Vow of Evil Read online

  ‘But it would be possible to get a list of old pupils for those years?’

  ‘I suppose one could. You have some particular reason?’ he began.

  ‘Yes. I have a particular reason. Thank you, Father. I’d better be getting back.’

  ‘Lurgan.’ Chin on hand he stared into the blazing fire. ‘Wait a moment – there was a Lurgan – can’t recall his first name or what he looked like – but the name itself does ring a bell. Not a common name.’

  ‘What do you recall about it?’ she asked.

  ‘Not Catholics but the boy got a place at the school on – ah yes, compassionate grounds. Mother committed suicide. I think that was it. I seem to remember also that he didn’t stay long. Discipline problems.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  ‘One hopes,’ he said, ‘that this recent tragedy will soon be cleared up.’

  ‘Yes indeed – no, please don’t get up, Father! I am glad to find you so much better. I can see myself out.’

  At the door she paused abruptly, another question spilling from her lips.

  ‘The boy’s mother – the one who committed suicide. Would you recall where she came from?’

  ‘Somewhere in Plymouth I believe. I think she was buried there. Is it important?’

  ‘It might be,’ Sister Joan said, grimly, and closed the door behind her.

  Ten minutes later she was in the police station, refusing a cup of coffee, Inspector Mill seated opposite her.

  ‘It’s early days for any further forensic evidence,’ he said. ‘I can tell you that the uniform was definitely Constable Seldon’s. It’s been ripped and torn and soaked in paraffin but of course if whoever wore it to impersonate her shed a drop of sweat or even a hair – then we might have something. But whoever carried this out is very clever and very cunning. They’ll have worn gloves throughout. However we can but hope.’

  ‘Perhaps more than that!’ Swiftly she related the information she had received from Father Stephen.

  ‘That can’t be the only school in the country that favours Gothic script,’ he objected.

  ‘But not with such distinctive back slanting loops,’ she pressed.

  ‘So you say Father John Fitzgerald was away when the recommendation he supposedly wrote arrived at the convent.’

  ‘From the wrong address,’ she reminded him. ‘If you checked out the address we had – Mother David never did – one expects a letter from a priest to be written by a priest from his presbytery. If you checked out that address you’d almost certainly find that a Mr Timothy Lurgan was living there until recently.’

  ‘Proving what? That he falsified a reference for his son and in-laws so they could move into the old postulancy? We’d never get it into court with the recent crime rates rising.’

  ‘And Mrs Lurgan who killed herself came from Plymouth and—’

  ‘And Melanie Seldon’s young brother killed himself in Plymouth. And Plymouth is a big city.’

  ‘The son, Ian Lurgan, could have married a girl from Plymouth. The Royes might come from Plymouth. They could’ve have moved down there a few years back after Mrs Lurgan killed herself.’

  ‘Leaving Tim Lurgan up in Liverpool to wait several years until Melanie Seldon’s brother had killed himself and she’d trained to be a police officer and then they join up together and come down into Cornwall to kill her. Sister, for once you’re not making sense! Oh, I’ll grant you that Tim Lurgan probably remained in Liverpool and, as a favour to his son’s in-laws, faked a letter from Father Fitzgerald.’

  ‘They said they’d just moved from Liverpool. I believe they’ve been living in Plymouth since before the Seldon boy’s suicide.’

  ‘You met them at the station,’ he reminded her.

  ‘They were already waiting on the platform when I got to the station.’

  ‘Having just travelled from Plymouth instead of Liverpool. It isn’t a crime to say you’ve just arrived from one place when in reality you’ve just arrived from another.’

  ‘But you could find out.’

  ‘Yes I could but it wouldn’t prove anything illegal at all. And I’ve a budget to stick to!’

  ‘Oh budgets!’ she said impatiently.

  ‘Yes, budgets – and if they’ve actually been in Plymouth, with Tim Lurgan still up in Liverpool there’s no way of tracing them easily. They could have been moving from one cheap rental to another.’

