Vow of Evil

  Vow of Evil

  VERONICA BLACK

  ‘In every day and age, Sister, evil creeps in. In every town, every village, like some deadly virus that poisons all it touches. The same fight since the beginning of time. Don’t imagine for one moment that anyone is immune and don’t imagine either that anyone is incapable of fighting it.’

  Brother Cuthbert

  Contents

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  ONE

  ‘It’s an awfully long time since Sister Joan found a dead body,’ Sister Gabrielle observed, as they took their places in the parlour.

  ‘Sister!’

  Mother Dorothy who was already seated behind the large, flat-topped desk which dominated what was now the prioress’s parlour but had once been the silk panelled drawing-room of the Tarquin house raised her sparse brows above the curve of her round spectacles and shook her head slightly.

  Sister Gabrielle who, verging on ninety, reserved the mind of a much younger person and spoke it on almost every occasion, spoke it again.

  ‘You can’t say that life is bubbling with excitement round here,’ she protested. ‘I find the occasional murder quite exhilarating myself.’

  The prioress heroically held her tongue. Even verging on ninety Sister Gabrielle had become more outspoken than ever. Neither tact nor discretion had ever been her favourite words and, as she approached what must surely be her last decade, she had taken to making the most candid remarks in her still vigorous voice and with a decided glint in her eye that showed she knew exactly what she was about.

  ‘I’ll try and find one for you, Sister, the next time I take Lilith for her exercise,’ Sister Joan said, amused.

  ‘Thank you, Sister Joan. May we now get down to business?’ Mother Dorothy said repressively.

  ‘Sister Hilaria isn’t here yet,’ Sister Perpetua reminded them. It was not unusual for the novice mistress to be late since on her way over from the postulancy she was liable to wander elsewhere in the grounds led by some inward vision that quite blotted out her original intention.

  ‘Here she is now!’ Sister Marie, newly professed and full of beans, announced the fact brightly.

  ‘My apologies, Mother. Do forgive me, Sisters!’

  Sister Hilaria inclined her tall thin frame to kiss the shiny wooden floor.

  ‘What delayed you, Sister?’ Sister Gabrielle enquired.

  ‘I couldn’t find any of the postulants,’ Sister Hilaria said, taking her seat. ‘Then I remembered that I had none.’

  She spoke the words on a dying fall and glanced about her for an instant as if some eager young religious might have crept into a corner or hidden under the desk.

  It was sad for her, Sister Joan, her own eyes clouding over with sympathy, thought. Sister Hilaria didn’t seem complete without a couple of postulants trailing after her, the more observant among them gently guiding her in the right direction. Alone she was Mother Carey without her chicks.

  ‘One of the reasons why this meeting has been called,’ Mother Dorothy said, rapping her pencil on the desk, ‘is to discuss the present sad situation. As our bishop has made clear vocations are becoming scarce in every Order. The Daughters of Compassion cannot hope to escape the prevailing secular wind which blows across Christendom. We are a small Order but we have our role to play and the shortage of novices is worrying.’

  ‘Also lonely for Sister Hilaria,’ Sister Mary Concepta observed in her gentle voice. ‘All alone in the postulancy.’

  ‘Alone?’ Sister Joan, who was about to say that when wrapped in her meditations Sister Hilaria was less alone than anyone she knew, caught Mother Dorothy’s gimlet glance and refrained.

  ‘As we already know,’ Mother Dorothy said, putting the tips of her fingers together, ‘Sister Teresa, our excellent lay sister, was called away to care for her ailing father and is unlikely to return for some considerable time and Sister Bernadette was dispatched to the mission fields by the mother house six months ago. Our loss is their gain.’

  ‘And there are no new postulants for this year,’ Sister Martha said sadly.

  ‘It occurred to me,’ Mother Dorothy said briskly, ‘that with two spaces in the main house and the postulancy itself originally a dower house for the Tarquin family, that it would profit us to rent out the latter for a year or two. There are many nice little families who would appreciate a home at a very moderate rent. The building is separated from the main grounds by the old tennis courts so there need be no invasion of privacy from either side.’

