“Yes, dear, of course I will.” Sister Julienne marked the knitting card.
“Did I say purl four, slip one, purl three, knit two together, pass the slip stitch over?”
“Yes, you did, dear.”
“That’s wrong; it should be purl three after slipping the slip stitch over, not before.”
“Oh yes, of course, that makes sense.”
The judge leaned forward. “Have you ladies sorted out your knitting?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“Then perhaps we can start the morning’s proceedings.”
Sister Monica Joan made her way to the witness box. She looked completely composed; in fact she looked beautiful in her full black habit with the halo of white linen around her face. A small smile lightened her features and her eyes sparkled mischievously. Naughty Sister Monica Joan always enjoyed the limelight.
Counsel for the Prosecution opened. “The police report states that certain jewels were found in your knitting bag. Is this a true statement?”
Sister Monica Joan looked towards the jury, then to the visitors’ gallery. She turned towards the judge and raised one eyebrow quizzically. Her composure held everyone captive as they waited for her reply.
Her voice, always clear, had a ringing quality. “Truth. The eternal mystery. ‘What is truth?’ asked Pilate. Mankind has been seeking the answer to that question for thousands of years. What would be your definition of truth, young man?”
“I am here to ask you the questions, Sister – not the other way round.”
“But it is a perfectly fair question. Before we can establish the truth, we must have a definition of it.”
Counsel decided to humour her: “Truth, I would say, is an accurate record of fact. Would you accept that, Sister.”
“You have studied Aristotle?”
“A little,” replied Counsel modestly.
“Truth. Truth is a movement of inexhaustible power, containing within itself divine truth. In the depths of space, matter is forever being formed into the heavenly bodies and transformed into the speed of light and disappears from our ken. Would you say that this is an accurate record of fact when it has disappeared from our ken?”
“I am not a scientist, Sister, but a lawyer, and I am enquiring about jewels found in your possession.”
“Ah, yes, the jewels. The stars are the jewels of heaven. But are they fact? Are they truth or are they a chimera? Do we see the stars? We think we see them, but we do not; we see what they were light years ago. Would you say that the stars are an accurate record of fact, young man?”
“You see, she is confused,” whispered the general practitioner.
“She’s clever. She is deliberately trying to confuse the issue. That’s what she’s doing,” the psychiatrist replied in hushed tones.
The judge interrupted. “Silence in court! Sister, this court is here to consider stolen jewellery. It is not here to discuss metaphysics. Please confine your answers to the matter in hand.”
Sister Monica Joan turned her shapely head towards the judge. “Matter, and what is matter? Einstein says that matter is energy. Are these jewels matter? Are they energy, moving at the speed of light into cosmic forces beyond the limits of our consciousness? Are these jewels living matter, living energy, circling the earth in the full moon of April, or are they mere clods of clay, dull and lifeless, as postulated by the police?”
Although Sister Monica Joan was speaking to the judge, her clear voice rang through the courtroom. An eloquent hand reached towards the jury, who sat spellbound although they did not understand a word she was talking about.
Counsel for the Prosecution continued. “But how did the jewels come to be in your possession, Sister?”
She turned on him angrily. “I do not know, young man. I am not a seer; I am but a humble seeker of eternal truths. These jewels, which seem to excite so much interest, have their own life, their own consciousness and their own energy force. When an atom gets excited it creates magnetic fields independent of human activity. Did they not teach you that at school, young man?”
Counsel, who was close on fifty, was beginning to look out of his depth. “No, madam, I was not taught that at school.”
“Were you not taught that all matter is subject to the laws of gravity?”
Counsel refused to answer. “Sister, I am enquiring into stolen jewellery. Are you trying to say that jewels were magnetised or gravitated from jewellers in Hatton Garden into your knitting bag by their own volition?”
“I do not know. I am not a seer. Only God knows the whole truth. Questions, foolish questions all the time. You wear me out with your questions, young man. Can I not expect a little repose in my old age?”
Sister Monica Joan raised her hand to her face and tottered slightly in the dock. A gasp of anxiety was heard in the courtroom. She murmured: “May I sit down, My Lord?” and the usher ran forward with a chair. She smiled weakly. “So kind, so very kind; my poor heart.” She raised her eyes appealingly to the judge and said softly, “Thank you, My Lord. Are there any more questions?”
“No further questions,” said Counsel for the Prosecution.
Sister Monica Joan had created a good impression in the witness box. Even though most of the jury did not know what she was talking about, her sincerity and conviction were compelling. Her age and frailty were appealing and their sympathy was with her. A verdict of not guilty seemed likely.
The Judge adjourned the court until 2 p.m.
Counsel for the Defence opened the afternoon’s proceedings. “Are you sitting comfortably, Sister?”
“Most comfortably, thank you.”
“I will try not to fatigue you with my questions.”
“You are most kind.”
“The jury has heard you say that you do not know how the jewels came into your possession.”
“I do not.”
“But were they really in your possession?”
“I possess nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“No, nothing. I renounced all worldly possessions with my profession. Poverty is one of the vows of the monastic life.”
“So you do not and cannot possess anything?”
