Vow of Evil Page 9

  ‘Did Father Malone know how long they’d been missing?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I gathered he takes a look at them occasionally. He probably hopes that one day Rome will send for them. He had his key with him but there may have been a second key made. If so he doesn’t know where it is. Or he may have simply forgotten to lock the drawer the last time he looked at them and whoever sneaked into the sacristy found the drawer unlocked.’

  ‘The sacristy itself being also unlocked I daresay?’

  ‘The parish church is locked at midnight.’

  ‘But people go in and out during the evening I suppose?’

  ‘I would think so,’ she said. ‘People pop in to say a quiet prayer on their way home from work, or the ladies go in to arrange flowers, and there are confessions of course.’

  ‘For contravening every known law of personal and property security give me a religious any time!’

  ‘There’s nothing valuable in the church in material terms,’ she said earnestly. ‘Even the documents have no more than curiosity value.’

  ‘And, of course, nobody troubles to lock up the postulancy?’

  ‘There’s nothing there to steal,’ she defended. ‘And the odd local vandal isn’t going to come all the way out here to despoil a wall and some books that few people are ever likely to see.’

  ‘It sounds like someone with a grudge against the clergy,’ he said musingly. ‘I suppose it’s no use asking you if there are liable to be any prints on the documents?’

  ‘I used bleach. They were quite easy to clean.’

  ‘And the books went in the refuse bin just ahead of the candles. Sister, these things ought to be reported!’

  ‘I thought it best not to alarm anyone unnecessarily.’

  ‘And you didn’t see anyone hanging around the postulancy who had no right to be there?’

  Brother Cuthbert had emerged twice from the building and Luther had been hiding there, she remembered.

  ‘People from our Community go backwards and forwards all the time,’ she evaded. ‘We had the local builders here and the sisters have been in and out on various errands, but I can’t see—’

  ‘Did anyone supervise the builders?’

  ‘Oh yes, one or other of us was always on hand. Anyway, why on earth would anyone working for a reputable local firm do such a thing? How could they with other people coming in and out?’

  ‘Fair point. Mrs Pearson?’

  ‘Because she set the candles round? Alan, the candles were lit. They were meant to be seen. The – word, the spoiled books and documents were done slyly – they might not have been noticed for ages. And that old lady was a nice old lady! She may have gone in and lit the candles but not with any ill intent, I’m sure.’

  ‘You can find the mind’s construction in the face, can you? Actually I’m inclined to agree with you,’ he said. ‘You’d better tell Mother David the death was a natural one, and that we’re merely tidying up loose ends by taking your fingerprints.’

  He was still speaking but her mind had skipped off at a tangent.

  ‘Sister?’

  They had almost reached the front door and he was looking at her questioningly.

  ‘The candles themselves,’ she said. ‘They smelt funny.’

  ‘Sickly sweet, a mite acrid at the same time? They did.’

  ‘Could you get them analysed? I mean, if there was anything in them which might have caused—’

  ‘That’s being done. Probably some hash mixed in with the beeswax – if we have the results by two-thirty I’ll let you know. Sergeant!’

  He raised his voice slightly just as the latter came from the direction of the yard.

  ‘Lilith and Alice are having a chinwag,’ Sergeant Petrie said with a grin.

  ‘I wish animals could talk then Alice would be able to tell us who tied her up at the quayside,’ Sister Joan regretted. ‘Excuse me.’

  She went in and tapped on the parlour door.

  ‘And that seems to be that, Mother.’ Ten minutes later she finished her recital. ‘Mrs Pearson died of a heart attack and she put the candles in the postulancy and in her own room just before she died. Inspector Mill wants to take my fingerprints simply for elimination purposes though he doubts if the vandals left any prints anyway. May I call in before I meet the train?’

  ‘Of course. There’s no need to go to the other extreme and start asking permission for everything,’ Mother David said, not quite smiling. ‘Tell me, have you had an opportunity to glance through the books yet?’

  ‘Indeed I have,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I think they’re charming and I love the little touches of humour. I shall get down to some sketching tomorrow. I thought I’d make St Anne a nice, rosy grandmother type, maybe building bricks with the Child Jesus?’

