He opened his notebook, seating himself opposite her at the table.
‘Let’s go through your little group briefly,’ he said. ‘Dorothy Jones, born 1955, in London. Entered the college of art in 1974, graduated in 1977. Married Colin Mason, a civil engineer, in 1979. Two children. No criminal record. Earns some money, not much, by designing greetings cards. Anything to add?’
Sister Joan shook her head. ‘Dodie was always neat and prim, full skirts and sweaters and pearl chokers.’
‘Barbara Ford, born 1956. Manchester. Entered college in 1974, left in the spring of ‘75.’
‘Her father was dangerously ill.’
‘James Ford.’ He referred to his notes again. ‘He died in 1975.’
‘What!’ Sister Joan shot upright. ‘There’s some mistake there! Her father recovered, married a woman called Claire, and they all three went to New Zealand.’
‘According to my information,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said, ‘her father was killed in a plane crash in July, 1975. He was a keen amateur pilot, and his glider came down during a storm. Barbara certainly went to New Zealand — in 1976. She returned to this country five years ago. Does PR work for a computer firm.’
He was looking at her enquiringly.
‘She was always mousy and shy,’ Sister Joan said. ‘When I met her in London I didn’t recognize her at all at first. She’s blossomed out, become very elegant.’
‘Sarah Mount,’ he was continuing. ‘Born Lincolnshire in 1956. Entered college in 1974. Married Derek Smith in 1978, a year after leaving college. They seem to have lived mainly in London. No children. She was killed in 1992, falling from a multistorey car-park. Two witnesses said she was alone. Verdict accident. The local council was censured for not safeguarding the car-park more efficiently. You know if her husband had decided to sue he’d probably have won substantial compensation.’
‘Sally was a nice person,’ Sister Joan said musingly. ‘Not very talented but nice.’
‘Serena Clark.’ His mouth quirked in a smile. ‘Very wealthy. Born 1956, in London. Entered college in 1974. Failed her graduation. I suppose daddy’s money got her in in the first place. Married Rupert Hawstead in 1978, divorced in 1988. Married Seth Paget in 1990, now in the process of getting a divorce. Kept her maiden name. No children.’
‘And then there’s Fiona.’
‘Fiona Madox.’ He glanced at his notes again. ‘Born in London in 1956. Graduated in 1977 from the college of art. Went to the States in 1979. Had a small role in some television soap and modelled — is that a euphemism?’
‘No. She was a nice girl,’ Sister Joan said.
‘You’re very faithful to your friends. Anyway she returned from the States in 1984. Worked as a professional model until 1987, then took a part-time job teaching art at a secondary school.’
‘She inherited some money from an aunt so doesn’t need to work full-time.’
‘That’s fresh information.’ He made a note.
‘And the men? Did you look into their histories too?’ Despite her liking for him there was a shiver of distaste in her voice.
‘Derek Smith, born 1954 in Cornwall.’
‘Of course! I’d forgotten that!’ she exclaimed. ‘He looks like someone left over from the Armada.’
‘Dark, piratical. Entered college in 1974, graduated in 1977. Made a good living as a commercial artist — portraits mainly with his wife, Sarah, dealing with the business side of it all. Started a fine arts shop in 1986 when the commissioned work began to fall off. Does well but not brilliantly. Widowed in 1992 when his wife fell from the multistorey car-park.’
‘He seemed very cut up about it still,’ Sister Joan said.
‘He told you they were happy?’
‘Yes. He relied on her a lot, I believe.’
‘In 1984 the police were called to a domestic disturbance at the Smith house,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said without expression.
‘Are you sure?’
‘According to the records my mate dragged out for me. The police were called out by a neighbour who’d complained of screaming and crashing noises. Anyway they found Mrs Smith — that was Sarah — bruised and cut, but she insisted there’d been an accident and declined to press charges. Odd!’
‘What is?’
‘They were living at Flat Fifteen, Putney Walk.’
‘Where Serge Roskoff lived.’
