Vow of Poverty Read online

  ‘And lingered over it!’

  ‘And then I was further delayed because someone siphoned out the petrol. I’ll pay for it out of my own pocket money.’

  Two pounds a week was supposed to cover all personal necessities like stamps and writing paper and the unscented skin cream that was the only sort allowed.

  ‘I shall expect you to pay half,’ Mother Dorothy said, not troubling to waste her breath on recriminations. ‘Did you report it to the police?’

  ‘It wouldn’t have done any good, Mother. There wouldn’t have been any way of catching them.’

  ‘Crime is becoming rife even in our corner of the world,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘You had better take the groceries into Sister Teresa.’

  Mercifully she hadn’t enquired when the petrol had been stolen. Obviously she had presumed that it had happened in the town car-park while Sister Joan was drinking her coffee. It was less complicated to leave it like that, Sister Joan decided, and jumped slightly as her superior said, ‘There was a telephone call while you were out.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘No, Sister. Why would you imagine any call was automatically for you? It does concern you indirectly however. A gentleman rang to enquire if we had any valuables to sell. It’s astonishing how some people imagine we dwell in the midst of medieval splendours! I told him that to the best of my knowledge we hadn’t and he thanked me and rang off. It occurred to me afterwards that perhaps I should have mentioned that you were engaged in clearing out the storerooms but you did mention that Padraic Lee would be helping clear out the larger pieces.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sister Joan hesitated, then asked, ‘Did the gentleman give his name?’

  ‘He was a Mr – Trent, I believe. His voice wasn’t very distinct though it may have been a bad line. A dealer in antiques, I assumed, though why he rang us up I can’t think. Sister, the groceries!’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  Sister Joan dived hastily into the back of the van and lugged out the large cardboard box.

  There was no further opportunity that day to ponder over the information she had been given. Not until the community had settled for the night and she lay on the narrow bunk in her cell could she allow recent events to unroll in her mind. First the decision to clear out the storerooms, then after she had spoken about it to Luther and Padraic the amateurishly printed circular thrust through the letterbox, her own visit to the office in Nightingale Court and her meeting with Jane Sinclair, the telephone call from Miss Sinclair and her failure to keep the appointment made and now, in her absence, the telephone call to Mother Dorothy from a man calling himself Trent. Someone, she thought, turning over on to her side in flat contradiction of the rule that nuns should compose themselves for sleep on their backs with folded hands lest they died in their sleep, was exceedingly interested in the contents of the storerooms. The sooner she got down to the work the better! She turned over on to her other side, and fell asleep, her last conscious thought being that if she did die during her sleep God would simply have to take her as he found her.

  After breakfast the next morning she slipped down to the telephone and rang the office in Nightingale Court, but the telephone went on ringing without answer. She replaced the receiver, scowled at it, then lifted it again and dialled the police station.

  ‘Constable Petrie?’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’ He had recognized her voice at once. ‘I’m manning the desk this morning. Nothing wrong, I hope?’

  ‘First, thank you for letting me off with a caution yesterday,’ she remembered to say. ‘I wondered if you could tell me anything about a firm that hires out typists and secretaries on a temporary basis – the Falcon Typing and – I can’t recall the rest.’

  ‘The Falcon Typing and Telephoning Answer Service,’ Constable Petrie supplied. ‘Yes, it’s quite a big company, got branches all over the south-west. Very good reputation. My cousin worked for them for a time.’

  ‘Do you have their telephone number?’

  ‘Hold on a minute!’ She heard the rustling of the pages of the directory and then the number, repeated slowly in Constable Petrie’s warm Cornish tones.

  ‘Thank you, Constable. Thank you very much.’

  Ringing off she redialled and was greeted by a blare of music and a voice requesting her to hold on.

  ‘Falcon Typing and Telephone Answering Services. May I help you?’ The voice was brisk and female.

  Sister Joan hesitated, guessing that the agency was unlikely to divulge details of its employees over the telephone.

  ‘My name is Sister Joan,’ she said cautiously. ‘I’m ringing from Cornwall House.’

