine Love,’ Sister Joan said.

‘You would choose the shadow instead of the substance? That is hardly what is expected of a religious,’ he reproved. ‘God alone fulfils our needs, Sister. Personal feelings must be rooted out with prayer and penitence. There is no other way.’

As well try to argue with a stone, Sister Joan thought, compressing her lips and quickening her step. She was
relieved when the open door of the presbytery came into sight and Father Stephens looked out.

‘Miss Potter hasn’t arrived‚’ Sister Joan began.

‘I know.’ Father Stephens looked pale and agitated. ‘I’ve just had a telephone call from the police. Apparently a young woman was found dead at the side of the railway line about an hour ago. They identified her by a note in her pocket giving this address – she was mutilated, you see.’

‘I have been waiting at the station most of the morning,’ Father Timothy said. He sounded aggrieved.

‘I only just received the telephone call’‚ Father Stephens excused himself. ‘The police here were contacted by the railway police further up the line and, as my address was on the body, they naturally rang me. She had other means of identification on her.

‘So she won’t be eating the plum tart,’ Sister Joan said blankly. Both men looked at her.

‘Surely food ought to be the last thing on our minds at this moment,’ Father Stephens said stiffly.

‘I’m sorry, Father.’ She went past them, through to the kitchen and put the box carefully on the table.

Father Malone would have understood, she thought, how in moments of great drama the mind takes refuge in little things. The letter unwritten, the word unspoken, the plum tart uneaten – these had their own poignancy.

‘I spoke somewhat sharply just now, Sister.’ Father Stephens hovered in the doorway. ‘When one is shocked one often says inappropriate things. Perhaps you would be kind enough to prepare some lunch? Afterwards I have to try to contact Miss Potter’s home. She shared a house with another schoolteacher so I assume her friend will be asked to identify her. A most unpleasant task.’

‘Did the police say how it could have happened?’

‘They assume she fell from the train. Some of these carriage doors fly open very easily.’

‘But the mutilations?’ To keep her hands steady she held them tightly together within the comfort of her wide sleeves.

‘She might have been caught by her clothing on the edge of the door and dragged. Naturally they’ll be making extensive enquiries.’

Nodding, he withdrew. She heard the slow, sombre tones of his voice speaking to Father Timothy as they went into the study.

It hadn’t been an accident. She was as sure of that as she was sure of anything in her life. Sylvia Potter had been killed. She had either been pushed from the train or attacked while she was travelling and thrown out on to the line. Someone had an interest in making sure that Mrs Fairly’s niece didn’t reach her destination.

She served the lunch, noticing that Father Timothy, apparently in response to a quelling glance from his fellow priest, ate the cheese salad and a slice of the plum tart without argument. Sister Joan stood in the kitchen, drinking the remains of the warmed over tomato soup and munching on a tired looking pear, her eyes on the back window through which she could see the square of concrete paving on which the wheeled refuse bin stood. Had she done the right thing or should she have waited for the return of Detective Sergeant Mill and told him? Strictly speaking, yes, but she guessed that the police officer would have vetoed her plan, adding a few pertinent remarks about bumbling amateurs for good measure.

‘Sister, when you’ve washed up I’d like you to return to the convent.’ Father Stephens was in the doorway again.

‘I’m sorry if my work doesn’t satisfy you, Father.’ Her face had flushed.

‘It isn’t that at all, Sister. I have a number of books I
promised to take up to Sister David for the purposes of her research. I shall be too busy this afternoon to take them and Father Timothy is taking the confirmation class for me, so if you don’t mind driving up there—?’

‘Of course not, Father. Sorry I was so prickly.’

‘Recent events have rendered us all a little on edge,’ he allowed. ‘Perhaps you would acquaint Mother Dorothy with the latest developments. They are not of direct concern to the community but she likes to be kept up to date on parish affairs.’

‘Yes, Father.’ She rolled up her sleeves and plunged her hands into the hot water, feeling a curious, contradictory tugging. It would be a relief to her own nerves to spend a few quiet hours back in the enclosure but since she couldn’t be in two places at once then the refuse bin would remain unwatched. Since there seemed no way round the quandary she decided to put it to the back of her mind. There was no point in fretting about something that couldn’t be altered, and in any case, she fancied that whoever would go to the bin acted under the cloak of darkness whenever possible.

The dishes washed and left to drain she put on her cloak and went out to the garage. Under the cloak she held Mrs Fairly’s handbag closely against her. Up at the convent she would have the opportunity to examine it more thoroughly without risk of being interrupted.