‘Looks like it. They must’ve moved shortly afterwards and were living in a flat over his fine arts shop in Chelsea. He didn’t mention having lived in Putney Walk?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Anyway the report was kept on file but nothing further transpired.’
‘And then Sally was killed.’
‘Eight years later?’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘No connection,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Of course not. Anyway the two people who saw it happen said that she was alone.’
‘Bryan Grimes.’ He was reading from his notebook again. ‘Born in Lincolnshire in 1956.’
‘Sally was born in Lincolnshire too. I’d forgotten that.’
‘It’s a biggish county. No reason why they should know each other — or did they?’
‘When we first arrived at college?’ She thought for a moment. ‘No, I’m sure that they didn’t.’
‘Where was I? Yes, here we are. Entered college in 1974, graduated 1977. No definite news about him until 1980 when he started illustrating children’s books. He made quite a name for himself it seems. 1984 he was living back in Lincolnshire.’
‘And last year he died there.’
‘A hit-and-run accident while he was out walking. No known relatives. What was he like?’
‘Pleasant, rather quiet.’ Sister Joan hesitated, then said, ‘During the reunion I heard that Fiona had slept with him. She didn’t deny it, but I knew nothing about it at the time.’
‘Paul Vance, born in London 1955, entered college in 1974, graduated in ’77. No family. Well known as a commercial artist and television personality.’
‘I wouldn’t know. We don’t have television.’
‘How civilized it must be in your order,’ he said. ‘To continue! Finally Serge Roskoff. Came here from Russia as a political refugee during the Cold War. Born 1956, according to his immigration details. Entered college with the rest of you in 1974, graduated in 1977, travelled in Western Europe for several years. Settled in London about six years ago.’
‘In Sally and Derek’s former flat. Did he lodge with them? I wouldn’t’ve thought there was much room.’
‘They’d moved to live over their shop a couple of years before,’ he said.
‘It seems like a big coincidence.’
‘Who knew where Serge Roskoff lived?’
‘Paul knew. He’d been in touch several months before. Derek didn’t say anything.’
‘And Serge Roskoff died last month of a drug overdose. Verdict suicide.’
‘I can’t believe it!’ Sister Joan said with sudden nervous energy. ‘Not Serge! He loved life, really gloried in it.’
‘People can change. You said that Barbara Ford had.’
‘The girl, Patricia, didn’t believe it either. And she certainly didn’t cut her own throat!’
‘There’s no logical connection,’ he said patiently. ‘Serial killers generally use the same methods over and over again. That’s why they get caught. Here we have a woman falling out of the top storey of a car-park, a man killed by a hit-and-run driver, a fatal drug overdose with nothing to say it wasn’t self-administered, and the very nasty murder of a street waif. It doesn’t fit any known scenario.’
‘Unless the killer — if there is a killer had to use whatever means were at hand.’
‘For what reason?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said helplessly. ‘There isn’t any reason. We were at art college together where we had our photograph taken and someone said we ought to have a reunion twenty years on. In the intervening time we’ve all gone our own separate ways
.’
‘Nobody kept in touch?’
‘People ran into people occasionally.’
‘And they’re all coming down here?’
‘For the week’s retreat,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I wish I could feel happier about it.’
‘Meaning there’s something you haven’t told me?’ He looked at her sharply.
‘When I went to Serge’s flat there was a pile of old newspapers there. Patricia said he’d kept them carefully, she didn’t know why. I brought them away with me.’
‘You should have told me.’
‘I’m sorry, but I wanted to take a look at them myself first to see if there was anything in them worth showing, but there doesn’t seem to be. Just a list of numbers, dates I think, written down the side margin of one, and here and there an item about one or other of us. I put them up in the library but I can let you have them.’
‘You can give them to me when I come and give my talk. That’s one reason I drove over here this evening. Will Wednesday afternoon suit you?’
‘At three o’clock? Thank you.’
‘I’m not as obliging as you think,’ he warned. ‘I want to take a look at your old comrades.’