  ‘Is that a hospital?’ the woman at the other end of the line enquired.

  ‘No, it’s a convent. The Order of the Daughters of Compassion. I’m ringing about an – an acquaintance of mine. A Jane Sinclair. I was supposed to meet her for coffee yesterday morning but she didn’t turn up and she wasn’t in her office either. It’s rather urgent that I contact her so I wonder if you had her home address?’

  ‘We’re not actually supposed to give out such information,’ the woman’s voice said, ‘but as you’re a nun – Miss Sinclair has a flat in Cemetery Road. Number twenty-two.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s very helpful.’

  ‘Miss Sinclair’s a very nice girl.’ The voice had warmed. ‘She’s received some excellent recommendations from previous employers for whom she worked.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Sister Joan hung up as Sister Perpetua came down the stairs, her reddish brows shooting up.

  ‘You’ve got a busy social life, Sister,’ she commented.

  ‘It was business,’ Sister Joan said uncomfortably.

  ‘Well, I hope the business brings in sufficient to meet the telephone bill at the end of the quarter,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘You spent a lot on cleaning materials too. Insect repellent for heaven’s sake!’

  Sister Joan bit back the retort that Sister Perpetua was the infirmarian and not the treasurer and said meekly, ‘I was afraid that I might bring a few fleas into the main house, Sister.’

  ‘Well, get along then.’ Sister Perpetua’s usual good humour had returned. ‘And put an apron on this morning. Sister Katherine has quite enough to do without having to scrub your habit every other day!’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’

  There was no opportunity to make any further enquiries. Sister Joan went into the kitchen and donned her apron, collected some bin liners, bestowed a pat on Alice and sent a smile to Sister Teresa who was washing up.

  ‘At least someone looks cheerful this morning,’ she remarked.

  ‘Have you had a run in with Sister Perpetua?’ Sister Teresa lowered her voice. ‘She slept badly last night she told me. She kept dreaming that someone was walking round and round the building.’

  ‘She isn’t usually so snappy, though,’ Sister Joan admitted. ‘I must try the patience of a saint sometimes. Don’t bother to confess anything this evening because my sins will take up the whole hour.’

  ‘You sound quite proud of that,’ Sister Teresa said with a grin.

  ‘One more sin to add. Have a nice day, Sister!’

  Entering the chapel she met Sister Perpetua again, the older nun having just risen from her knees.

  ‘Sister, do forgive me for being so abrupt just now.’ Sister Perpetua had flushed unbecomingly. ‘It was quite inexcusable of me, but I seem to be snapping everybody’s head off this morning.’

  ‘Perhaps you slept badly?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I did, though that’s no excuse for ill-temper,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘I was dreaming on and off that someone was creeping round the building. I kept half-waking and deciding that I’d better get up and investigate but then I fell asleep again and found myself in the same dream. Anyway I shall put it out of my mind now. Do you need any help up in the storerooms?’

  ‘I promise to call on you if I do,’ Sister Joan said tactfully, blenching slightly at the thought of Sister Perpe
tua’s large feet and enthusiastic cleaning methods let loose among objects that were old and delicate.

  A few minutes later she was on her knees burrowing into a pile of mouldering rags that were fit only for the dustbin. The stink of them was stomach churning. She thrust the last of them into the bin liner and stepped to the window to tug it open and let in some air and more light.

  Further illumined the narrow aisles between the piled boxes revealed a thick patina of dust in which her own footprints could clearly be seen. Sister Joan stared at them, stared at the line of smaller prints that ran alongside. Round prints like those made by an animal save these were not pawmarks. They ran up and down between the boxes in an almost straight line, turning and coming back again as if some creature with tiny feet had paced the storerooms up and down, up and down.

  ‘Sister Joan?’

  Sister David’s voice from the doorway made her start violently and swing around.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, Sister!’ Sister David looked like an apologetic rabbit. ‘I wondered if you needed any help before I began on the library lists. Oh, how odd!’

  She too was staring at the prints.