The presbytery car was nearly as dilapidated as the convent car. She drove with care up the street and turned on to the moorland track, feeling a sense of homecoming as she neared the schoolhouse, its windows now boarded up. Perhaps it would be wiser to examine the handbag here and then leave it somewhere for the police to pick up.

Suiting deed to thought she slowed, stopped, switched off the engine, and got out of the car. Around her the moor rose and dipped, the grass still winter short, the bracken brown and crackling. It was still cold
but there was definitely spring on the way.

She sat down on a large tussock and opened the handbag again, taking out everything, turning it upside down and feeling round the lining for some tear that might conceal something. There was absolutely nothing beyond what she had already found. Certainly there was no reason why anybody should hide it in a refuse bin with the intention of retrieving it at a later date.

Nonplussed, she put back the contents, snapped it shut and got back into the car.

‘’Morning, Sister!’ Padraic Lee appeared suddenly from behind the schoolhouse.

‘Padraic, were you spying on me?’ She opened the door, tilting her head up at him.

‘Picking some wild garlic, Sister, over yonder. I told Sister Perpetua that I’d seen a patch and would get some for the messes she brews up. Garlic’s good for the heart and for winter colds. Bit of excitement down at the presbytery I hear.’

‘A very sad event,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Did you know Mrs Fairly?’

‘Not to speak to.’ He shook his head, the gold rings in his ears glinting. ‘She’s not like you nuns – too respectable to have truck with the Romanies.’

Sister Joan’s lips twitched at the backhanded compliment but she answered gravely, ‘It was a great shock to Father Stephens. Father Malone had already left on his pilgrimage. Unless it becomes absolutely necessary he won’t be informed yet.’

‘Luther’s in a bit of a taking.’ Padraic looked thoughtfully at his bundle of stalks and leaves. ‘Says he had no hand in the cutting of the trees.’

‘I’m quite sure that he didn’t,’ Sister Joan said decidedly.

‘But someone did.’ He cocked a black eyebrow at her.

‘Yes. Someone did.’ She frowned down at the shabby handbag.

‘And a respectable woman like Mrs Fairly doesn’t kill herself,’ Padraic said.

‘No. No, she doesn’t.’

‘Are the sisters carrying handbags these days?’ he asked.

‘One day your curiosity will get you into hot water,’ she said. ‘This is Mrs Fairly’s bag. I found it hidden in the refuse bin. There’s nothing unusual in it.’

‘Hidden? Not thrown away?’

‘I’m sure hidden. There’s nothing in it that’s suspicious or – I can’t work it out.’

‘Would you like me to keep the bag for you, Sister?’ he offered. ‘I can keep it in a safe place until the time comes for your wanting it again.’

‘Thank you, yes. That would be best, I think.’ She gave it to him with a feeling of relief. ‘Padraic, if anything happens—’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know – anything. Will you see that Detective Sergeant Mill gets the bag?’

‘Only for you, Sister,’ Padraic said, ‘would I consider going to the police.’

‘I’m sure it won’t be necessary,’ she assured him.

‘But you’ve a feeling something might.’ His black eyes were shrewd. ‘I hope you know what you’re about, Sister.’

‘So do I,’ she said fervently. ‘Shall I take the garlic for Sister Perpetua?’

‘Thanks, Sister.’ He handed it in to the car and stood back, tugging at the red muffler round his neck as he said awkwardly, ‘The school’s sadly missed, Sister. That and your visits to the camp. Edith and Tabitha don’t get on so well at big school and it’s a long way to be driving them every morning.’

‘I’ll ask Mother Dorothy for permission to visit you after Lent,’ she said. ‘How are things at home?’

‘Not so bad, Sister. Not so bad at all.’ He answered as
usual with an optimism that flew in the face of reality. Padraic’s wife was an alcoholic and those who were inclined to look down on the swarthy scrap-metal dealer and regard him as an unfortunate relic of a despised race might have thought twice had they seen his ferociously clean caravan, the care he devoted to his children’s manners and education.

Sister Perpetua was in the yard when she drove up, the freckled face breaking into a broad smile of welcome.

‘Think of the devil! – well, not exactly, but I was just wondering how you were making out down at the presbytery,’ she said heartily. ‘Not that you’re likely to be kept on for your cooking mind, but I’ve a notion Father Stephens might be hard to please.’

‘Not so far.’ Sister Joan alighted, wild garlic in hand. ‘I met Padraic on the way and he gave me these for you, together with his respects.’

