Vow of Evil Read online

  ‘His mother,’ Sister Dorothy said helpfully, ‘was St Non. She was a nun but whether before or after his birth the records don’t tell.’

  ‘Oh dear!’

  The two of them stared at each other for a moment and then unexpectedly Sister Dorothy laughed.

  ‘Very few are born natural saints,’ she said. ‘Some of them led high old lives before the Holy Spirit descended!’

  ‘I don’t think Mother David will be dwelling on the former aspect,’ Sister Joan said, with an answering chuckle. ‘Do go and look at them if you have time. Criticism is always welcome.’

  ‘Oh no it isn’t.’

  Sister Dorothy smiled again. Being one of the sisters instead of prioress had brought out her human side, Sister Joan thought, as she went down the spiral stairs into the chapel.

  Genuflecting to the altar, she reflected that life had settled over the last couple of days into its usual peaceful pattern. She had found an opportunity to go over and look along the enclosure wall but there was no trace of anything, no broken coping or dislodged stone to suggest that anyone had climbed over it recently.

  ‘Sister Joan, are you busy?’

  Mother David emerged from the parlour.

  ‘Not particularly, Mother. What can I do—?’

  ‘There’s been a telephone call from the Mothers’ Union. The chairwoman has a surplus of gifts donated for the parish party on October the tenth – or is it ninth? – at all events she’d be grateful if someone could go down and pick out anything that might be useful for the Children’s Home.’

  ‘She can’t do it herself?’

  ‘Apparently there was a slight contretemps several weeks ago between the respective chairwomen,’ Sister David said, twitching her nose in token of amusement. ‘One ought not to pander to such idiocy but a gift from one lot to the other might pave the way to harmony.’

  ‘And you think I can act as ministering angel.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Mother David said in faint surprise. ‘You happen to be the only one who drives the van!’

  ‘I’ll go at once,’ Sister Joan said, suiting action to words. The damp drizzling of the rain that had never quite settled had dried into crispness. She put on her cloak, went out and started up the engine.

  Alice, stretched out just within the stable, lifted her head and then, apparently preferring the society of her companion who munched hay contentedly, lay down again.

  Automatically Sister Joan slowed as she passed the old postulancy, but the curtains in the lower windows were drawn close though the glow of firelight shone through. The car was parked neatly outside.

  At least the family kept within their prescribed limits, she mused, and chided herself mentally for being ungracious. The rent they paid was helping the Order and their somewhat rough manners might be softened by their proximity to the convent.

  She called at the church and picked up a quantity of clothes and toys which would certainly be put to good use in the Children’s Home.

  By the time she had delivered them and agreed that the chairwoman of the Mothers’ Union was, at heart, a delightful woman, the hands of her fob watch were creeping round to three. Still an hour and a half before religious studies, time to work out how to portray St David, but for the moment sketching had lost its charms.

  She parked the van and took herself for a brisk walk along the main street. This being Friday some goods in the shops were being reduced. Sister Marie had mentioned they were getting low on coffee—

  ‘Sister Joan, good afternoon!’

  ‘Sergeant Petrie, nice to see you.’

  She shook hands cheerfully, noticing as she did so that his own usual smile seemed somewhat forced.

  ‘On your errands as usual?’ he enquired.

  ‘I do do other tasks occasionally,’ she protested. ‘Are you—?’

  ‘Run off our feet as ever!’

  ‘Not more vandalism, I hope?’

  ‘Nothing to write home about. No, Constable Boswell has a bout of the flu and Constable Seldon hasn’t turned up yet.’

  ‘But she said family problems, didn’t she, in the note she left?’

  ‘She did indeed, and when she didn’t turn up this morning the inspector had me try her mobile again. Still switched off. So he dug out her home address, not wanting to alarm them but a mite miffed you could say.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He made some excuse about checking up on something and her mother said she was still down here. Hadn’t gone home at all. Well, Inspector Mill made some kind of excuse, thought she’d had a couple of days coming to her, and rang off. I’m on my way to her digs to see what’s up.’