  ‘It looks as if a large cat got in here,’ Sister Joan said casually.

  ‘Or someone walking on tiptoe. How peculiar!’

  ‘Not wanting to be heard, I daresay. Maybe one of the children from the village sneaked in.’

  ‘Well, the outside door into the chapel corridor is never locked,’ Sister David said. ‘You know, Sister, I sometimes think that’s a mistake. Not to leave the chapel unlocked because it’s a lovely idea knowing that anyone can come in to pray or just sit quietly at any time, but there are some quite old books in the library and even though I keep some of the more valuable in a locked cupboard I do worry about them.’

  ‘We could get a bolt fixed on the outside of the library door.’

  ‘Would that cost very much?’ Sister David asked worriedly.

  ‘Oh, I’ll treat you,’ Sister Joan said as airily as if her pocket money were not already mortgaged to the extra petrol she’d bought.

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ Sister David looked pleased. ‘What about the prints? Oughtn’t we to tell someone?’

  ‘Nothing seems to have been disturbed,’ Sister Joan said, looking round, ‘so I don’t see any point in worrying the others. I’ll get a bolt fixed on the library door for you. Are any of the books very valuable?’

  ‘Oh, I hope not!’ Sister David clutched the book she was holding as nervously as if it were a long-lost child. ‘If there are then I shall feel obliged to suggest that we offer them for sale, our finances being in such a shaky condition.’

  ‘Cheer up. We might find something worth some money among this lot,’ Sister Joan said cheerfully.

  ‘Oh, I would think the Tarquins removed anything like that when they sold the estate,’ Sister David said practically. ‘It was old Mr Tarquin sold it, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, just before he died. He moved to a big house on the outskirts of town. That was before I came here.’

  ‘We none of us ever met him. Father Malone said once that he gave away nearly all his money to charity. Well, I’d better get on.’

  ‘Without mentioning the cat,’ Sister Joan reminded her.

  ‘Whatever it was it can’t have been a cat,’ Sister David said, peering through her thick spectacles. ‘Not unless you have cats as big as large dogs! Anyway it looks like the print of the front of the undersole of a shoe.’

  ‘Some kid walking on tiptoe and poking around.’

  ‘Or a devil worshipper.’

  ‘A – what?’ Sister Joan’s head jerked up.

  ‘Devil worshippers always walk on their toes when they’re in consecrated places,’ Sister David said. ‘Didn’t you know that, Sister?’

  Four

  By lunchtime she had tied several piles of old newspapers into bundles and put them in the wardrobe where the rolls of motheaten cloth had been packed. She had also conquered her initial impulse to destroy the old photograph and put it in a large envelope on top of the newspapers. The prints she had mopped out but faint traces of their outlines still remained as if the storerooms had been touched by something impossible to eradicate.

  Sister David hadn’t elaborated on her remark but had returned to the library. Sister Joan had debated with herself whether or not to show her the photograph but decided against it. There could be no connection between a man whose photograph had been taken at least seventy-five years before to judge by the cravat he wore and the sepia tones of the print and a fresh set of half-footmarks. Sister David, in any case, was nervous in temperament, and spent several hours a day closeted alone in this part of the house.

  So far she had found nothing of any possible importance. A dozen bags of rubbish waited to be carried downstairs and she began lugging them after a hasty glance at the little steel fobwatch pinned to her habit. With so much weighing against her being late for lunch was something she couldn’t afford.

  ‘I’ll give you a hand with those, Sister!’

  Sister David trotted from the library and seized two of the bags.

  ‘Thank you, Sister. That’s very kind of you.’ Sister Joan was already halfway down the spiral.

  From above Sister David said, panting slightly as she heaved up one of the bags, ‘I’ve been thinking about the prints. I’m sure they must have been made by some youngster who sneaked up here when nobody was looking. I’m only surprised it hasn’t happened before.’

  ‘Not a devil worshipper then?’ Sister Joan reached the bottom of the stairs and set down her load.

