Vow of Evil Read online

  ‘What on earth was Padraic Lee driving near the convent for at this time of night?’ Mother David asked.

  ‘Looking for Tabitha. She didn’t go home after school – Alan, I mean Inspector Mill, that’s something I have to tell you! One of Tabitha’s red hair ribbons is on the back seat of the tenants’ car. I’ve just seen it there!’

  ‘You went to the old postulancy? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mother David,’ Sister Joan said lamely. ‘I just had a feeling.’

  Mother David twitched her nose, opened her mouth to speak, then discreetly closed it again.

  ‘We’d better get over there,’ Inspector Mill said. ‘Not that a ribbon proves anything.’

  ‘Sister Joan, perhaps you would show the gentlemen out?’ Mother David said. ‘Then we shall have a belated supper.’

  ‘I’m afraid we are to blame,’ the inspector began.

  ‘Our duty as civilians must also rank as important,’ Mother David said. ‘Dominus vobiscum.’

  ‘Et cum spiritu tuo.’

  Sister Joan led the way to the front steps.

  ‘So Tabitha Lee’s missing?’ Inspector Mill paused to look at her. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘I think she is – or at least was with the tenants,’ she told him.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I think the tenants are mixed up in everything that has gone on. I know they didn’t arrive until after the earlier incidents but there’s something about them – I’m sorry but—’

  ‘We’ll go and ask questions about hair ribbons,’ he said.

  In the kitchen Sister Marie was looking mournfully at a sad-looking cheese soufflé.

  ‘It rose, fell and now just sits there,’ she said.

  ‘Like the Roman Empire,’ Sister Joan told her. ‘Come, I’ll help you dish up.’

  ‘Sister Perpetua is having hers in the infirmary with the old ladies,’ Sister Marie told her. ‘I do wonder why Sister Gabrielle decided to go for a walk.’

  ‘Old ladies have their foibles,’ Sister Joan told her.

  A somewhat depleted party gathered in the refectory for a belated supper: it was Sister Katherine’s turn to read aloud while the others supped.

  For not the first time Sister Joan found her attention straying from the trials of the saint whose history was being read to more immediate concerns.

  She could picture the quiet but relentless search of the garden. She could imagine the correct but probing questioning of the tenants. And always in her mind was the memory of Mrs Pearson, candles burning about her, eyes wide open and fixed on something too horrible to describe.

  ‘Thank you, Sister Katherine. Enjoy your supper now.’ Mother David folded her napkin carefully. ‘I am half inclined to cancel recreation but perhaps it’s better to return as quickly as possible to the normal routine. Sister Joan, will you go over to the garden and see the constabulary has everything it needs? And while you are about it check the customary locks.’

  ‘Yes, Mother. Shall I take Alice?’

  ‘I believe Alice has had quite enough excitement for one evening,’ Mother David said.

  Her mouth betrayed amusement.

  Outside, full night had cloaked the enclosure in blackness only broken by the flare of torches as the police moved about their task. Tape marked the limits of the search area. A police photographer was taking pictures.

  ‘They let you out after dark I see,’ Inspector Mill commented as she hesitated.

  ‘Have they found anything else?’

  ‘The chopped up remains of a couple of wicker shopping baskets. Soaked with paraffin and ready for the burning. Oh, and Padraic rang the station to say that Tabitha turned up safe and well. She swears she was by herself in the amusement arcade. Apparently she’d arranged to meet some lad there and he never showed up. Padraic said she was sulky and evasive and not inclined to answer questions.’

  ‘And the hair ribbon?’

  She asked the question sharply as he stepped over the tape to stand beside her.

  ‘No sign of it,’ he said shortly.

  ‘Alan, it was there on the rear seat of the car. I wasn’t mistaken!’

  ‘I’m sure you thought you saw it.’

  ‘Thought? Alan, I did see it!’

  ‘Without evidence….’ He shrugged.

  ‘Tabitha was carrying a couple of wicker baskets when I saw her. She said she was going to the camp but she evidently changed direction. She said she was taking shopping home but Padraic told me he hadn’t asked her to get any.’