  ‘That sounds splendid.’ Mother David had recovered her good humour completely. ‘I wouldn’t want you to neglect any other duties you might have of course but if we can raise money for the Order—’

  ‘I shall fit everything in,’ Sister Joan promised.

  Shortly after two, she was driving the van over the moors in the direction of the town. Brother Cuthbert was chopping wood outside the old schoolhouse and straightened up to greet her.

  ‘Always busy, Sister? You make me feel quite idle!’ He shouldered the axe and came to the side of the van.

  ‘I doubt if anyone could accuse you of that, Brother Cuthbert. You’ve a good big pile there,’ she commented.

  ‘Well, autumn’s running towards winter and we might get a sharp one,’ he said. ‘Not that winter isn’t a bracing time but a bit too bracing for some of the older Sisters I can’t help thinking.’

  ‘And no central heating,’ Sister Joan said.

  The Tarquins who had originally owned the estate had seen no reason to make the lives of their staff more comfortable. There would have been log fires blazing in the principal family rooms, she thought with a touch of envy. Since the Order had taken over the property there were fires only in the kitchen and the infirmary.

  ‘Central heating does something nasty to the ozone layer,’ Brother Cuthbert said unexpectedly. ‘Not that I pretend to understand what that means exactly. Will the tenants at the old postulancy be requiring wood?’

  ‘It would be a kindness if you could leave some logs in the little shed at the back door,’ she nodded. ‘I wondered – do you often walk over that way?’

  ‘Hardly ever.’ He seemed faintly surprised at her question. ‘If Sister Hilaria ever needed anything and then the other day I went over to volunteer a hand with the alterations, but the builders made a good job of everything so Sister tells me.’

  ‘It will seem odd for you not to be going there occasionally now that we have tenants – except for delivering the wood, that is.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t suppose I will be walking in that direction now once I’ve filled the shed,’ he said. ‘Excuse me, Sister. I’d better get on.’

  Turning away he braced his sandalled feet apart and swung the axe again.

  Muscular Christianity, Sister Joan thought. As the log split in a rending sound she raised her voice slightly,

  ‘Is Luther still staying with you?’

  ‘On and off. He’s no trouble.’ He turned back to answer her. Tiny slivers of wood chippings clung to his aureole of red hair.

  ‘Tell him that Sister Martha is quite recovered from her cold and wants to start on preparing the ground for winter.’

  ‘I’ll tell him. Sister.’ It seemed that he hesitated an instant before he continued, ‘Luther told me about the fledgings.’

  ‘Sister Martha doesn’t know,’ she said quickly. ‘It certainly wasn’t Luther who—’

  ‘No. Luther wouldn’t do that. Nor poison a lurcher, or drown a cat.’

  ‘You know about that?’

  ‘Padraic Lee told Luther about it and Luther told me. There’s evil in such actions, Sister. Real evil.’

  He turned, raising the axe again, sending it crash
ing through the wood, wood chips flying up. There was something resolute in the set of his broad shoulders.

  ‘Well, God bless!’ she said brightly, rather at a loss.

  ‘As ever, Sister.’

  He turned again and she saw in the wing mirror that he stood looking after her as she drove down the hill.

  In the police station she found herself confronting the young blonde policewoman she had seen typing on her previous visit.

  ‘Sister Joan, isn’t it?’ The girl looked like an actress dressed in uniform, her hair smoothed back from a pretty, expertly painted face.

  ‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’ she said.

  ‘WPC Melanie Seldon. I finished my training three months ago and was posted here.’

  ‘From?’

  ‘Plymouth. I wanted a job in Cornwall. A bit of independence from the family. If you’d like to come through, Sister – Inspector Mill is up at the laboratory and Sergeant Petrie’s got the afternoon off.’

  ‘It’s my fingerprints I’ve come to give—’

  ‘Yes.’ The girl shot her a cool glance. ‘I was instructed.’

  New and unused to dealing with the public, especially nuns, Sister Joan concluded, following her meekly.