  ‘Are we broke then?’ Sister Gabrielle demanded.

  ‘Not at all, Sister.’ The prioress frowned slightly. ‘As you know my godmother died two years ago and left a considerable sum of money and her house in Devon to me, all of course to be shared with the Order. Two families have since rented the Devon property, but the last tenant left for the United States some weeks ago. Doubtless other tenants will come. In the meantime Community Charges and taxes continue to rise and goods become more expensive and there can be no question of neglecting to pay the bills properly.’

  ‘Our Blessed Lord said that,’ Sister Hilaria murmured. ‘“Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s”.’

  ‘Caesar didn’t charge VAT,’ Sister Perpetua said with a grin.

  ‘So!’ Mother Dorothy lifted her pencil and tapped the desk with it. ‘I shall insert an advertisement for the rental of the postulancy at once. Sister Joan, you had best look it over and make what slight alterations may be necessary for the accommodation of tenants – I shall stress it will be suitable for a family. Sister Hilaria will join us here in the main house.’

  ‘Where?’ Sister Perpetua enquired.

  ‘Sister Joan can take Sister Teresa’s cell next to Sister Marie,’ Mother Dorothy said, and nodded approvingly as Sister Joan smiled. ‘Then Sister Hilaria can take Sister Joan’s cell.’

  ‘I would be quite happy near the kitchen,’ Sister Hilaria said mildly.

  ‘But it would be convenient for me to be near the stable,’ Sister Joan said promptly and sincerely. ‘I can take Lilith and Alice out then without disturbing the rest of you.’

  ‘Then that’s settled,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘These slight changes will be the last I shall undertake as prioress.’

  ‘You’re not leaving too?’ Sister Katherine sounded panicky as if the fabric of her family was being rent asunder.

  ‘Of course not, Sister. I trust to end my days here,’ Mother Dorothy said, ‘but surely you haven’t forgotten the election is upon us. It is time for you to elect a new prioress. It cannot be myself since the rules of our Order clearly state that no sister can be elected as prioress more than twice in succession. For the next five years another must wear the purple ribbon on her sleeve. The voting slips are here. I would ask each one of you to take a slip, retire to a private place to consider the matter and having placed your cross against the name of your choice place the folded slip in the post box in the main hall. You have until recreation at eight to cast your votes.’

  She rose as they rose, intoned the customary, ‘Dominus vobiscum’, was answered by a chorus of ‘Et cum spiritu tuo’, and watched them file out with the faintest twist of regret on her lips.

  ‘Are we allowed to discuss the election?’

  On her way into the
hall Sister Joan heard Sister Martha’s whisper at her elbow, accompanied by a discreet tug at her wide grey sleeve.

  ‘I don’t think so, Sister,’ she said.

  ‘I was hoping,’ the tiny nun confided, ‘to have a word with Luther.’

  ‘Luther!’

  Sister Joan paused to stare.

  ‘Luther is often quite profound in his estimations of people,’ Sister Martha said, a hint of truculence in her voice.

  Luther, being a tall, lumbering fellow, greatly distrusted by the local constabulary for his record of following pretty ladies, had attached himself devotedly to little Sister Martha who was the convent gardener, doing her least bidding with all the alacrity of which his brain was capable and so far not adding to his record of female pursuit. To call his judgement profound however was, in Sister Joan’s view, overegging the cake.

  She was spared from having to answer however by Sister Gabrielle who stumped past on her stick, proclaiming loudly, ‘Right, let’s get this over then! Mary Concepta, you’ll catch your death if you hang around in a draughty anteroom. The voting ought not to take the rest of the day!’