  ‘You think the uniform was in the bags? You don’t think that Tabitha had anything to do with Constable Seldon’s death, surely?’

  ‘No, of course not! But she may have been persuaded to get rid of the stuff.’

  ‘By your tenants? Sister, I questioned them. I can’t say they’re the most prepossessing group I ever met. The mother, Winifred Roye, is a bit of a battleaxe if I’m any judge and the daughters are pretty rough in their speech, and the son-in-law strikes me as a shifty little devil, but I’ve no cause to hold them for further questioning. The son-in-law’s father is visiting for a week or so from Liverpool and there’s a friend—’

  ‘Henrico del Marco.’

  ‘Well, I can run a check on his immigrant status but there’s no reason to think any of the others had anything to do with anything. In any case they were up in Liverpool when the earlier incidents occurred. You can’t hold people because they use the odd four-letter word.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ she said resignedly.

  ‘However your evidence will now be needed at the inquest. I’m going to ask for a week’s postponement in order to get full forensic details from the uniform and the baskets. I’ll speak to Mother David.’

  ‘Have you seen Luther?’

  ‘He’ll have rushed off to Brother Cuthbert’s place or wherever he spends his nights.’

  ‘And I must check the locks,’ she said. ‘Good night, Inspector.’

  ‘’Night, Sister.’

  She lifted her hand and moved back towards the main house. It looked, she mused, as she paused briefly to survey it with only the light from her torch and the dimmed lights from one or two of the curtained windows illuminating its grey stone mass, like the abode of some wealthy family forever stuck in Victorian times.

  Lilith nuzzled her when she reached the stable, hoping for a last titbit.

  ‘I’ve a lump of sugar somewhere about me,’ Sister Joan said, finding it in her pocket.

  ‘Sister, is everything all right?’

  Sister Dorothy hove into indistinct view.

  ‘As right as it can be under the circumstances,’ Sister Joan said moodily.

  ‘You’re letting the outside world affect you.’ Sister Dorothy shook her head in reproof. ‘That was always your problem, Sister. We are vowed to the religious life, not to helping solve crimes.’

  ‘And there’s no solving anything without evidence.’

  ‘Never fear! Evil destroys itself in the end. It’s almost time for prayers and blessing. Are the locks checked?’

  ‘Only the stable and kitchen door.’

  She tested the former as she left the stable with Lilith contentedly munching and began her circuit of the building. Sister Dorothy moving towards the kitchen said cheerfully, ‘Stop fretting, Sister. Truth will out!’

  But not for Mrs Pearson and not for Melanie Seldon, Sister Joan reflected, perhaps not for young Tabitha Lee either if she had allowed herself to be embroiled in anything.

  As she rounded the last corner Mother David opened the front door.

  ‘The locks are all checked—’ Sister Joan began.

  ‘I’m sure they are, Sister! It’s come to a pretty pass when I have to send one of my nuns on sentry duty.’ The prioress pushed up her spectacles and gave what in a larger woman might’ve been described as a faint bellow of indignation.

  ‘Will we lock the chapel too?’ Sister Joan asked as she fell into step beside her.

  ‘The chapel here is nev
er locked,’ Mother David said. ‘It stays open, as you know, for the comfort of any poor soul who strays by night across the moors. Oh!’

  She had stopped short.

  ‘Mother Prioress?’

  ‘I have composed a short statement to cover the most recent events so that we can then put them aside and concentrate on prayer. I left it on my desk.’

  ‘I’ll get it for you. I can bolt the front door at the same time.’

  ‘Two small sheets of paper in the top – no, I believe the second drawer down. I’ll go on into chapel.’

  She swept ahead, cloak billowing. Sister Joan went into the hall, drew the bolts firmly and went through to the parlour.

  The parlour was shrouded in darkness. She moved to the desk and switched on the reading lamp there. The top drawer, Mother David had said, or maybe the second. For a prioress so recently elected she was not to be blamed in the light of current events if she occasionally got things a trifle muddled.

