Vow of Sanctity (8 page)

‘I noticed a large house there,’ she said.

‘The Sinclair house. The Sinclairs used to be lairds here, but after the Highland Clearances the old clans dispersed. The minister lives there now – the Protestant one, but he’s a connection of the old family.’

‘And has a daughter called Morag.’ She shot him a quick glance but his face remained free of embarrassment or guilt.

‘I believe so, though I’ve never spoken to her,’ he said.

They had reached the boat. Climbing into it, Sister Joan ventured a further question.

‘I suppose the bodies in the crypt are never moved?’

‘Why would they be?’ He gave her a puzzled look as they pulled away from the wharf. ‘The air has preserved them, and since hardly anyone goes into the crypt they’re left in peace.’

‘But someone rigged up a light there.’

‘That was Brother Matthew – before my time. He liked to pray in the crypt, but he was old and his legs were getting a bit shaky so Father Abbot gave him leave to rig up a light. Why, Sister?’

‘Idle curiosity,’ she said vaguely.

The body she had seen had certainly been there for less than two centuries. She hadn’t looked much at the face which, as far as she recalled, was already showing the dried, leathery look, but the shoes, despite their filthy state, had been modern, and she had a shrewd idea that under the habit there would be modern garments too.

‘Will you be coming over tomorrow, Sister?’ Brother Cuthbert asked.

She hesitated, biting her lip. She would have to take another look at the body before she decided what to do. Her first impulse to find her way to the nearest police station was fading. Local public opinion didn’t favour the community, and the arrival of the police would not only cause talk which might be damaging but also disrupt the tranquil routine of the monks. She would have to take another look before she made up her mind what to do.

‘Sister?’ Brother Cuthbert was waiting for her answer.

‘If it isn’t any trouble to you, Brother,’ she answered quickly. ‘I made a good start on the painting and I’d like to finish it if possible.’

‘The weather might be breaking soon,’ Brother Cuthbert nodded, ‘and you’ll not want to be sitting outside in the rain.’

‘True.’ She smiled her thanks as she alighted. ‘Tomorrow then. I do so appreciate your kindness.’

‘It’s good exercise.’ He raised his hand in farewell and began rowing strongly away again.

She had landed in the shallows and her shoes and stockings were wet. Sister Joan had no particular fear of getting cold but she did fear slipping on the steep cliff that had to be traversed before she reached the retreat.

Reminding herself that Daughters of Compassion met every eventuality with a smile – a rule she honoured more in the breach than in the observance – she made herself as comfortable as possible on an outcropping of rock and took her shoes off. The sun blazed down in most unseasonal style and she wriggled her toes hoping the stockings would dry fairly soon. Her shoes were caked with shale and salt water; she pulled up a handful of grass and set to work to clean them. At her back the clustering pines dropped their dark needles as the wind rose and entered into competition with the sun.

This was the way the cowled boatman had come and Morag Sinclair had met him. She stood up and turned round, her shoes in her hand, and frowned at the narrow path that wound between the smooth trunks. It would do no harm to take a short stroll.

Pushing her damp feet into her shoes and lacing them up she walked into the green shade, the waters of the loch glittering behind her.

The path twisted and turned in a manner that made her feel slightly disorientated and came at last into a sloping patch of bare rock above which the cliff loomed. The ground was thick with pine needles and on the lowest slope a beech tree flamed orange and scarlet.

Something white caught her eye as she looked round. She stared at the beech tree for a moment, then went over and stood on tiptoe to reach the paper caught in its branches. It was only part of a sheet of paper that had obviously been torn by the wind. Sister Joan turned it over and read the few sentences penned at the top.

‘Yuk!’ said Sister Joan.

The bottom of the paper had been ripped in irregular fashion. By the wind as she had first thought or had the recipient scorned the effusion? If so, that showed her good taste – or his? No, the handwriting was square, black and very powerful. She knew her opinion would probably be regarded as sexist but she was almost sure it was a masculine hand. And either wind or hand had torn it, flung it into the tree.

She folded it and slipped it into the deep pocket of her habit, and circled the tree looking for more glimpses of white, but there were none.

The memory of the cowled boatman and of Morag Sinclair walking softly along the twisting path came too vividly into her mind. None of this was her business, since she wasn’t either her brother’s or her sister’s keeper, but she felt a deep disquiet as she emerged on to the shoreline again and began to walk along the shale.

The crunching of footsteps towards her caused her to raise her head, her mind still on the puzzles and problems that had loomed up. They were swept away, for the moment, at least, as she beheld the tall figure approaching. Against the light she had an impression of solid blackness which resolved itself into long dark overcoat and shovel hat. Between the two a face, sallow-skinned, square-chinned and dominated by black eyes, was set on wide shoulders.