  ‘I don’t know what on earth made me say such a foolish thing.’ Sister David had flushed. ‘It was something I read once when I was doing research on something quite different and it just popped out of my mouth. Mother Dorothy is so right when she warns us that the tongue is a dangerous weapon. I hope you won’t allow the remark to worry you.’

  ‘I’m not the worrying kind,’ Sister Joan said cheerfully. ‘Hand me down the next two, Sister, if you will. There’s nothing here that would be the least use on Sister Martha’s compost heap so we’ll sling them at the front gate ready for the council lorry. And we’d better wash our hands or Mother Dorothy will imagine that we’ve taken up coalmining!’

  They genuflected to the altar and went along the corridor together.

  ‘Sister Joan, I think you ought to give Lilith a gallop,’ Mother Dorothy said, as the simple meal drew to its close. ‘The ground is still somewhat soggy but there must be a side road you can exercise her on.’

  ‘There’s the old road that leads past the municipal cemetery,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘Not much traffic there if I remember rightly. Mind you it’s years since I was out that way so they might have built a motorway there by now.’

  ‘I’m sure Sister Joan will notice it if they have,’ Sister Gabrielle said.

  ‘Give her a good long ride,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘This mild weather can’t last for long and then she’ll be shut up in her stall for most of the time.’

  ‘Yes, Mother Dorothy.’

  God worked in mysterious ways, Sister Joan reflected, as she pulled on the blue jeans she was permitted to wear beneath her habit when she went riding. Outside a weak sun sent pale rays down to the moist dark earth.

  ‘If you ride off to the left just before you get to the council estate,’ Sister Teresa said, following her into the yard, ‘you’ll come to Cemetery Road in about five minutes. There are some old houses on the right that’ve been turned into flats.’

  Sister Joan waved her hand, gathered up the reins and rode out beneath the archway. Lilith had been a fixture when the Daughters of Compassion had bought the estate and must be over twenty by now and past middle age in equine terms. She served no useful purpose since the van was used for shopping and since the little school had closed down there was no need for Sister Joan who had taught there to use her as transport. She supposed that the pony was an unjustifi
ed expense but it would be heartless to get rid of her at this stage in her life.

  She rode at an easy pace over the moor, enjoying the fresh air and the sweeps of browning grass with the occasional pools of emerald where the rain had fallen most abundantly. Here and there a patch of purple showed where the heather had mistaken the season and continued to bloom. Pausing on the crest of a rise she saw the roofs and trim gardens of the council estate spread below with the taller tenements of the industrial estate beyond. It was Saturday and Jane Sinclair was unlikely to be in her office but she might be at home.

  The track broke away at the left to curl around the base of a hill. Sister Joan branched off on to it, allowing herself a small lift of anticipation. This was a road she hadn’t had occasion to follow before and she felt a further glow at the knowledge that she was obeying Mother Dorothy’s instructions and not rushing off impulsively.

  At the bottom of the long slope the road turned to left and right, with rows of headstones on the left and a row of elderly looking houses on the right. They had been handsome dwellings once but were run down now, lacking paint and unbroken tiles, the iron gates sunk into the weedy gravel of the drives. She resisted the temptation to dismount outside number twenty-two, and turned instead to the left, riding through a gateless gap into the cemetery itself.

  It was the perfect example of a burial ground used for hundreds of years and now too full to hold any more bodies. The headstones were crammed together, ranging in style from the classical columns of eighteenth-century white stone through to the massive and convoluted memorials of Victorian England with one section of plain stone crosses where those who had fallen in the two great wars were buried. Here and there she spotted the wax flowers under glass domes that had always struck her as ugly, but most of the graves were weed-covered with the ubiquitous bramble spearing and hooking the high grass. At the far end guarded by yews was a stone building with a nail-studded oak door.

  Probably the old chapel of rest, she decided, dismounting and tethering Lilith to a ring in the wall near a stone trough filled with rainwater. There was plenty of grass here for the pony to nibble while she herself walked up to the door and gave it an experimental push. The heavy door wheezed slightly as it swung open slowly and she stepped inside, the interior gloom relieved by the shaft of light through the opened door.