  The top drawer held some prayer cards, two sheets of carefully written notes – evidently the notes referred to – and some letters marked Correspondence Answered. On top the letter of recommendation from Father John Fitzgerald had been neatly ticked.

  For a long moment she stared at it, scanning the words of commendation, the backward slanting loops of the signature. Then as if of its own volition her hand moved to the telephone.

  ‘Number please of a Father John Fitzgerald in Liverpool?’ she requested.

  ‘Do you have an address?’

  ‘Yes, of course. One moment!’

  She scanned the letter hastily.

  ‘The Manse, Bristol Road.’

  ‘There’s no Fitzgerald at that address,’ came the operator’s voice a couple of moments later. ‘There’s a Manse in Fleming Street, a Father John Fitzgerald. Shall I give you that number?’

  ‘Who lives at the first address I gave?’ Sister Joan asked.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not permitted to say,’ the voice informed her. ‘The number is coming up now.’

  She grabbed a pencil and scribbled it down on the edge of the letter.

  Dialling it she felt a tremor of unease. Then the receiver at the other end was lifted.

  ‘Yes?’

  A female voice. Sister Joan drew a breath and said steadily, ‘This is Sister Joan from the Order of the Daughters of Compassion from our house in Cornwall. Is Father John Fitzgerald available. I apologize for the lateness of the hour.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Sister.’ The voice had warmed slightly. ‘This is his housekeeper, Mrs Doolley speaking. I’m afraid Father John is still away.’

  ‘Away? I wasn’t aware—’

  ‘He went over to the United States in mid August,’ Mrs Doolley informed her. ‘A four-month sabbatical and a conference in Chicago to attend. We’ve had a succession of curates since so I’ll be very pleased when he’s home again. Would you like to leave a message?’

  ‘No. No message,’ Sister Joan said, and replaced the receiver with numb fingers.

  So Father John Fitzgerald hadn’t written the letter and he didn’t live at the Manse in Bristol Road. He’d been away in America when the advertisement for tenants had been placed in the newspapers. Someone else had used his name and written the letter.

  She lifted the receiver and dialled the original number that was neatly hand printed below the date on the letter itself.

  A ringing tone ensued and then a male voice, ‘Sorry, but I’m not here to take calls at the moment. If you want to leave your name and address I’ll get back to you.’

  She put the receiver down, folded up the letter and slipped it into her pocket, took up the handwritten notes for which Mother David had asked and closed the drawer.

  In the chapel, the nuns already knelt, heads bowed, rosary beads dripping from their fingers.

  Sister Joan moved forward to give Mother David the notes and sank to her knees in her usual place.

  ‘We have now concluded the Sorrowful Mysteries’ – a swiftly veiled but reproachful glance in Sister Joan’s direction – ‘and it seems to me appropriate,’ Mother David said, ‘that we should have concentrated on the sorrows of Our Blessed Lady since in recent weeks we have been much disturbed, as have others in this district, by events which, though not proven to be connected, have definitely borne the stamp of wrongdoing – even of evil. Alice was missing and found with a hurt paw tied on the quay side, Padraic Lee’s dog was found poisoned; then a lady in the town, Mrs Pearson, died of an unexpected heart attack shortly after her pet cat had been found drowned – all, as I say, apparently unrelated but troubling. Most deeply troubling.’

  She paused to take breath, her eyes behind the round spectacles lifted to the statue of the Madonna behind which the steps spiralled to the library. When she resumed her voice was firmer.

  ‘And now a young policewoman has been found dead in the river, killed apparently by a blow on the head, her uniform taken and used, I am informed, by some person impersonating her in order to delay any investigation as to her whereabouts. That uniform has now been found in one of the bonfire heaps in the enclosure. The police have sectioned off that area of the garden so for the moment while their investigations are continuing that section is out of bounds. Sister Martha, you must make Luther aware of that.’

  ‘Luther won’t come near while there are police around,’ Sister Martha said.

  ‘Let us, each one of us, privately pray that the criminal or criminals responsible for the death of a young woman are apprehended and brought to justice. We have had a most upsetting day, not aided by the illness of our two priests. We must pray for their swift recovery. Sister Joan, in the morning I would like you to go down to the presbytery to enquire after them and find out from Sister Jerome if there is any help we can offer.’