‘You,’ said the newcomer brusquely, ‘will be the Romanist nun.’

‘I’m Sister Joan,’ she agreed, ‘and you will be – the minister?’ It had been a bow drawn at a venture but he nodded, still retaining his hat, and said in the richly rolling voice that she could easily imagine thundering from a pulpit, ‘Alexander Sinclair, yes.’

‘How do you do?’ She started to put out her hand but as he showed no sign of having noticed it withdrew it again.

‘I was by way of seeking you out,’ Sinclair said.

Her heart sank a little. Alexander Sinclair looked like one of the stern Covenanters who had ruled by fear over their
flocks and the prospect of being warned off by him was a daunting one.

‘Are you allowed to eat?’ he demanded abruptly.

‘Now and then‚’ Sister Joan said, taken off guard by the enquiry.

The minister frowned even more forbiddingly, his square jaw jutting. Then he said abruptly, ‘I live at the manse across the loch. Dinner this evening? I’ll send a boat. You eat meat?’

‘Only on Christmas Day and at Easter,’ she informed him.

‘We’ll have salmon,’ he said. ‘Be ready at seven.’

‘I – yes, thank you.’ She stared after him as he turned and walked away, heading evidently for a small boat moored further up the shore.

An invitation to the manse from a man who from everything she had deduced disliked Catholics and wanted them out of the district struck her as odd. Or was he hoping to pump her for information about the monastic community? The thought was an unpleasant one. She thrust it aside and went up the needle-clad slope towards the retreat.

Not until she had been wrestling in prayer for over an hour did it occur to her to wonder if the invitation would in some way help her to resolve her present dilemma. God usually worked in mysterious ways.

‘Too mysterious sometimes,’ she said aloud, and rose from her knees to make herself a cup of tea.

Before 6.30 she was waiting on the shore, her long coat wrapped around her to protect her from the wind that had risen and was tugging spitefully at her veil. Just past the narrow gully that provided a short cut to the railway track and the village meandering over the next hill were the remains of an old jetty. Guessing that the boat would pick her up there she made her way to the spot, watching the occasional light glint out as the dusk folded itself around the loch. Soon the weather would change and the cold come. She wondered if fires were allowed in the monastery. Probably not. In her own convent the infirmary where the oldest members of the community lived out the remaining days of their lives was always pleasantly warm, as was the big kitchen where the lay sister did most of the cooking, but everywhere else was chilly after winter set in.

The boat was coming. She raised an arm and felt a slight tremor of unease as Morag stood up, pushing back her long dark hair and called ungraciously, ‘You’ll have to get your feet wet. I can’t come in closer.’

‘Won’t,’ Sister Joan muttered, stooping to remove shoes and stockings. With them in her hand and her skirts hitched knee high she waded into the shallows and clambered aboard, aware of mocking dark eyes. Morag was certainly attractive and would have been lovely if her mouth had turned upward at its corners and her eyes had held some spark of humour.

‘Thanks ever so much.’ Sister Joan sat down and gave the younger woman a broad smile.

‘For what?’ Morag asked, sounding surprised as she lowered herself to the oars again.

‘For giving me the opportunity for a spot of penance,’ Sister Joan said blandly. ‘Modern monastic living is so soft that
one never gets the chance to catch pneumonia.’

‘There’s a towel on the seat,’ Morag said after a moment’s pause.

Sister Joan fished it out and rubbed her feet and legs before shooting a look at the figure opposite. ‘Will I be paddling ashore at the other side?’ she enquired.

‘There’s a wharf there and steps,’ Morag said, not turning her head. Sister Joan resumed her stockings and shoes with some thankfulness.

The waters of the loch were choppy as the wind
strengthened
. The trip across was more than twice the distance that Brother Cuthbert rowed her when she visited the island. To walk right round the loch would take hours, she reckoned, and decided that she might undertake it before she went home.

‘It was kind of your father to invite me,’ she said aloud.

‘Highland hospitality.’ There was a slight sneer in the other’s voice. ‘If outlanders come to stay he feels it incumbent on himself to invite them.’

‘And now you have given me another marvellous chance to feel humble,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I might have been in danger of fancying myself specially favoured otherwise.’

‘You’re bloody sarcastic for a nun,’ Morag commented.

‘Meekness,’ Sister Joan said, ‘is not one of the virtues I feel most comfortable about.’

Unexpectedly she heard a smothered chuckle from the other end of the boat which was turned hastily into a coughing fit.

‘Maybe I shouldn’t have said bloody!’ Morag sounded
suddenly
uncertain.

‘I’ve heard worse.’

‘Not in the convent!’

‘No, not there.’ Sister Joan hesitated, then said, aware that she was dangerously close to contravening the rule that one’s previous life sank into anonymous insignificance when one entered the religious life. ‘I was an art student once. Some of the language used in so-called Bohemian circles would make your toes curl up. What career are you following?’

