Vow of Evil Page 3

  Lunch was invariably a salad sandwich, soup, fruit and a cup of tea. Simple in summer but in winter almost impossible to ring the changes as the supply of lettuces, spring onions and tomatoes dwindled and even soup could burn if you turned your back on it for a moment.

  As for supper – Sister Joan mentally blanked out memories of potatoes having to be scraped from the bottom of the pan, fish leathery on the surface and raw within, and milk pudding to which she had absent-mindedly added black pepper instead of nutmeg.

  ‘Mother David did think of giving you the job,’ Sister Marie said with a teasing glint in her eye, ‘but she decided after much thought against the idea.’

  ‘Give me the list,’ Sister Joan said, suppressing laughter.

  ‘If Alice turns up I’ll keep her here,’ Sister Marie said.

  Sister Joan took the list, raising her eyebrows at avocados and went through to where the van, used ostensibly by any sister bound for town on some necessary errand but actually seldom driven except by Sister Joan, stood.

  She enjoyed driving though Sister Gabrielle had hinted it was only one degree better than her cooking – and how would she know when she hadn’t left the enclosure for years? Getting in, adjusting the seat, she cast a satisfied glance towards the bins where the vandalized books were now buried under several layers of old newspapers.

  But who had done it? Who had left the ugly little word on the wall under the sink? Not the usual kind of yobbo surely? Not a window was cracked, not a single bit of wood scratched. Granted one could approach the back of the postulancy from the housing estate that disfigured the slopes of the moor, but why would anybody bother?

  Her thoughts were tending unwillingly closer to home as she drove along the winding track that turned itself into a road as the moor dipped down into the town.

  This was the old town, largely unspoilt apart from a bingo hall and an amusement arcade. Some of its streets were still cobbled and little had been done to change the outward appearance of the fishermen’s cottages that clustered along the ancient quay. The antique shops still had their bulging windows in which ships in bottles, Cornish piskies and framed seascapes jostled with beautiful old silver and copper jewellery.

  She braked abruptly as a familiar figure hailed her with a wave.

  ‘Detective Inspector Mill! How nice to see you!’

  Sticking her head out of the window she gave him his full, recently promoted, status with pleasure.

  ‘You don’t happen to have mislaid a dog by any chance?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ve found Alice? Where? Nobody’s seen a sign of her since last night.’

  ‘A young fellow brought her along to the station about an hour ago. Said he’d found her tied up on the quay. Covered in mud and her paw was hurt – don’t get in a flap. I took her along to the vet’s myself. It’s a sprain. Anyway she was due for her usual injection it seems so he’s keeping her in for a couple of days.’

  ‘But is she all right?’ Sister Joan demanded.

  ‘Enjoying being fussed over when I left,’ he said. ‘I’ll pick her up myself and bring her over when the vet releases her. Have you time for a quick cup of tea?’

  ‘I’ve the shopping to do – yes, a quick cup then.’

  ‘And don’t chip the wall,’ he admonished with a grin as she sat back behind the wheel and started to swing left into the station yard.

  ‘I haven’t broken a single law all morning!’ she retorted, making a neat turn and braking gently.

  He held the door open for her to pass in, to be greeted by Sergeant Petrie, also recently promoted and wearing his stripes like a veteran.

  ‘Sister Joan, it’s months since we’ve seen you! How are the other sisters?’

  ‘All fairly well, Sergeant Petrie,’ she returned brightly. ‘Oh, and Sister David has just been elected as prioress.’

  ‘The little one with specs?’

  ‘She’s Mother David now. Sister Dorothy is our new librarian.’

  ‘Give them my best, Sister. I’ll rustle up some tea, shall I?’

  ‘Three cups,’ Detective Inspector Mill said.

  ‘Right away, sir!’

  In the office, Sister Joan was motioned to a chair and looked round. Since her last visit nothing had changed save the calendar on the wall. The main desk held neatly clipped documents and a newspaper folded in half. No sign of any personal clutter, no photographs of family. Alan Mill had a wife called Samantha and two sons both in their early teens and away at boarding-school. She had never laid eyes on any of them, but she was aware that the marriage itself had always been rocky.