  The sisters collected their neatly typed slips, each one carefully anonymous and went their separate ways, the two elderly nuns to the warm infirmary where they spent their declining years, Sister Perpetua to the dispensary where she kept check on the aches and pains of her fellow religious, Sister Martha into the grounds where Sister Joan hoped she was’t going to bump into Luther, the others to the chapel. Mother Dorothy still sat at her desk, visible through the half-open door. What must it be like, Sister Joan wondered, to be about to yield authority after ten years of absolutism?

  She herself went through the kitchen into the yard where Lilith poked her head out of her stall and Alice, the half grown and entirely rebellious Alsatian sat on the cobbles, tail wagging in anticipation of a walk or a game.

  ‘Not now, Alice,’ Sister Joan said absently. ‘There’s an election going on.’

  She sat on an upturned barrel and frowned at the paper in her hand.

  The names were in strict alphabetical order. She considered each one with as much care as possible. General elections were more exciting but whichever political party won its representatives were not actually going to decide how you lived your private life for the next five years.

  Eight names to be considered – nine if one counted oneself. Could one vote for oneself? Heaven forbid! Sister Joan wrinkled her small nose at the thought of lording it over the other members of the community and forgoing her rides on Lilith.

  Sister David? Small and unnervingly like a rather anxious rabbit terrified of not getting Alice anywhere on time, Sister David held down the jobs of sacristan and librarian with unstated ease and had reached the letter R of the series of books about the saints for children she had been engaged on for some years. No, Sister David deserved the right to stay where she was.

  Sister Gabrielle? Nearly ninety, sharp-tongued and sharp-witted but too old and too cranky.

  Sister Hilaria? Sister Joan’s index finger drew a circle round the name. The novice mistress had just learned she was, in the absence of novices, to be uprooted and despite her genuine air of spiritual bliss she could certainly inspire loyalty.

  Sister Katherine who was responsible for the upkeep of the linen and spent much of her time making the delicate lace that increased the convents revenues? No, she hardly opened her mouth except to say ‘Amen’ and even then she hesitated as if she wasn’t sure it was quite the thing to do. Sister Katherine would be entirely out of her depth.

  Sister Marie? Not long professed and far too young for the burden of responsibility.

  ‘Good Lord!’ Sister Joan said aloud. ‘I’ll be forty-two in March and I’m regarding a twenty-seven year old as a mere child!’

  Sister Martha? Hardly, Sister Joan thought, reaching out an idle hand to pat Alice who had wriggled nearer in expectation of a game. Sister Martha would be a tulip out of season if she was removed from her beloved garden and Luther would be miserable and possibly start following strange women again.

  Sister Mary Concepta was clearly out of the running with her weak heart and advanced years. That left only Sister Perpetua who was well nigh indispensible as the infirmarian. On the other hand, she had plenty of energy and a good head for figures. Certainly she could inspire respect.

  Sister Joan rose from her barrel, for once oblivious to Lilith’s hopeful whinny and, with Alice at her heels, walked thoughtfully round to the garden and its attendant shrubbery. At its edge, a low wall enclosed the cemetery with its neat white headstones, each bearing the name, date of birth, date of profession and date of death of each grave’s occupant. There were always flowers on each grave, an exactly similar bunch or spray laid in the one place where all were equal.

  She skirted the wall and went down the crumbling steps across the former tennis court where years before members of the Tarquin family had lobbed serves across a taut and pristine net. The net had almost rotted away and weeds forced their access through the stained and splitting concrete. Like the Tarquin family, she thought, vanished into oblivion.

  The postulancy, which had once been the dower house where cranky and ageing relatives could be stored out of sight and trotted out for special occasions, stood at the far side of the court, its exterior whitewashed, its roof and floors repaired and strengthened thanks to Mother Dorothy’s legacy.

  The door as usual was unlocked. Sister Hilaria had a sublime disregard for security.

  ‘Give her the keys of Heaven,’ Sister Gabrielle had remarked tartly, ‘and the Devil’d be flocking in to play rock and roll on the harps!’