  ‘The Benefits Agency—’

  ‘Has its hands full with false claims and asylum seekers. And if they have been in Plymouth,’ he said, ‘then there’s no connection between Mrs Pearson’s seeing devils in churchyards or the poisoning of Padraic Lee’s dog or the drowning of the cat or—’

  ‘Or Alice being lured away. I know. But Plymouth is hardly the other end of the country and the sister, Kit Roye, does have a car.’

  ‘But why go to all the trouble to come here?’ he demanded. ‘Both Liverpool and Plymouth must contain plenty of dogs and cats and elderly ladies with a belief in the occult. Why come to this town at all?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ She shrugged helplessly as she rose. ‘Alan, are you telling me that there’s nothing we can do?’

  ‘At present – not a thing.’

  ‘If they were in Plymouth and caused the Seldon boy to kill himself then perhaps Melanie Seldon suspected them and couldn’t do anything about it at the time,’ she suggested. ‘She decided to join the Force and when she heard they were coming here she applied for a transfer—’

  ‘How would she know that?’

  ‘Maybe she knew them casually, kept tabs on them—’

  ‘There were no notes anywhere in her bedsit,’ he said.

  ‘They’d’ve destroyed them once they got in, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘All supposition. Meanwhile we’ll plod on with forensics.’

  ‘And Tabitha Lee’s hair ribbon? I did see it on the back seat of Kit’s car. I did!’

  ‘Nothing there when we looked. Sister, there’s no evidence.’

  ‘I’ll find some!’ she said. ‘I swear I will.’

  ‘I hope you do,’ he said sombrely. ‘I hope you do.’

  There was still time before luncheon for her to spend an extra half-hour in town. On impulse she stopped at a florist’s and bought some bronze dahlias, laying them on the seat beside her and driving to the cemetery.

  The day had greyed and chilled, one last migrating bird uttering a doleful farewell as it headed south, the wind crisping the petals of the flowers as she carried them to the newly made grave.

  There were others laid there – roses now shrivelled with a card signed by Melanie’s mother, the police tribute of poppies and laurel, the flowers from the convent and a few anonymous bunches placed there by sympathetic townspeople. The plain wooden cross bore the name and rank, dates of birth and death. She supposed that Melanie’s mother would come down when the stone was erected and carved.

  Laying down the dahlias she felt the pricking of tears behind her eyelids. She hadn’t taken to Constable Seldon and that somehow made it worse. For a friend she would surely have grieved more, made more effort to bring the killer to book.

  The soft scrape of a shoe on the gravel made her turn abruptly. Henrico del Marco’s broad shape blotted the sky.

  ‘It’s Sister Joan, isn’t it? From the convent?’

  His light curiously unaccented voice chilled her. She found herself taking a step backwards.

  ‘Yes,’ she said curtly.

  ‘Pity about the young lady. It’s a wicked world, Sister.’

  ‘In many ways, yes,’ she said.

  ‘And an old lady died here too just before we arrived. A heart attack, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. A sudden heart attack.’

  ‘I thought I’d come down and have a walk around,’ he said. ‘I like graveyards – peaceful places.’

  ‘Usually,’ she said.

  ‘Not usually places where devils lurk.’

  ‘How did—?’

  ‘Just an
expression, Sister!’ He shot her an amused glance. ‘Did you know the young lady well?’

  ‘Hardly at all,’ Sister Joan said coldly.

  ‘Then how kind of you to bring extra flowers!’

  ‘I happened to be in the vicinity,’ she hedged. ‘If you’ll excuse me I have to get back for lunch.’

  ‘Ah yes, the rules. We are all bound by rules, by promises and vows. You know this town is a pleasant place, even at this season. I may stay on for a few weeks.’

  ‘I would have thought that Italy would be warmer in the winter,’ she said.

  ‘Ah, yes, but on the mountains there is always snow.’

  ‘And the tenants are not permitted to sublet the property.’

  ‘But permitted to entertain guests, I believe. It’s been nice talking to you, Sister. I’m on my way up to the school.’

  ‘The school?’ She hadn’t meant to question but his remark took her by surprise.

  ‘I like to watch young people,’ he said. ‘One recaptures one’s own youth in watching them.’

  ‘In this country middle-aged men who hang round schools are apt to be regarded with suspicion,’ she said.