  A young female officer, slender and blonde in her uniform, long legs encased in tailored trousers brought in the tea. Sister Joan, whose own legs, under the mid-calf length skirt of her light-grey habit, were charming, found herself hoping uncharitably that the hair was dyed.

  Sergeant Petrie came in and seated himself.

  ‘Not good to hear about Alice,’ he said.

  ‘No indeed, but she is going to be all right?’

  ‘Right as rain,’ he assured her. ‘What I’d like to know is who tied her up on the quay? The inspector here says she was tied to one of those big iron rings where they make the boats fast.’

  ‘Even here there’s a crime rate,’ Inspector Mill said.

  ‘Vandalism?’ Sister Joan sipped her tea.

  ‘Lot of incomers flooding the town,’ said Sergeant Petrie.

  ‘Six Algerians and a family of Chinese who wouldn’t say boo to a goose,’ Inspector Mill scorned. ‘However, I admit there’s a certain – unrest in the air – can’t define it exactly. In fact it’s only been around for a couple of weeks – nothing definite. Just – a feeling.’

  ‘More vandalism than usual?’

  ‘Not really.’ He sighed irritably. ‘Oh, slogans on walls, a bin tipped over – now the kids are back at school there’s actually been rather less of it than usual. Benefit fraud of course. That goes on everywhere. An old dear down Fetter Lane reported she met the Devil the other night.’

  ‘The Devil!’

  ‘Slightly senile,’ Sergeant Petrie said. ‘Trotted in to report that she met him in the old churchyard. She likes to wander around there, tidies up a bit and waters the flowers. Strictly unofficial.’

  ‘Do we know her?’ Sister Joan asked.

  ‘Mrs … Pearson. Aye, that’s the name. Nothing in the story. She was toddling round after dark so likely her imagination started playing tricks.’

  ‘So nothing to account for the feeling?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ Inspector Mill said. ‘By the way I see that the postulancy is going to be rented out. No novices?’

  ‘Not one,’ Sister Joan said glumly. ‘There’s a sad shortage of vocations all through the Church. No, rather than having poor Sister Hilaria rattling round alone she has moved into the main house as sacristan and Mother David – well, to be strictly accurate Sister Dorothy just before the election, decided to advertise for a tenant or tenants – preferably a small family. We’re having a few alterations made.’

  ‘Not with Brother Cuthbert’s help?’ Sergeant Petrie put on an expression of mock alarm.

  ‘Some local builders are coming to do some bits and pieces. We’re hoping for a nice little family. Father Malone might know of someone suitable if the advertisement doesn’t produce a result.’

  No point, she thought as she rose, telling either of them about the vandalism in the postulancy. In future she’d make a point of reminding whoever went there to lock up securely.

  ‘Give our congratulations to Sister David,’ Inspector Mill said, as Sergeant Petrie opened the door.

  ‘Mother David now and I certainly will,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘And drive carefully.’

  ‘I already told you that I hadn’t broken a single—’

  ‘Far be it from me to argue with a professed nun,’ he said, dark eyes crinkling at the corners, ‘but when I saw you your seatbelt was nowhere near you.’

  ‘O
ops!’ She met his smile with a wry grin of her own and went out to the van, past the blonde officer who was typing as busily as if there was an outbreak of serious crime in this part of Cornwall.

  The blonde hair, Sister Joan thought as she climbed up into van, was quite definitely not dyed.

  The essential shopping done and stowed in the van, she glanced at the little fob watch pinned to the belt of her habit.

  Time for a quick walk to the quay to see where poor Alice had been tied. She dismissed the idea of calling in at the vet’s. Alice would only get upset to see her friend start for home without her.

  The question of Alice nagged at her as she walked down one of the narrow alleys that gave on to the old quayside.

  Here, once, in the days Daphne du Maurier had immortalized, the contraband goods from France had been unloaded and then carried by pony or on the humped banks of hay wagons across the moors to be sold along the borders or left at the doors of certain authorities who turned a blind eye to the smuggling. Today, the river which ran clear and sparkling still down from the heights of the moors, was sluggish and the fish were scarce. Small boats that had formerly braved wind and storm now took visitors for trips across the bay or were used on outward-bound courses.