‘It’s still good of you to spare the time. If that’s all—? I’m due back in chapel in a few moments.’
She had risen but he lingered at the table, carefully closing his notebook, putting it in his pocket.
‘Were the newspapers the only thing you’d neglected to mention?’ he asked.
‘You do know me well, don’t you?’ she said resignedly. ‘There was this.’
He looked at the photograph she took from her pocket. ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked sharply.
‘Luther had forgotten to give it to me. He offered to bring it up for the postman. Apparently it arrived before the one that reminded me of the reunion. What do you think?’
‘At the moment nothing.’ He returned it to her, frowning slightly. ‘Has anyone else had a marked snapshot?’
‘I’ve no idea. I think someone would have mentioned it if they had.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ He held open the door as she switched off the light and went through to the front door again.
Walking back to the main building they were both silent. When they reached the main door he spoke abruptly. ‘Keep your own counsel, Sister. I’ll see you next Wednesday. If anything strikes your memory before then you’ll let me know?’
‘Yes, of course. Goodnight, Detec—Alan.’
‘Goodnight, Sister Joan.’
Glancing back as she went through the main door she saw he was still standing there, his face shadowed.
The final devotion of the day was the recitation of the rosary and the final blessing as each Sister knelt before the Prioress to receive the ritual cross traced upon the air and the sprinkling of holy water from the asperges. It marked the start of the grand silence which was broken the next morning when Sister Teresa would whirl her clapper at each door, calling, ‘Christ is risen!’
Only in circumstances of the most grave urgency was the grand silence broken. Sister Joan, who twenty years before would have considered herself incapable of remaining silent for seven hours even if some of those hours were spent in sleep, had grown to appreciate the peace and quiet.
Tonight was different. Rising as the cool drops of water sprayed her face, she had an urge to say, ‘I would prefer to sleep here tonight, Mother Dorothy. Something out there menaces me. I feel it in my bones.’
She bowed her head, blessed herself, flashed her superior a bright smile, and went out, drawing up the hood of her cloak as she turned in the direction of the door at the end of the chapel passage. This door was, by custom, left unlocked so that anyone seeking spiritual comfort could come into the chapel during the hours of darkness. Once the door that led through to the main living-quarters had been left open too, but Detective Sergeant Mill had insisted it be locked at night for greater security. It was sad to contemplate that even sanctuary required bolts and bars.
She was glad of the emergence of a bright crescent of moon as she went between the high hedges of tangled shrubbery and down the worn steps across the tennis courts. Fitting her key into the lock of the front door of the postulancy she felt for the light switch inside and let out her breath as the narrow hall flooded with light. Until that moment she hadn’t realized how tense she was.
Her bag was still in the hall. She bolted the door and took it through into the parlour where a camp bed had been set up and a drawer cleared for her things. The shutters were closed and the bed looked odd stuck against the wall where a narrow shelf held a row of books chosen by Sister Hilaria for her own reading. Sister Joan glanced along the titles without much hope. No Wodehouse or Maureen Lipman here to raise her spirits, only the lives of various saints, all of whom seemed to have met their martyrdoms in the most gruesome manner!
She had better close the shutters upstairs. Going upstairs she switched on the overhead light, which served as illumination for the whole as she went from cell to cell, fastening the shutters into place. That too had been a precaution insisted on by the police.
Leaning to close the final shutter she paused, looking out. Below, at a little distance Detective Sergeant Mill’s car stood, a dark and reassuring bulk in the fragile moonlight. In the back seat she could see the glow of his cigarette as he settled himself for a night’s vigil. Touched, she pulled the shutter closed and thanked God for a faithful friend.
Seven
‘Are we too early?’
Dodie stepped from the long, sleek car and twinkled at Sister Joan with such determination that the latter had a sudden unsettling vision of her twinkling all round the convent, spreading gaiety and irritation like honey left too long in the jar.