  ‘Where does she lodge?’

  ‘Up in Beldon Street. Got a bedsit over the antique shop. I don’t suppose you’ve time

  He looked at her hopefully.

  ‘I can walk up with you if you like,’ she offered.

  ‘I’d be grateful,’ he said promptly. ‘That shop only opens three days a week – too expensive for regular trading. Mr Laurence – he owns the place – lives up near the hospital. Says he saw her on Tuesday coming in from duty but she went out again directly. Anyway he gave me the keys so I could have a look round.’

  ‘She might’ve been taken ill,’ Sister Joan said, matching her stride to his.

  The shop with its barred shutters discouraging thieves stood at the end of the street. At its other side an arched entrance led through to the back. Sergeant Petrie inserted his key in the lock and ushered her through a darkened room, where various objects glinted, towards a staircase.

  ‘The bedsit’s up top,’ he said. ‘There’s a locked door. Old Mr Laurence used to live there himself but his rheumatics were getting a mite troublesome so he went to live with his daughter and rented the top floor out. Seemed like good sense, he said, to have a policewoman on the premises.’

  He went ahead of her, switching on the light at the top of the dim stairs and carefully unlocking the door.

  ‘Still got the shutters closed,’ he observed, going into the darkened space. ‘Constable Seldon?’

  His voice echoed queerly through the space.

  ‘There’s a switch here.’ Sister Joan pressed it and a row of small lamps sprang into life along one wall.

  ‘Nice,’ Sergeant Petrie said appreciatively. ‘Very nice.’

  What had been one large apartment had been converted into an open-plan living cum sleeping area with a tiled section denoting kitchen and bathroom separated from the living area by a half wall. A curtain, drawn back and secured to a large hook, displayed the sleeping area at the far end. A single bed was neatly made and a half open wardrobe door revealed several skirts and sweaters hanging on the rail.

  ‘Well, she’s not here,’ Sergeant Petrie announced unnecessarily.

  ‘Not even a cup draining in the sink. She must be very tidy,’ Sister Joan said, switching on another light.

  ‘Her uniform’s not here,’ he said, looking at the clothes.

  ‘Was she wearing uniform when she left the note in Inspector Mill’s office on Monday morning?’

  ‘No reason to if she wasn’t coming in on duty. I’ll check with Constable Boswell anyway.’

  ‘And if she’d been carrying a suitcase he’d have noticed that?’

  ‘I never thought to ask him,’ Sergeant Petrie said. ‘He might have done but he was busy – anyway she could have left it just inside the main door while she popped into the office.’

  ‘The clothes hangers on the rail are all filled except for one,’ Sister Joan pointed out.

  ‘And there are two suitcases under the bed.’ He had bent to look and now pulled them out.

  ‘Anything in them?’ she asked.

  ‘A few newspaper clippings.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘See for yourself!’ He handed her the neatly cut and clipped pieces of newspaper. ‘I’d better get on to the station.’

  He moved away leaving her to leaf through the clippings.

  They were ol
d ones, at least three years old, though the dates above the headings were badly smudged.

  FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD BOY SUICIDES IN LOCAL WOOD, one heading ran.

  Sister Joan moved closer to the light and read on.

  A tragic discovery yesterday morning revealed the body of Simon Bartlett, the fourteen-year-old boy whose disappearance was first reported a week ago. Simon, a pupil at the Westcliff High School, had been unusually silent and depressed in recent weeks according to his teacher, Grace Swan. She had asked him what was troubling him but received no reply. An inquest will be held but police are already convinced that no other person was involved. Meddlers’ Wood, once a well-known beauty spot popular with picnic parties was recently scheduled for development due to the diseased state of several trees. It had also become well known for the drug takers who went there. The police have stated that Simon Bartlett had no known connection with anything of that nature.

  Another clipping showed a grainy photograph of a young lad with an open smiling countenance and a cowlick of light hair over his forehead. The eyes, she thought, were well spaced, the mouth irresolute.

  She was looking at the third – a brief account of the shortage of uniformed police in parts of Cornwall when Sergeant Petrie finished his call and moved back to stand beside her.