  ‘Ah, nothing like that, Sister!’ He gave a low chuckle that grated along her nerves. ‘Oh, dear me, no! The corruption of the body will take place over years – Nature sees to that! – but the corruption of minds is altogether more exciting. I speak theoretically, of course.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Good day to you, Mr del Marco.’

  She feared he would keep in step with her but he turned and walked away rapidly.

  A familiar tonsured figure stood by the van.

  ‘Brother Cuthbert! What are you doing in town?’ she enquired.

  ‘I walked down to ask after Father Malone and Father Stephen.’ The usual smile was missing from his face as he stared after the retreating figure.

  ‘That was Henrico del Marco,’ Sister Joan said. ‘He’s staying with the tenants.’

  ‘An Italian?’

  ‘I’m not sure where he comes from or even if he’s supposed to be in this country.’

  ‘One finds del Marcos in every country,’ Brother Cuthbert said thoughtfully. ‘Leeches, hangers-on. Not important in themselves but a trap for unwary youth. Odd but they don’t usually stay when I’m around. One would like to know what motivates them, how best to combat it. Well, he’s not of great importance.’

  ‘Would you like a lift back?’

  ‘I would indeed, Sister! That’s most kind of you!’

  Something of his usual joviality had returned. He held open the van door for her to enter and then went round to the passenger seat.

  ‘I called at the presbytery,’ she volunteered, letting in the clutch. ‘The invalids seem much improved.’

  ‘Thank God they do! And Sister Jerome is an excellent housekeeper. A real Saint Martha.’

  ‘Whom Christ rebuked,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Is that how you read the passage, Sister? Now I glean a very different idea which may not be entirely valid but then I never was a theologian. I think Our Lord was teasing Saint Martha, joshing her a little bit.’

  ‘Joshing her?’ she echoed.

  ‘Or whatever the Aramaic expression might be! You know, in the style of “Come on, Martha, we know you’re proud of your cooking but ease up a little”. You know?’

  ‘It doesn’t say anywhere that Our Lord laughed,’ she said.

  ‘They probably forgot to mention it. And there is no weapon stronger than laughter against the Devil. I think we must encourage more laughter,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘“The Devil hateth a mocking spirit”,’ she quoted slowly. ‘Do you honestly sense devilry about, Brother Cuthbert?’

  ‘Oh, he’s generally around but when he finds disciples – we must try to keep very cheerful, Sister.’

  ‘Right! More mirth is requested,’ she said, and drove briskly on to the side track that meandered over the hill.

  ‘Thanks for the lift. Lazy of me but I seem to be behindhand in my work,’ he said, as she drew up outside the old schoolhouse.

  ‘You’ve supplied us with plenty of wood.’

  ‘Not that sort of work,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘Good day to you, Sister Joan. Try not to fret.’

  ‘I’m hoping there will be an end to all this unpleasantness soon,’ she said impatiently.

  ‘There’s always an end to it,’ Brother Cuthbert said and went, whistling, into his lodging.

  At the kitchen door she drew up in time to see Padraic emerge.

  ‘Sister Marie was kind enough to make me a sandwich,’ he said, opening the van door and helping her down with some ceremony. ‘You know she reminds me of Sister Teresa more and more every day.’

  ‘We had a letter from her last week,’ she remembered to tell him. ‘Her father is still very ill, I fear. Still one can always hope. Is Tabitha—?’

  ‘Secret as the grave,’ he said ruefully. ‘The police came over and asked her if she’d been with the Lurgans or in their car. She said she hadn’t. Went on saying it even after the police left. I felt like giving her a good beating but I’ve never hit my girls and I don’t reckon on starting down that road now. But there’s summat she’s not telling.’

  ‘Have you spoken to our tenants?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘I keep well clear but I had a word with the school, told them to keep an eye on her and I told Tabitha she doesn’t hang about the arcade after school hours any longer.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She laughed,’ he said, his tone uneasy and puzzled. ‘She just laughed and then she said, “If it was only that,” and clammed up like an oyster.’

  ‘If it was only that,’ Sister Joan repeated. ‘I’ll try to make sense of it, Padraic. Give the girls my love.’