  Sister Joan stepped across to the front door and opened it. A narrow hall with stairs directly ahead separated two lecture rooms on the left and the postulants’ recreation room, library and tiny kitchen on the right.

  The wooden floors were bare of carpets, the white walls innocent of ornament save for a crucifix in the library and shelves in which various devotional books leaned against one another as if exhausted by their own piety. In the recreation room there were jigsaw puzzles and some board games.

  She bypassed the two lecture rooms with their desks and blackboards and went up the narrow stairs. Here on either side of another narrow corridor were five cells and a bathroom. Stripped beds and empty closets bore witness to the absence of new vocations. What was perfectly clear was that Sister Hilaria could certainly not be abandoned without her flock in this cold place. It was also obvious that once the fireplaces had been unblocked or heaters installed and rugs laid on the floors the place would certainly accommodate a family of modest size.

  Going downstairs again, she looked in at the tiny kitchen. Since novice mistress and novices ate their main meals in the big house the kitchen, which was hardly more than a scullery, would have to be enlarged, the false wall between it and the library removed and some up-to-date cooking equipment installed. Perhaps a wood-burning stove in the old chimney space?

  She bent down to see how difficult any alteration would be and opened the tiny cupboard under the sink where cleaning fluid and cloths were kept. As she had expected everything was spotless, cloths neatly folded, a couple of bottles of washing-up liquid stacked one behind the other.

  Not, she thought with a grin, pulling the bottles out, that much ever got dirty here. A mug of tea or cocoa on a Saturday evening after recreation marked the limits of dissipation. No wonder postulants were so thin on the ground!

  Black crayon marred the whiteness of the wall behind the bottles. Frowning, she opened the door wider and stared within the cupboard.

  SHIT.

  The word stared out at her, black against the white wall, clear even in the dusk of a September evening. SHIT.

  For heaven’s sake, how long had it been there? Not more than a few days in all likelihood since Sister Hilaria for all her vagueness never stinted on any domestic jobs. On the other hand she habitually left the doors unlocked.

  But who had wr
itten the word, inscribed rather since each letter stood out, sharp, black, thick, ugly? Certainly nobody who had had any legitimate right to be in the postulancy.

  She was on her feet again, gushing water from the single tap into a basin, reaching for the scrubbing brush and bottle of cleaning fluid.

  No use! The crayon was virtually indelible. The letters smudged at their edges but still stood out sharp and distinct.

  There was a small tin of white paint and a clean brush in the tiny shed by the back door. To her relief it was still there and she knelt to whisk whitewash over the small offending section of wall.

  ‘Sister Joan, what are you doing?’

  The tall, gaunt figure of Luther had lounged up and was standing over her, half in and half out of the kitchen. As usual, he wore faded, patched jeans and a sweater of indeterminate greys.

  ‘Painting,’ Sister Joan said, finishing with a sweep of the brush. ‘If you’re looking for Sister Martha she’s—’

  ‘Helping to choose a new prioress. Aye, she’m told me,’ Luther said. ‘What will become of Mother Dorothy then?’

  ‘She will be called Sister Dorothy again and take her place with the rest of us. There!’

  Satisfied, she stood up and began rinsing the brush under the tap.

  ‘You’m painting in a funny place,’ Luther commented.

  ‘Yes, well, there was a reason. Luther, have you seen anyone round here in the last few days?’

  ‘Not sisters you mean?’

  ‘Not sisters. Boys, kids…?’

  ‘No, Sister Joan.’ He shook his head emphatically. ‘Not seen no person like that. Not allowed.’

  ‘Nobody from the camp?’

  A useless and rather insulting question, she chided herself. The local Romanies were generally true bred Rom, not travellers who pitched up for a night, smoked dope and moved out leaving a mess. Not that all travellers were like that, she reminded herself.

  Luther, who was didicoy and not full blood Romany, shook his head again.

  Vandals from the council estate? But they scrawled their words in huge letters on walls and garage doors. And some of the graffiti they produced was really quite artistic.