  But something of the old atmosphere still lingered and a few diehards still went out to set their lobster pots, or fished upriver for the still plentiful salmon.

  A short length of rope that had obviously been cut with a knife still coiled around the base of one of the iron rings. Stooping to it she discerned golden brown hairs caught in its fibres.

  Who on earth had tied up the injured Alice here and then left her? Come to that, how had Alice left the enclosure in the first place?

  As official guard dog, though anything less like one would be hard to find, Alice slept in a basket under the lee of the stable roof but was free to roam at will. Certainly she could have trotted through the unlocked front gates or wriggled through some gap in the shrubbery but she had never shown any signs of straying before.

  If someone had enticed her away she might possibly have gone. With a stranger? Recalling her dog’s universal benevolence to anyone on two legs Sister Joan thought it likely that not much enticement would be needed.

  She stood up, looked round and began the walk back towards the main street.

  The alley a few yards distant from the one into which she was turning caught her eye. A neat wall sign informed her that the particular alley was Fetter Lane.

  There was still almost an hour before lunch. Sister Joan changed direction and headed up the alley, past back gates swollen with damp and bins overflowing with rubbish.

  ‘And in which house,’ she mused aloud, ‘does Mrs Pearson live?’

  As if in answer to her query, a large cat sprang down from the top of the wall, missed her shoulder by inches and gave an indignant yowl.

  ‘Malkin! Inside at once!’

  One of the doors was wrenched open and a small, elderly woman came out, almost colliding with Sister Joan.

  ‘You wouldn’t be Mrs Pearson by any chance?’ the latter said.

  ‘Did Father Malone send you?’

  The other, who must have been pretty once and still retained a kind of faded charm in her face, smiled at her.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Sister Joan said cautiously. ‘Are you a parishioner of his?’

  ‘Officially. Unofficially I’m a bit lax about going to church,’ the other said. ‘You’re from the convent up on the moors.’

  ‘Sister Joan. I wonder if I might have a word?’

  ‘If it’s about collecting—?’

  ‘Nothing like that. I wondered if you heard a dog whining last night.’

  Mrs Pearson, pulling a brightly patterned if somewhat shapeless knitted coat about herself, shook her head.

  ‘What time would that’ve been?’ she enquired.

  ‘I’m not sure. During the night.’

  ‘I sleep very sound and my bedroom’s at the front of the house,’ Mrs Pearson said. ‘It was windy too last night.’

  ‘The convent dog was found tied up on the quay this morning,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Oh, poor thing! Not hurt?’

  ‘A sprained paw. She’s in the vet’s now. I asked you because – I understand you do occasionally—’

  She paused awkwardly wondering how to frame the question.

  ‘You’ve seen him too?’ Mrs Pearson took a step forward, eagerness in her eyes.

  ‘Inspector Mill mentioned—’

  ‘That I’d seen the Devil. Not that he took me seriously. Batty old dear is what the police think!’

  ‘In the cemetery? After dark?’

  ‘I was setting some of the vases to rights – a rising wind could have some of them over if they aren’t wedged right. It took longer than I expected but there’s no danger in a churchyard – only memories and a sigh or two. Leastways that was what I believed.’

  ‘What exactly did you see?’ Sister Joan asked.

  Mrs Pearson pushed her door open wider and stood aside.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, ‘and you shall hear about it.’

  THREE

  The yard was cobbled and swept clean. Sister Joan, who had been expecting disorder, reminded herself not to make snap judgements as she followed Mrs Pearson through a tiled kitchen lined with jars, pots of herbs and willow pattern crockery into a larger room which obviously doubled as both dining and sitting room.

  It was a room that had once been smartly decorated though the two plainly painted walls and the two with Regency stripes betrayed a fashion of the sixties. Photographs hanging on the plain walls were obviously family ones. She glimpsed a younger Mrs Pearson in a printed cotton dress with her arm linked to a taller figure in jeans and open-necked shirt. There was a wedding group further along with the same couple dressed more formally, she holding a large bouquet of flowers rather like a shield.