  ‘The prints will be destroyed of course,’ Constable Seldon was saying a few minutes later as Sister Joan wiped her fingers.

  Sister Joan nodded.

  ‘How do you like Cornwall?’ she enquired.

  ‘Very well so far. I’m concentrating on my job though the crime rate seems to be very low here.’

  ‘It seems to have risen slightly in recent days,’ Sister Joan said lightly. ‘You heard about Padraic Lee’s dog?’

  ‘He didn’t report it officially but I heard about it. Not a nice thing to do.’

  ‘No,’ Sister Joan said soberly. ‘No, it wasn’t.’

  ‘And the cat that was drowned.’ Constable Seldon seemed to be unbending slightly. ‘I am not a great animal lover but cruelty cannot be allowed to go unchecked.’

  ‘No indeed.’

  ‘Well, that seems to be all, Sister.’ It was a clear dismissal.

  ‘There you are, Sister!’

  To her relief Inspector Mill was coming in. He looked from one to the other with a slightly lifted eyebrow,

  ‘Sister Joan has given her fingerprints, sir,’ Constable Seldon said formally.

  ‘Fine! Not that they’ll prove anything but it’s procedure. I just came from the hospital.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The candles were made out of beeswax mixed with crushed garlic and asafoetida.’

  ‘With what?’ Sister Joan looked baffled.

  ‘It’s an extract from a herb apparently, much used in olden times for teething babies and puppies with distemper. Has a foul smell and an even fouler taste I should imagine.’

  ‘But it’s not poisonous?’

  ‘Not unless one took a large overdose. And that goes for any medicine. Apparently its nickname is Devil’s Piss.’

  ‘Mrs Pearson was invoking the—? Surely not!’

  ‘No idea. Perhaps she simply enjoyed unpleasant smells. I had a word with the local coroner. Since she was on medication there’ll be no need for an inquest. She has no family left and as far as I can tell very few friends. I’ve put a seal on her cottage meanwhile. You might ask if you can come down in the next few days and help me go through her stuff. There might be a will somewhere.’

  ‘Sir, surely as a member of the public—’ Constable Seldon said, in a disapproving tone.

  ‘Sister Joan’s a mate,’ he said easily. ‘You’d best get off and meet your tenants now. And get leave to come over and help look through Mrs Pearson’s things in the next day or two, will you?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Thank you, Constable Seldon.’

  Going through the door, aware of the disapproval of the pretty policewoman, she felt like smiling, but the words ‘devil’s piss’ stuck too firmly in her mind for even mild humour to break through.

  EIGHT

  She had parked the van outside the small station and now, going on to the platform, she realized afresh that winter was almost upon them. The usual thin stream of tourists on their way to Truro or headed for more friendly beaches had diminished to one harassed young mother with a couple of toddlers in tow and a local businessman who folded his newspaper neatly as he alighted from the train and strolled off, relief at having escaped the office for a couple of hours writ large on his face.

  The awaited tenants had left the train as quickly as if they feared it might rush off with them still aboard, and stood in a huddle of four surrounded by various cases, bags and shopping trolleys.

  ‘Mrs Roye?’ Sister Joan advanced, smiling, one hand outstretched. ‘I’m Sister Joan from the Order of the Daughters of Compassion. I’ve been deputed to meet you and get you and your luggage up to the old postulancy. Did you have a comfortable journey?’

  The hand she grasped was so plump that she felt as if her own slim fingers were being sucked into blancmange. The face turned up to her, its owner being seated on a large square case, was round and pasty as an uncooked bun into which someone had stuck two large raisins.

  ‘Nice of you to come down, Sister.’ The voice was low and pleasant.

  ‘Well, I’ve the van outside so we can have you settled in a short time,’ Sister Joan said, extricating her hand.

  She had the abrupt irrational fear that Mrs Roye might try to lever herself up and fail, pulling herself on top of the bulging thighs above which a black skirt rose too high for decency.