‘That man is a joy and a godsend,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘Mind, the year’s early for the garlic but the young shoots are marvellous provided they’ve escaped the frost. So what’s going on at the presbytery? We had prayers here for Mrs Fairly. Poor soul! she must have had a mental breakdown or something. I never met her more than once or twice myself but Father Malone always spoke highly of her.’

By this time they were in the kitchen – large, stone flagged and blessedly familiar. Sister Teresa looked up with pleasure in her face from the knives and forks she was cleaning and from the infirmary Sister Gabrielle’s hoarse old voice called, ‘Back like a bad penny, girl? Your cooking wasn’t missed but you were.’

‘They like my cooking so well that they’re thinking of keeping me on as a permanent fixture,’ Sister Joan declared, darting through to the old ladies.

‘Then Father Stephens isn’t the gourmet he pretends to be,’ Sister Gabrielle said. ‘You’d better make your
report to Mother Dorothy but come in for a moment before you leave, won’t you?’

‘Yes, of course, Sister.’ Smiling, she hurried on to the parlour, taking off her cloak as she went.

‘
Dominus
vobiscum
.’
Mother Dorothy looked up expectantly from her desk as Sister Joan came in.

‘
Et
cum
spiritu
tuo.
’
Sister Joan knelt and took the stool her superior indicated.

‘We didn’t expect to see you so soon, Sister,’ Mother Dorothy said.

‘Father Stephens asked me to bring over some books that Sister David requires for her research, Mother. They’re in the back of the car. And he asked me to tell you what’s been happening.’

‘Has anything been happening?’ The other gave her a mild look.

‘Mrs Fairly’s niece, Sylvia Potter, was expected at the presbytery today. Father Timothy went down to the station to meet her but she didn’t turn up. Father Stephens had a telephone call from the police telling him that she had been found dead at the side of the railway track a couple of stops up the line.’

There was silence. Mother Dorothy’s pale face had paled further but her voice was steady when she said, ‘She was quickly identified then?’

‘She had identification on her and the address of the presbytery in her pocket so they rang the presbytery.’

‘How did she meet her death?’ Mother Dorothy’s face was very still. It was a sign that behind the small, impassive features her mind was working rapidly.

‘They’re still making enquiries,’ Sister Joan said. ‘It’s only that—’

‘Only that what, Sister?’

‘You may not have seen a newspaper, Mother. There was a report in the one that was delivered to the presbytery to say that an unidentified man had been found, badly mutilated, by the side of the track on the
northern line.’

‘Not in the same place?’

‘No, Mother, much further north. I saw the headline when I took the newspaper into Father Stephens and I …’

‘Couldn’t resist reading the rest of it. In your case, Sister, that was only to be expected. Do you see any connection between the two?’

‘I’m not sure, Mother. The first victim hasn’t been identified yet. The body had been stripped.’

‘One would be tempted to lose faith in the essential goodness of creation if one were to read too many newspapers,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘It sounds like a most unhappy coincidence. Miss Potter’s death is very tragic though. Very sad indeed.’

‘Father Stephens is trying to contact the friend with whom she lived. That’s why he didn’t bring up the books himself.’

‘Then you had better give them to Sister David and you’ll want to spend a little time in chapel before you drive back. I don’t suppose that anyone has been interviewed for the post of housekeeper yet?’

‘I don’t think so, Mother.’

‘Well, I’ve given you one week’s leave from the enclosure,’ Mother Dorothy said, ‘so if they haven’t found anybody within that time then they will have to make shift to manage by themselves. I am of the opinion that a nun’s place is in the convent and not gadding about at everybody’s beck and call. You are not neglecting your spiritual duties?’

‘I am trying not to,’ Sister Joan said honestly.

‘Confine yourself to your housekeeping tasks then. I suppose there is no chance of Mrs Fairly’s death having been an accident?’

‘Detective Sergeant Mill believes that it wasn’t suicide.’

‘Let us hope he is correct. If you were in the course of your duties and you were to chance upon something that
strengthened that belief it would be your business then to acquaint him with it. I hope I make myself clear, Sister.’

‘Yes, Reverend Mother. Very clear.’

She too had seen those films in which a double agent was sent out by MI5 with the words, ‘If anybody rumbles you then you’re on your own. We shall simply deny all knowledge of you.’

‘May I look in on Sister Gabrielle and Sister Mary Concepta before I leave?’ she asked.

‘Yes, of course, Sister. And have a word with Sister Teresa too, will you? She looks a little troubled, I thought. Probably nothing important but she and you have worked together very amiably.’