‘I don’t need a career.’ The sulkiness had returned to Morag’s tone.

‘Nor want?’

‘Not particularly. I’m thinking of breeding horses.’

‘Sounds like a good idea.’ Sister Joan spoke mildly, relieved that the further shore was looming. People like Morag Sinclair brought out the worst in her.

There was a jetty in good repair and she climbed out of the rocking boat with alacrity and waited for Morag to tie up the craft and join her. The other girl was wearing breeches and high-necked sweater and would have graced any magazine cover.

‘This way.’ Morag was already striding ahead, snapping on a large torch as she negotiated a broad steep driveway interrupted at its most sheer by short flights of steps cut out of the rock. Above them lights glowed in the house – a two-storey granite house with two rows of small windows set one above the other and what looked like a series of terraces along its facade. Behind the house the tall, thin triangles of pine showed black against the upper reaches of the cliff.

‘It looks like a fine house,’ Sister Joan said.

‘It takes a lot of upkeep. Parts of it are sixteenth century.’ There was the unmistakable hint of pride in Morag’s voice.

‘But it’s your home.’

‘Yes. Yes, it is.’

She had quickened her pace, leaping up the steps that joined one terrace to the next and leaving Sister Joan to follow as best she might. It was fortunate, the latter thought, that light from the windows above provided some
illumination
else she might well have slipped and fallen.

As they reached the top terrace the deeply recessed front door opened and a woman with an apron on that glittered white against her dark dress appeared in the aperture, calling, ‘Come away in, Morag! I’m to serve if you’re any later.’

‘Jeannie housekeeps for us,’ Morag said, going before Sister Joan into an arched hall that was lit by an inadequate light bulb and fell into darkness again beyond a narrow flight of stairs. The floor of polished stone was uncarpeted and the cold struck to the bone.

‘You’d best get yon breeches off and a decent skirt on,’ the elderly woman said scoldingly. ‘If you’ll wait in there?’

She indicated an open door on the left and without any further greeting went grumblingly towards the back of the
hall while Morag ran up the stairs, her heels striking smartly on the stone.

The room on the left was a parlour, a fire in the grate still pale and newly lit, a dresser towering against one wall dominating the meagre space. Two uncomfortable-looking upright chairs flanked a round table on which a number of silver framed photographs of Morag at various ages from babyhood on were arranged. The room had a fussy, Victorian feel. Sister Joan sat down on the edge of one of the chairs and hoped the fire would blaze up soon.

‘Sister – Joan? Good evening to you. My daughter got you here safely then?’

Alexander Sinclair had come through a door at the other side of the room. In dark clerical dress with a narrow white dog collar he seemed too big for the room.

Hoping that Morag hadn’t been expected to tip her overboard, Sister Joan rose, extending her hand and then clamping it to her skirt again before he could refuse to shake hands.

‘Yes. It was a most comfortable trip,’ she said, not mentioning the wet start.

‘She rows well. Morag does most things well.’ The man’s voice had imperceptibly softened. ‘Come into the dining-room. I can offer you a sherry or a whisky?’

‘A very small whisky and water, please.’

‘A good choice. Whisky is more warming.’ He had turned back to retrace his steps with the lack of formal good manners that seemed defiant in Morag but in him gave the impression of forgetfulness rather than deliberate rudeness.

The dining-room was a larger room with a carpet that didn’t fit it entirely and left a wide margin of unpolished wooden boards around its perimeter, and curtains of a vivid and incongruous medley drawn across the windows. The long table was laid for three at one end with what looked like delicate china and heavily-chased silver cutlery, and there were several high-backed chairs with their seats covered with rubbed and faded velvet.

‘Sit down, Sister. I’ve no doubt that Jeannie’ll be sounding the gong as soon as Morag changes out of her heathenish trousers,’ Sinclair said, pouring whisky and adding water liberally to the glass. ‘Sip your drink now. You’ll likely be
unused to strong drink. I wish I could say the same about some of my parishioners. I will join you in a drink though I seldom indulge.’

It was, she supposed, the standard excuse of the drinking man but the minister with his air of good health and sturdy frame was probably speaking the truth, she reckoned. Seen in the somewhat brighter light cast by the rather elegant
chandelier
he was younger than she had first taken him to be, mid-forties with close cropped black hair peppered with white and a face lined more by intensity of feeling than by age.

‘It seems a pity to dilute a good whisky,’ she said, ‘but you are right – apart from wine on festive occasions spirits are not generally drunk in the convent. Your health, Mr Alexander.’

‘Minister will do – unless you object to the term?’ He shot her a quick glance as he seated himself at the head of the table.

‘Of course not.’