  Mrs Roye, however, struggled up alone, legs still planted apart, smoothed back rather pretty grey hair from a face devoid of wrinkles and said, ‘Very good of you, Sister, to take the trouble. Dawn, look sharp! We’ve not got all day!’

  The young woman who would before long – perhaps already had – turn into her mother gave Sister Joan a quick, shy glance out of eyes more like blackcurrants than raisins, and nudged the man standing next to her in the ribs.

  ‘Give us a hand, Henry!’ she ordered.

  ‘I was,’ said Sister Joan tentatively, ‘only expecting three of you, unless—?’

  Perhaps Mrs Roye had married again since the tenancy agreement had been signed. No, surely not! She was, despite the unlined skin, in her mid sixties while the man just addressed was in his late forties at the most, hair greying, chin jutting, height and breadth of shoulder hinting at vigour. Or was he the son-in-law? If so, he was years older than the daughter who looked to be in her late twenties, lips scarlet, hair pulled back from a round, pallid face, white blouse cut so low that a pair of rather grubby bra straps were revealed as she bent down.

  ‘Mr del Marco is an old family friend,’ Mrs Roye said. ‘He came down for a week or two to help us settle in. That’s all right, isn’t it?’

  There was a third albeit tiny bedroom, Sister Joan remembered. There was also some rule about subletting, but that would be Mother David’s problem.

  ‘I imagine so,’ she said noncommitally. ‘And this is—?’

  The youth standing a little way off to the side turned his eyes from contemplation of the empty railway track and said in a curiously flat tone from which all emotion seemed to have been drained, ‘I’m Ian Lurgan.’

  ‘My husband,’ Dawn said with a little giggle. ‘Come and help me here, babe!’

  He was obviously stronger than he looked, lifting the case with one hand, and looking expectantly at Sister Joan as if he needed her permission to move.

  ‘Just follow me,’ she said, more briskly than she intended, taking two of the smaller cases and heading for the exit.

  Behind her the others followed, not talking, lugging the various pieces of luggage with them.

  ‘If you put the stuff in the back of the van,’ she invited, ‘three can sit behind and there’s another place at the front.’

  If Mrs Roye chose the front seat she would threaten to overlay the gears, she thought wryly. Mrs Roye, however, flowed over two-thirds of the
back seat, leaving barely room for her daughter to squeeze in beside her. Henry – or was his full name Henrico? – clambered in among the suitcases without a word.

  She drove in the midst of a heavy breathing silence. All four were either dead tired or paralysed with shyness in the presence of a nun. Only as they bumped up the rough track did Mrs Roye say, ‘Look, Dawn! Moorland!’

  ‘Back of beyond more like,’ Dawn said, and sniggered.

  At her side, Ian Lurgan said in his colourless voice, ‘Looks pretty.’

  ‘Oh, in summer when the grass is greener and the heather is turning purple then it’s beautiful,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Is there a bingo hall in the town?’ Mrs Roye asked, as they drove past the main gates of the convent and skirted the outer walls of the enclosure.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Pity. I like a bit of bingo,’ Mrs Roye said.

  They had reached the side gate beyond which the old building could be reached without crossing the tennis court or invading the enclosure proper. Sister Joan drew up and said brightly, ‘Well, here we are!’

  The leaden silence lasted for a few seconds more. Then Henry said in his accentless voice, ‘Right, Ian! Let’s get this stuff out. Do you have the keys?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  She took the bunch Mother David had given her out of her pocket. Mrs Roye leaned over the back of the driving seat and clamped sausage-like fingers around them.

  ‘What part is ours?’ she wanted to know, when she had oozed down from the vehicle.

  ‘If you can make that side gate your main entrance,’ Sister Joan said, ‘and the old tennis court isn’t used for anything. The steps at the far side lead up to the convent grounds. That’s private.’

  ‘Is this where they used to wall nuns up alive?’ Dawn asked.

  ‘Actually, it’s not at all certain that anyone ever got walled up, in England anyway,’ Sister Joan said crisply. ‘It used to be the old Dower House where elderly members of the Tarquin family – they used to own the estate – retired. We used it for our novices after that.’