“No.”
“And you have never possessed the jewels in question?”
“Never.”
Counsel for the Prosecution stood up. “Then what were they doing in your knitting bag?”
Counsel for the Defence was furious. “My Lord, I really must protest at this interruption, which is designed to intimidate the witness. I was coming to that point myself later, but without the bullying tactics adopted by my learned friend.”
The judge allowed the protest, but nonetheless he leaned forward and said kindly, “Sister, if as a professed nun you cannot own or possess anything, can you account for the fact that a quantity of jewels were found in your knitting bag?”
“No, I cannot.”
“Did you put them there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, if you did not put them there, who did?”
Sister Monica Joan looked vague and tired. “I don’t know, My Lord. I suppose I must have.”
“And where did they come from?”
Sister Monica Joan was crumbling fast. The day had been too long. Her sparkle and confidence were fading leaving a tired old lady who did not really know what she was saying. “I suppose they came from Hatton Garden, like everyone says they did.” She leaned her forehead on her hand and sighed deeply. “I don’t know why respectable elderly women do this sort of thing, but they do. Oh, they do, they do. Is it a sickness? Is it a madness? I do not know. I do not know myself.”
A ripple of shocked sympathy spread through the courtroom. To incriminate oneself is sad, but for Sister Monica Joan to have done so was tragic. If a pin had dropped it would have been heard in the silent courtroom. The judge leaned back in his chair and sighed.
“I adjourn the court for today. I will make my summing-up tomorrow. The court will re
assemble at ten o’clock.”
The atmosphere in the courtroom was tense the following morning. A verdict of guilty was a foregone conclusion in the minds of the jury. Could it be prison for a lady of such advanced years? Perhaps the judge would order confinement to a mental asylum. A recommendation for clemency was everyone’s hope.
Sister Julienne was seated in court, her face white with shock and sorrow. On the other hand, Sister Monica Joan once more looked completely relaxed and unconcerned, knitting contentedly and smiling at people she recognised. She stood when the usher gave the order.
The judge opened the morning’s proceedings. “Last evening, at seven o’clock, I was informed of new evidence which throws a different light on this case. The witness arrived in London this morning and is at present waiting outside. Call the Reverend Mother Jesu Emanuel, please, usher.”
A murmur of surprise spread through the court. Sister Julienne gave a gasp and stood up when her Superior entered. The latter was a good-looking lady of about fifty with calm grey eyes. She walked purposefully to the witness box to be sworn in.
Counsel for the Defence spoke: “You are the Reverend Mother Jesu Emanuel, the Mother Superior of the Order of the Sisters of St Raymund Nonnatus?”
“I am.”
“And you have been in Africa recently.”
“I have been with our mission in Africa for the past year. I returned yesterday.”
“Would you please tell the court what you have told me.”
“On my return to our mother house in Chichester I learned that Sister Monica Joan had been accused of the theft of jewellery. I knew at once that this was a mistake. The jewels have not been stolen. The jewels belong to Sister Monica Joan.”
Everyone started talking at once.
The judge ordered silence. “Please continue,” he said.
“When a Sister takes her final vows, all her property is given to the order. In some orders this is irrevocable, but not so in ours. We hold the property in trust during the Sister’s lifetime. If the Sister leaves the order, or has need of the property for any reason, the property reverts to her. Sister Monica Joan made her final vows in 1904. She had inherited great wealth from her mother, including a quantity of jewellery, which has been kept in the security vaults of the convent’s financiers ever since. Sister Monica Joan is now a very old lady. It is the policy of our order to give special privileges to our retired Sisters, who have given a lifetime of service to our work. Knowing that Sister Monica Joan likes pretty things and that she would enjoy having her mother’s jewels to play with, I gave them to her the last time I visited Nonnatus House.”
“Have you any confirmation of this?”
“I have the certificate of withdrawal from the bank with me for Your Lordship’s inspection.”
Counsel for the Defence spoke. “The jewels have been checked against the certificate, My Lord, and they can all be accounted for.”
The judge was handed the certificate, which he examined; then he said: “Did you not tell anyone about this, Reverend Mother?”
“No, My Lord, I did not, and in this respect I am entirely culpable. Sister Julienne was away on retreat at the time of my visit to Nonnatus House, or I would probably have mentioned it to her. Immediately after that, preparations were made for my visit to Africa and it slipped my mind. I am devastated that my action should have caused so much trouble. But frankly, it was not something that I regarded as important. I looked upon the jewels not as objects of monetary value but as pretty things that would give innocent happiness to a very old lady, bringing back memories of her childhood and her mother.”
The Judge adjourned the court until two o’clock that afternoon toto allow time for full consultation. The jeweller, Mr Samuelson, who had earlier identified the pearls and the diamond, was called, and he acknowledged that he might have been mistaken. It was agreed by all parties that if Sister Monica Joan had forgotten how she came to be in possession of the jewels, she could not be held responsible for her actions, whatever the psychiatrist might have said, and the charges of petty theft made by the costers was dropped.
After lunch the judge informed the court that the Prosecution had withdrawn all charges. There was wild cheering and hat-throwing in the public gallery.