  In the corner, a television set quarrelled with the Victorian coffee table and a long sofa against the side wall hid a blocked up fireplace. Opposite, bookshelves held a couple of rows of books, a mixture of paperback and hardback. Romantic novels jostled with Agatha Christies and Dennis Wheatleys.

  ‘Have a cup of tea, Sister?’ Mrs Pearson was already getting out an extra cup and saucer from a glass-fronted cupboard under the bookshelves.

  That made two illicit cups of tea, Sister Joan calculated, which meant she would have to confine herself to water for the rest of the day, or accuse herself of greed at the general confession.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said meekly.

  ‘Makes a nice change having a spot of company,’ Mrs Pearson said, skipping briefly into the kitchen and returning with a teapot. ‘I don’t mix much with the neighbours – oh, they’re very nice but they have their own lives to lead, don’t they?’

  ‘Your family…?’ Sister’ Joan ventured.

  ‘Oh, I’m the last of the line,’ she said brightly. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar, dear. No, I was originally a Stanhope – not one of the aristocratic Stanhopes of course, though my parents both came from good families. The only children of only children. Now the Pearsons were quite a large clan at one time, but whenever there was a war the men went off to fight and generally didn’t come back so there were several widows.’

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘Oh no, dear! I made my Jim promise when we first got engaged that he wouldn’t go running off to fight the first chance he got! And he never did – though it was a near thing when Russia invaded Czechoslovakia! No, Jim stayed here, safe at home. Died ten years ago, dear. Heart.’

  ‘I’m very sorry.’ Sister Joan sipped her tea.

  ‘Oh, he wasn’t a well man for several months.’

  ‘So that’s why you go to the cemetery?’

  ‘Oh no!’ Mrs Pearson shook her head. ‘My Jim was cremated. Always was an ambition of his. He’s over in the Garden of Remembrance – at least his ashes are. No, I go to the churchyard to do a bit of tidying up from time to time. The
sexton’s getting on a mite in years and someone has to keep an eye on things.’

  ‘Because of vandals – yobs?’

  ‘Not really. Not round here.’ The older woman shook her neatly permed head of grey hair.

  ‘But you did see the – Devil?’

  Suddenly it seemed the most ridiculous question to ask.

  ‘I did.’ Mrs Pearson spoke quietly and firmly, trouble in her face. ‘The police did nothing. To be fair there was very little they could do. No evidence you see.’

  ‘What exactly did you see?’

  ‘As I said, I was wedging some of the vases with stones. Really it’s asking for trouble to put glass vases on graves. Anyway the wind was getting up a bit, blowing quite strongly. It was getting quite dark but there was a bit of a moon. It kept swimming in and out of the clouds. I was on my knees, wedging a vase and I looked up just as the moon appeared again. And he was there.’

  ‘The Devil?’

  ‘A devil,’ Mrs Pearson said. ‘Reckon I wouldn’t be here talking to you if the Lord of Hell himself had turned up! But it was a devil. Black in the moonlight but with the horns glinting silver and the eyes silver too. Capering from side to side and a strange tune playing somewhere. And then the moon went in again and there was only the dark.’

  ‘Someone practising for trick or treat?’

  ‘Oh no, Sister!’ Mrs Pearson leaned forward, hands on her knees. ‘It was the smell you see.’

  ‘Smell?’

  ‘The smell of evil,’ Mrs Pearson said. ‘Evil has a smell, you know – sickly sweet and rotting, but acrid too. It was the smell.’

  ‘When was this?’ Sister Joan enquired.

  ‘A couple of nights ago. Late evening actually. Around eight or eight-thirty.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I came home,’ Mrs Pearson said simply. ‘I was saying the Lord’s Prayer under my breath all the way. The words kept getting jumbled up I was in such a state!’

  ‘But why report it to the police? Surely they couldn’t have gone out and arrested—’

  ‘I kept trying to tell myself that it wasn’t so,’ Mrs Pearson said. Her fingers plucked at the sleeves of her regrettable knitted garment.