  ‘Yes, Mother Prioress,’ Sister Joan nodded.

  ‘Tomorrow there will be no Mass offered in this chapel but we will come down as usual and occupy that time in prayer. Sister Perpetua, will you make quite certain that none of our … more elderly sisters take it into their heads to go wandering?’

  ‘Both are already tucked up,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘Sister Gabrielle was more tired than she knew and Sister Mary Concepta – she does seem to be failing now that the winter’s almost upon us.’

  ‘You think a medical opinion is required?’

  ‘Not at the moment, Mother David, but I shall keep a very close eye on her,’ Sister Perpetua said.

  ‘As you always do, Sister. That seems to be all.’ Mother David passed the sheets back to Sister Joan. ‘As you know our house is locked after recreation every night. I have asked Sister Joan to double-check the locks and to ensure the stable is bolted. The chapel will remain open for any soul wishing to use it. Let us begin the final prayers. Our Father—’

  On her knees with the rest, Sister Joan repeated the familiar words. She could hear Sister Perpetua’s firm, rounded voice and the sweet whisper of Sister Katherine as they made the last petitions of the night before the grand silence.

  Odd how even after years of joined prayer the voices still retained some spark of the individual natures of the sisters, she mused. The voice was one of the most recognizable features of any individual human being.

  And somewhere while she had listened to that recorded voice on the answering machine – somewhere she had heard that voice before.

  SIXTEEN

  ‘Father Malone is still a mite chesty,’ Sister Jerome said, opening the door to Sister Joan and looking relieved to see the van instead of Lilith parked outside the presbytery gate. ‘Father Stephen is almost his old self again. He offered Mass this morning and would’ve come up to the convent but I put my foot down.’

  ‘Very sensible of you, Sister,’ Sister Joan said with a touch of amusement.

  She doubted if she would ever see the day when any priest would stand up to the housekeeper’s maternal bullying.

  ‘Sister Marie sent some pears over and the last lot of blackberries she froze.’
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  She handed over the gifts.

  ‘That was kind of her! At this end of the year fruit is always so expensive. I’m afraid I persuaded Father Malone to have an extra day in his room but if you want to see Father Stephen I can bring you a cup of tea,’ Sister Jerome said. ‘Go into the study, Sister.’

  ‘Father Stephen is just the person I want to see,’ Sister Joan said with satisfaction.

  In the study where a fire blazed on the hearth a somewhat pale Father Stephen rose to greet her.

  ‘Are all well up at the convent, Sister?’ He indicated a chair and resumed his own. ‘We have heard most disturbing reports about events in the town.’

  ‘Yes. Constable Seldon seems definitely to have been murdered,’ Sister Joan told him. ‘Father Stephen, I need to know something.’

  ‘Yes?’ He broke off as Sister Jerome bustled in with two cups of tea and bustled out again, closing the door behind her with heroic self-control.

  ‘Your handwriting….’ She hesitated.

  ‘You find it difficult to read?’

  ‘No. In fact I’ve seen very few examples of it,’ she admitted. ‘I did wonder – those backward loops—’

  ‘Ornate, aren’t they?’ He gave a sudden boyish grin. ‘Blame my Latin master for that! Father Fitzgerald had a passion for the medieval style. He insisted that all his pupils adapted their writing to suit what he called the decorative glory of the Gothic!’

  ‘Father John Fitzgerald?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘And still going strong. I understand from Mother David that he recommended your present tenants.’

  ‘You went to school in Liverpool?’

  For no good reason she had pictured him in some exclusive boys’ public school.

  ‘I haven’t been back there for years. Haven’t seen Father Fitzgerald for years either,’ he ruminated.

  ‘Father Stephen, when you were at school did you know a pupil named Lurgan – Ian Lurgan?’

  ‘What year?’

  ‘He’d be about thirty now.’

  ‘Then he’d’ve been in the first stream and I’d’ve been lower sixth. I can’t say the name means anything.’