The judge motioned to the usher to call for silence. Then he addressed the court. “I think I speak for the popular voice of this courtroom when I say how pleasing is the outcome of this case. Much needless strain and anxiety has been caused to the Sisters of St Raymund Nonnatus. However, I say to the Sisters, as I say to the police, the Prosecution, the doctors and everyone involved in this case, including the press and the wider readership beyond these walls: it is folly to jump to conclusions.”
Part III
THE OLD SOLDIER
MR JOSEPH COLLETT
Sister Julienne and I left Nonnatus House and cycled towards the tenements, known as the Canada Buildings. We made our way to Alberta House, to a patient I had not met before – a man with leg ulcers that required daily dressing. Sister had told me the ulcers were severe, and warned that dressing such wounds in the patient’s home was very different from doing so in a surgically equipped and sterile hospital. The man was a Mr Joseph Collett, aged over eighty, and he lived alone in one of the ground-floor flats.
We knocked at the door. There was no immediate response, but we heard movement inside. The door was opened by a very old and rather dirty man. He peered at us through thick-lensed glasses, and it was obvious from the way he was looking and trying to adjust his focus that he could not see at all well. Nonetheless, he must have recognised us, for he opened the door wide, drew himself up very straight, and bowed slightly, saying: “Mornin’, Sister. I’ve been expecting you. Good of you to come. Who have you got with you today? Someone new?”
“This is Nurse Lee, and when I have shown her the routine, she will be looking after you.”
He turned towards me, and put out a hand to touch my coat sleeve, as the partially sighted do. He couldn’t quite see me, but he was obviously assessing my height and general contours, by which he would recognise me. “It’s nice to have you here, young lady, and I am sure we are going to get on famous. Allow me, Sister.”
He said this with old world courtesy, took her bag, and slowly walked with it to place it on the table.
“I’ve got the boiling water ready for you, and the flavine, and lint. I think you’ll find everything’s there.”
Sister Julienne started unpacking her bag, and I looked around the room. The smell was none too pleasant, but I had got used to that in the tenements. The walls were a dirty beige, with wallpaper peeling off. The paint was dark brown, blistered and cracking. A small gas stove sat in one corner, by the stone sink. Next to the sink was a lavatory, which was an obvious addition to the room and not part of the original structure. The windows were so dirty that very little light could penetrate, and there were no curtains. An open doorway revealed the bedroom, with a brass bedstead. The whole area – living room, bedroom, kitchen area and lavatory – could not have been more than about fifteen to eighteen feet square, and there was no separate bathroom. It was quite adequate for an old man living alone, but I knew that many such tenement flats housed whole families. How did they manage, and stay sane?
A fire was burning merrily in the hearth and a hod of coal stood beside it. I noticed a tin bath full of coal under the sink. A very beautiful grandfather clock stood proudly against the opposite wall, next to a large wooden crate full of sticks and old newspapers. A heavy wooden table – the sort antique dealers would fight over today – filled the centre of the room, and some grimy plates and mugs were spread out on a newspaper. The room was full of old military photographs, prints and maps, and what looked like medals and trophies, yellowed with age and dirt. I concluded that Mr Collett had been a soldier.
Our patient sat down in a high wooden chair next to the fire, took his slippers off and placed his right foot on a low stool. He pulled up his trouser leg, revealing h
orrible blood-and-pus-soaked bandages. Sister Julienne told me to do the dressing, whilst she watched me. I knew everything had to be disposed of in the patient’s house, so I placed newspapers on the wooden floor. I kneeled down and started to undo the bandages with forceps. The stench was revolting, and I felt nausea rising as I struggled to peel off the layers of bandage, which were stuck to each other with slimy fluid. I let them fall onto the newspaper, to be burned on the fire. The ulcer was the worst I had ever seen, extending upwards from the ankle for about six to eight inches. It was deep and suppurating badly. I cleaned it with saline, packed the cavities with gauze soaked in flavine, and rebandaged. Then the other leg had to be treated.
Mr Collett didn’t complain whilst I was attending to his legs, but sat back sucking an old pipe with no tobacco in it, talking now and then to Sister Julienne. The grandfather clock ticked loudly, and the fire crackled and blazed. The siren of a cargo boat echoed through the room as I completed the second dressing and bandaged up the leg, with the quiet satisfaction of knowing that I had made this dignified old soldier more comfortable.
I cleaned up, saw that everything was burned, packed my bag, and Sister and I prepared to leave.
“Won’t you stay for a cup of tea, Sister?” he asked. “It won’t take me a minute.”
“No, but thank you; we have other work to do.”
I thought he looked crestfallen, but he said quickly, “Then I won’t keep you, marm.”
This old-fashioned use of the royal “marm” surprised me, but strangely it didn’t sound out of place.
“Nurse Lee will come to you each morning from now on.”
He laid his pipe on the mantelpiece and stood up. He was very tall, more than six feet, and stood very straight. He walked slowly over to the door and opened it for us, then bowed again slightly as we left.
Shadows Of The Workhouse: The Drama Of Life In Postwar London Page 20