  ‘Inspector Mill’s on his way over, Can you wait until he arrives?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t wait long.’ She passed him the clippings.

  ‘Can’t say I recall this,’ he said. ‘Not on our patch. Looks like a nice kid. Mind, at that age they can take it into their heads to do some odd things!’

  ‘He came from Constable Seldon’s home town.’

  ‘Maybe she knew him or his family.’

  ‘And kept the clippings for – three years? There are no other newspaper clippings anywhere.’

  ‘She’d’ve been just about starting her police training then,’ he observed. ‘Went to the Police College. Modern methods, paperwork, all that kind of thing – not to mention computers! Can’t stand the things myself. It’s worrying though when a perfectly good colleague goes missing.’

  ‘She was stationed at Plymouth then after her training. When did she apply to transfer here?’

  ‘No more than five or six weeks back,’ Sergeant Petrie said. ‘Inspector Mill took her on like a shot. This may be a small place but it still needs decent policing.’

  ‘Nothing in here.’ Sister Joan had moved to a small chest of drawers and slid out the top one.

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Some make-up and handkerchiefs, comb and a brush. And underwear in the drawer below. No letters or papers I mean.’

  ‘Very neat,’ Sergeant Petrie approved.

  ‘No personal photographs, no letters, no cards?’

  ‘Making a fresh start?’ he suggested. ‘That sounds like the inspector now. I’ll go down and let him in.’

  He went down the carpeted staircase.

  Making a fresh start after what? Sister Joan wondered. Why would a young woman join the Force, work steadily for three years and then get herself transferred to a little Cornish back-water? Inspector Mill and Petrie and Constable Boswell had family here, local connections, ties.

  ‘How are you, Sister Joan?’ Alan Mill had entered, nodding to her amiably. ‘So what’s been going on then in your opinion, Sergeant?’

  ‘I’d’ve said she’d done a bunk, sir,’ Sergeant Petrie said, ‘but all her clothes except her uniform are here. Very few personal effects though.’

  ‘These were in one of the suitcases under the bed,’ Sister Joan said, handing him the cuttings.

  ‘Only these?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I can’t say I recall this case but suicide isn’t rare among the young these days unfortunately.’

  ‘There must be some connection surely?’

  ‘I’ll get on to Plymouth and find out,’ he assured her. ‘She came to us at somewhat short notice but her references from the Plymouth Force were good. Right, let’s lock up and be on our way.’

  ‘Will she be put on the missing persons list?’ Sister Joan asked as they went down the stairs.

  ‘Not yet – not officially, but I’ll set a few things in motion. It’s only been a couple of days and I don’t want to get any black marks on her record at this early stage of her career.’

  Now was the time to tell him about the cloaked figure perhaps? She opened her mouth to speak when Inspector Mill’s mobile rang.

  ‘Yes? Yes. Where? When? Right, on my way.’ His normally pleasant voice was suddenly harsh.

  ‘In a moment, Sister.’ He delayed her question with a half-lifted hand. ‘That was Boswell. Someone just reported a body.’

  ‘Who—?’

  ‘Not formally identified yet of course, but it’s a female, blonde hair, early twenties. Wearing a bra and panty girdle, wrapped in a cloak. Fished out of the river about twenty minutes ago. Forensics are on their way.’

  ‘Inspector,’ she said quickly, ‘this may not be relevant but on Monday evening I went down to collect the van from outside the old postulancy. A cloaked figure was climbing over the wall just ahead of me as I drove it round the outer walls. I had to brake sharply because a torch was shone full in my face dazzling me. When I had gathered my wits the figure had gone.’

  ‘Man or woman?’

  ‘Impossible to tell. I half convinced myself that I’d imagined it.’

  ‘Probably unrelated,’ he said. ‘We’d best get off. Thank you, Sister. If we need extra help you’ll be able to come?’

  ‘Provided Mother David agrees, but I don’t think I can be of help this time.’

  She nodded to them and went on into the main street.