‘You’re just in time for a cup of tea,’ she said cordially. ‘Derek, there isn’t a proper garage any longer, I’m afraid. If you leave your car at the side I can help you carry your bags over to the postulancy.’
‘Is that the main house?’ Dodie enquired. ‘Do we get to see inside it?’
‘Yes, of course. You’ll be sharing the evening meal with us every day,’ Sister Joan said. ‘If you’ll come this way?’
She would have taken one of the suitcases but Derek had bent to pick up Dodie’s neat black one and shouldered his own while Paul carried two, both of maroon leather with his initials in silver on them.
‘You didn’t bring your own car?’ Sister Joan asked him as they started towards the rear of the building.
‘Darling, didn’t I say?’ Paul smiled at her lazily. ‘I’m in the last few months of a three-year driving ban. Too much alcohol on an empty stomach if you’ll excuse the vulgarism!’
Which surely meant he couldn’t have been the one who’d knocked down Bryan Grimes and then driven on without stopping to see how badly Bryan had been injured, unless he’d been driving illegally? Mentally she ordered herself to stop playing amateur detective and behave like a hostess.
‘This is the enclosure garden,’ she said, nodding towards the low wall. ‘You’re very welcome to walk or sit there whenever you like. We sell quite a lot of our own fruit and vegetables. That’s Sister Martha’s domain. She can make anything grow.’
‘There are flowers too,’ Dodie said.
‘For the altar. Oh, while I remember you’re welcome in the chapel for any service or simply to sit there and relax. There’s a timetable in the postulancy.’
‘You’re not going to suggest we play tennis, are you?’ Paul enquired, looking with disfavour at the weed-rich court with its rusted posts.
‘No, but I wish I could,’ she said wistfully. ‘Nobody’s played there for years. If we could get it shipshape again it would be marvellous for exercise.’
‘Just imagine all the little novices leaping about with their habits flying up!’ Paul said.
‘You imagine it,’ Sister Joan said coldly.
‘It wouldn’t raise his temperature one iota,’ Dodie said maliciously. ‘If they were mo
nks now—’
‘Here we are!’ Sister Joan raised her voice in determined cheerfulness. ‘This is where the novice mistress and the postulants spend most of their time. The postulants spend a year here — at the moment we only have one. She and Sister Hilaria — that’s our novice mistress — are camping up in the storeroom next to the library while there are visitors here.’
‘We must be an inconvenience to them,’ Dodie said with sudden anxiety. ‘I do hope it’s not a dreadful nuisance our being here.’
‘Not in the least. We’re all delighted you’ve come,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I really didn’t expect you to take me up on this retreat business you know.’
‘We thought it would be fun to continue the reunion,’ Paul said.
‘On the right is the meditation room, for anyone who wants some peace and quiet without actually going over to the chapel,’ Sister Joan said, feeling like a tour guide. ‘My cell is next to it.’
‘You’re sleeping over here?’ Derek looked at her.
‘During the retreat, yes. The small kitchen behind is where Sister Teresa and Sister Marie will be making your breakfast.’
‘And they are—’ Derek looked questioning.
‘Sister Teresa is our lay sister. She’s responsible for the cooking. She’s a super cook so you ought to enjoy the food, and Sister Marie is the novice who helps her. She’s just left the postulancy and now she has two years’ novitiate to do. It used to be longer but regulations are more relaxed now. Sister Perpetua is our infirmarian and the one to ask if you’ve got a headache. She looks after Sister Gabrielle and Sister Mary Concepta who are both very elderly and spend most of their time in the infirmary.’
‘You remind me of an amusing tale I heard once,’ Paul said, lounging against the wall as he drawled out the words. ‘A little girl was given a book about penguins and told her teacher, “This book tells me more about penguins than I’ll ever need to know.”’
‘Don’t be so bitchy, Paul!’ Dodie protested. ‘Take no notice of him, Joan! He’s been passing nasty comments all the way down! Just like he used to do back in college!’
A VOW OF FIDELITY an utterly gripping crime mystery Page 10