‘You make a virtue of tolerance, I see. Someone said once that tolerance is only another name for indifference.’

‘Somerset Maugham and he was only half right. It depends on what is being tolerated.’

‘You are probably right. Your health, Sister. How are you enduring that medieval cave where your superiors have deposited you?’

‘I daresay it’s the modern equivalent of being walled up alive,’ Morag said, sweeping into the room and catching the tail end of her father’s comment.

She had changed to good effect, Sister Joan thought, the rich garnet shade of the long caftan she wore a perfect foil to her black hair, now drawn back and fastened with tortoiseshell combs.

‘Did you know that despite all the legends there is no documentary proof of any nun ever being walled up alive?’ Sister Joan said.

‘Surely where there’s smoke there’s always a little bit of fire?’ Morag said, seating herself at the other side of her father and glancing at him with the kind of shy longing for approval that a much younger girl might have shown.

‘I think that some of the stories might have arisen during the medieval period,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Becoming a hermit became quite popular at that time. Many lay women received
permission from their parish priests to immure themselves and rely on the charity of the neighbours for a regular supply of food.’

‘Sounds like a good way of avoiding a brutal husband,’ Morag commented as Jeannie came in, put a tureen of soup on the table, and withdrew.

‘There were not many ways in which women could express themselves in those days‚’ Sister Joan agreed, as the younger girl rose and began to ladle out the soup. ‘Anyway in those far off times there were often outbreaks of plague and famine – sometimes whole communities could die off.’

‘And the hermit would be mistaken much later on for someone who had been deliberately starved to death? It’s an ingenious theory.’ Sinclair gave her a faintly mocking look.

‘It’s a possibility‚’ Morag said with a grudging air. ‘There’s bread in the basket, Sister.’

The soup was thick with herbs and vegetables. The bread was coarse and dark with flakes of wheat in it. Sister Joan was surprised when Sinclair said, ‘Your cooking is excellent as usual, Morag.’

‘You made this?’ Sister Joan flushed slightly at the tactless astonishment in her own voice. ‘I’m sorry but I assumed that Jeannie –’

‘Jeannie cleans and sweeps and makes rice puddings, but she likes her soups out of tins and her bread ready sliced in a plastic bag‚’ Sinclair said, with a faint gleam of humour. ‘Morag, on the other hand, loves cooking. When she weds, her husband will be a fortunate man.’

‘I don’t intend marrying‚’ Morag said coldly. ‘I’ve told you before, Father, that I don’t want to get married.’

‘Morag told me that she was thinking of breeding horses‚’ Sister Joan said, in an attempt to lighten a sudden heavy silence.

‘That may bring in some money‚’ her father said. ‘This manse needs a lot of heating and some extensive repairs doing to the roof. My congregation dwindles year by year as the younger people move away to look for work. Soon I shall be forced to write my memoirs or something.’

‘You must have had a very interesting life‚’ Sister Joan said.

‘But not for public consumption‚’ Morag said sharply,
reaching for the empty soup bowls. ‘There’s the salmon with new potatoes and a salad. I haven’t had time yet to whip up anything fancy.’

Nor, said her eyes, the inclination to please an unwanted guest. The salmon, when it came, was firm fleshed and delicate with a thin aspic glaze and a garnish of lemon slices and cucumber butterflies. Once again there were murmurs of appreciation as they helped themselves from the dishes that Jeannie brought in. There was no wine, she noticed, and was glad of the plain water. Luxury made her uncomfortable.

The meal progressed with occasional comments from the host – mainly short, inoffensive anecdotes of his youth when he had been a theological student in Glasgow, an amusing story about some tourists who had spent a fortnight looking for the monster until it dawned on them they were in the wrong loch. He spoke well and fluently and Sister Joan felt quite at her ease by the time coffee and fruit were served.

Morag, she noticed, seldom joined in, but ate in almost unbroken silence, her eyes on her plate. Her earlier unfriendliness was palpable, but it seemed clear that it didn’t derive from her father’s opinions.

‘Another cup of coffee, Sister?’ He indicated the pot with its heavily-chased design of thistles and roses.

‘Thank you, no. If I take a second cup I’m liable not to sleep a wink,’ she said.

‘I wonder you manage to sleep at all,’ Sinclair remarked, ‘stuck in a cave halfway up a cliff.’

‘It really is very well fitted up,’ she hastened to say. ‘Any
previous
hermit would consider I lived in the lap of luxury, and, of course, it’s only for a month. After that it’s back to work.’

‘You work?’ He sounded surprised and faintly disbelieving.

‘We’re only semi-enclosed,’ she explained. ‘We earn what we can within the limits of the rule to keep the convent financially viable. I teach in a small school on the moors – mainly gypsies and farming children who aren’t old enough for the main school or simply refuse to go. So that’s my regular job.’