  ‘I will that, Sister. Kushti, heel!’

  He walked off, leaving her to go into the kitchen where Sister Marie was contemplating half-a-dozen fresh trout with a mixture of delight and embarrassment.

  ‘He’s always so kind,’ she said, ‘but all this fish and no payment ever accepted.’

  ‘Have them poached, Sister Marie!’ Sister Joan said on a spurt of unexpected mirth.

  ‘In time for lunch!’ Sister Gabrielle, stomping across the hall, greeted her with a snort.

  ‘For a wonder,’ Sister Joan agreed. ‘And you’re none the worse?’

  ‘Not at all. The walk did me good,’ Sister Gabrielle said.

  ‘Sister Gabrielle, why did you walk in that direction?’ Sister Joan asked. ‘Towards the old postulancy? Why so far? Was there something – someone you needed to check on?’

  For an instant the old eyes flickered. Then Sister Gabrielle said harshly, ‘You ask too many questions, Sister!’

  She turned and stomped on, every tap of her walking stick an indignant exclamation as she moved across the hall.

  Do I? Do I spend so much time ferreting out things that I neglect my more important spiritual duties?

  The problem nagged at her as she turned towards the chapel. The inner door, leading past the small parlours for visitors and sisters, opened into the side wall just before the Lady Altar. Sister Hilaria was on her knees in her usual pew and a scent of rosewater perfumed the air.

  ‘Sister Joan?’ Sister Dorothy, descending from the library, nodded to her as she reached ground level.

  ‘Yes, Sister?’

  ‘Would you be kind enough to bring down the list of menus on my desk? Sister Marie has taken it into her head to have menus for feast days and with All Saints so close.’

  ‘I’ll get them for you, Sister.’

  She dipped into a genuflection and went up the winding stairs.

  The light had been switched off but daylight filtered through the narrow windows on to the shelves, the cabinets in which documents and booklets were stored, the desk with its neatly printed menus.

  Was Sister Marie planning on serving roast salmon, lobster thermidor and strawbe
rry soufflé out of season, she wondered, amused as she picked up the neatly typed lists?

  Downstairs the dinner gong, brought into action at lunchtimes too, reverberated.

  The door leading to the two storerooms was closed. A little light and air there wouldn’t come amiss, she decided, reminding herself that it was days since she’d carted a broom up here to sweep away the dust that gathered in the crevices between the bare boards.

  The drawings and sketches for Mother David’s Lives of the Saints were pinned neatly on a cardboard frame. Had been pinned.

  She stood, staring at the empty frame. Had Mother David taken them downstairs to the parlour? It would’ve been unlike her to touch them without consulting her.

  At her feet, as she involuntarily glanced down, the mark of a print showed clearly in a patch of dust. A cloven footprint, she saw, and felt panic invade her.

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘All the drawings gone, Sister? You’re certain?’ Mother David gazed at her intently from the other side of the desk.

  ‘All gone,’ Sister Joan said tonelessly. ‘I asked Sister Dorothy if she’d seen them recently but she hasn’t. She wouldn’t have touched them anyway. Nobody here would.’

  ‘I thought you ate very little at lunchtime,’ Mother David said.

  ‘And you’ve seen the footprint? Drawn in black chalk and not a genuine print at all.’

  ‘To show us that the evil is here inside this house. But when could it have been—?’

  ‘Any time after the grand silence,’ Sister Joan said. ‘The chapel stays open; only the inner door to our quarters is bolted, and the door to the library is fastened but the storerooms are never locked. Anyone might sneak in and take them.’

  ‘Will you inform the police? You have my leave.’

  ‘To what purpose?’ Sister Joan made a defeated gesture. ‘The drawings weren’t valuable. I can do them again and I will. At the most it would be trespass and petty theft. You may be sure there will be no other prints! There were none except my own at Mrs Pearson’s cottage nor in the bedsit where Constable Seldon died. There will be no trace on the uniform buried in the garden rubble. If there are any prints on the broken pieces of basket they will only be Tabitha’s prints and I am certain that she has no idea what she is getting herself into.’