  In the parlour, Mother David looked anxious and alarmed as she finished her recital of events.

  ‘This is most unsettling news, Sister,’ she said, eyes blinking rapidly behind their lenses. ‘I hope it’s not the young police-woman, but if not then it must be some other poor soul, may she rest in peace. You should have told me about the cloaked figure you saw.’

  ‘I began to think that I’d imagined it,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Well, there is nothing we can do except pray,’ Mother David said. ‘I have always believed that prayer should be our first recourse and not our last. There is no point in saying anything to the other sisters since it doesn’t concern us directly. Will you tell the rest that religious studies will be delayed for half an hour? I have a telephone call to make.’

  Sister Marie, informed of the delay, looked pleased.

  ‘I needed to look up something on St Martha,’ she said. ‘She was the one always worrying about the housework so I’m finding out what I can about her.’

  ‘Our Lord rebuked her for paying more attention to that than to His words,’ Sister Joan reminded her.

  ‘Typical of a man!’ Sister Gabrielle, stumping in from the infirmary, snorted as she spoke.

  ‘Sister, it was Our Blessed Lord who—’ Sister Marie began.

  ‘Even so! I promise you, Sister, you can rake the Holy Gospels from end to end and you’ll not find Him or any of the disciples helping to dry the dishes,’ Sister Gabrielle said.

  She helped herself to a stray biscuit and went out.

  ‘She says some very – unexpected things,’ Sister Marie said.

  ‘She’s getting on.’ Sister Joan excused.

  It occurred to her as she turned back to the sink where she was rinsing some cups that she had never in her life heard Sister Gabrielle utter a single kindly word about any member of the male population. Some long ago souring experience? There were often many reasons for entering the religious life and not all of them were confided to the novice mistress.

  The rest of the day passed without incident. Nothing was said about the most recent discovery. During the last prayers before the grand silence she found her mind wandering away from petitions for more patience and less craving for excitement to hoping that the body had been a complete stranger, someone swept
down-river from further up the coast. Not that that itself wasn’t sad enough but though she had hardly taken to the new police officer it was deeply disturbing to think of that pert, beautifully made-up face rigid in death, the blonde hair tangled and soaked with salt water.

  It was mid morning when the inspector’s car nosed up the drive. Sister Joan, having just completed a comic sketch of St George menacing a Disney type dragon was washing her hands in the kitchen when she saw the inspector coming into the yard.

  ‘Mother David said that I’d find you here,’ he said, without preamble. ‘Good morning, Sister Marie. Can you spare Sister Joan for twenty minutes?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Inspector Mill.’ Sister Marie beamed at him cheerfully.

  ‘Did Mother David send you round the back?’ Sister Joan asked as they went through to the hall.

  ‘I walked round that way to hail Alice, but she’s not around.’

  ‘Off chasing something or other.’

  ‘Well, at least she took no hurt from her adventure. Good morning, Mother David.’

  ‘Good morning again,’ she corrected. ‘Dominus vobiscum.’

  ‘Et cum spiritu,’ Sister Joan said.

  Inspector Mill had seated himself on a chair at a little distance.

  ‘You have news for us?’ Mother David asked.

  ‘The young woman in the river has been identified as Melanie Seldon, aged twenty-four, our newest member of the local Force,’ he said in a formal tone.

  ‘May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed—’ The sisters crossed themselves as the prioress spoke the traditional words.

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ He looked faintly embarrassed. ‘Of course, the death has no direct link with the convent or any of the sisters but in view of certain recent troubling events – Constable Seldon came to us very recently having transferred from her home town in Plymouth. In her case at the bedsit she rents – rented – were some newspaper clippings. Perhaps you would like to see them?’

  He had extracted them from his briefcase and rose to hand them to Mother David who settled her glasses more securely on her small nose and began to read.

  ‘Was there some connection?’ she asked at last, looking up.

  ‘Not one we knew about. I’ve been talking to her father by telephone this morning. Reginald Seldon. Nice man I think. He and his wife were divorced when Melanie, their daughter, was a very small child.’