He picked up one of the community's brochures and read that: 'the Carmelite emblem depicts the Holy Land's Mount Carmel with a cross on top of it, and three stars.
'Mount Carmel was where the first hermits, mostly former crusaders and pilgrims, calling themselves the Brothers of the Blessed Virgin Mary, gathered in imitation of the prophet, Elijah, in a life of solitude and prayer. The cross on it is a reminder of the central importance of the death of Christ. The one star below represents Mary, mother of God, first among the redeemed, who stood at the foot of the cross. On either side were two other stars, to represent the prophets most associated with the Carmelite origins and ideals, Elijah and John the Baptist.
‘It is thought by some,’ Rafferty determinedly continued with this unappealing tract, ‘that the central star was representative of an opening, of a cave, not a star, a cave wherein Elijah sheltered when the Lord appeared to him as the still, small wind. This alternative possibility', said the brochure, ‘suited the life of Carmel, silent and separated, away from the busyness of ordinary life.’
Rafferty grunted, dumped this brochure to one side and picked up another.
‘Until the fifteenth century,’ he read, 'the Order consisted just of priests, friars and lay brothers, although, even then, several groups of pious women lived according to the Carmelite spirit. Following the 1452 founding of the Second Order of nuns, by Blessed John Soreth, Prior General of the Order, the 16th century Reformation saw the initiation of a reform movement by the Spanish Carmelite, Teresa of Avila and after her death reformed monasteries were established in France and Belgium, with later communities settled in Britain and thence across the world.
‘The two branches of the Order are those of the Ancient Observance and the Reformed, or Discalced Carmelites.’
‘Ouch,’ said Rafferty, as he read that the word Discalced meant 'without shoes', which as far as Rafferty was concerned, would certainly have been a reform too far.
In spite of his earlier determination to get a grip on 'this religion thing', as he was want to call it and not let it get a grip on him, Rafferty decided he'd read enough religious tracts; he'd hand them over to Llewellyn to wade through. His holier-than-thou Welsh sergeant might even enjoy it. He certainly didn't.
Besides, he thought, as a sly grin found its way to his lips, what were sergeants for but to do the heavy work? Instead, he turned back to the study of the sisters' files, which the arrival of Timothy Smales had disturbed.
Sister Rita, the nun who had made the shocking discovery, was aged fifty-five and had been a member of Elmhurst's small Carmel community for twenty years, since several years after the early, untimely death of her husband. Although most of her working hours were spent looking after the convent's grounds, vegetable plots, fruit orchard and greenhouses, which, between them, supplied the community's kitchen, she also acted as the Novice Mistress and the community's stand-in for the Mother Superior when the latter attended religious conferences. It sounded a busy, demanding life.
Along with the other information, Mother Catherine had also given them a list of the convent's daily rituals and Rafferty, prodded by the early indoctrination which still powered a conscience inclined to guilt, had, as far as possible, promised to do his best to work his investigation around them.
Certainly, he thought, their first part of the day would be safe from his interruptions: why did the religious keep such ungodly hours? he wondered as he broke off from reading through Sister Rita's file to study their routines.
The sisters rose at 5.30, and Lauds, the first office of the day, so-called because it was 'praising God for a new day', was at six, which was followed by breakfast at 6.15 and an hour's silent personal prayer at quarter to seven. Then came Mass at eight, followed by Terce.
The general domestic and gardening work began at nine and was broken off at 11.15 for Sext. Dinner at 11.30, was followed by half an hour's recreation and an hour when the nuns were free to either work or pursue personal interests.
A spiritual reading followed at 1.45, with work resuming at three in the afternoon. At 4.30, work was again halted for Vespers and an hour's silent prayer. They had supper at six and then three quarter's of an hour's recreation until the 7.30 Office of Readings. It had been during this evening's recreation that Sister Rita had made her unfortunate discovery. Then at eight came the Great Silence, followed at 9.15 by Compline. They retired to bed at ten o'clock.
Rafferty's knees were beginning to creak in sympathy at the thought of all that praying. He returned to reading Sister Rita's file, but was interrupted before he had time to finish it, by Llewellyn's knock on the door of the office. Rafferty closed the file, shouted, ‘come in,’ and looked up as Llewellyn ushered the nun in.
Sister Rita greeted him with a simple nod, and without any sign that she was about to indulge in any of the histrionics which he had, in the past, experienced from women who, like the nun, had stumbled over dead bodies. Instead, she calmly sat down in front of the table to await his questions, her work-worn hands lying still in her lap.
Perhaps there was something to be said for the disciplined life of the religious after all, was Rafferty's first thought. At least it saved him from the hysteria he had occasionally encountered in other, supposedly, more worldly women.
The nun was around five foot six, but although not over tall, she was well built and her clear blue eyes and weather-beaten cheeks gave an appearance of rude health. Even under her long-sleeved brown habit and black veil, he could discern the firm muscles on her upper arms. Her name prior to her admission to the community had been Mary Robins.
Her work in the garden would keep her fitter than most of the other sisters appeared, he thought. All that physical labour must go a long way to counteracting the sedentary nature of the regular daily offices.
He smiled at the nun as she sat in front of the table and began by thanking her for her time.
She merely inclined her head once more, but said nothing.
Rafferty experienced a momentary panic that all he was going to get from any of the sisters was a shake of the head for ‘No’ and a nod for 'Yes'. But surely, he thought, Mother Catherine had understood and explained to them that he required more than nodding dolls for interview and that their rule of silence was to be suspended during police interviews?
Perhaps Sister Rita, sitting so quietly and reposed, had sensed some of his disquiet, because, fortunately, she immediately quashed it with the observation: ‘My time is yours, inspector, until you find the person responsible for this poor man's death. Mother Catherine has reminded us all of our duties and what God will require of us and we shall, of course, assist you in this matter to the best of our abilities. Naturally, we are anxious to do all that we can, so please ask whatever questions you need to.’
Relieved, Rafferty nodded and said, ‘Thank you, Sister.’
Her file revealed that Sister Rita's family had come from a small village some miles outside Birmingham. Rafferty could still trace a hint of working class Brummie in her voice. Perhaps it was her ordinary background, along with the hard, physical labour of looking after the community's grounds and produce, which made her seem so down to earth and uncomplicated.
‘I can understand how upsetting it must be to you and the other sisters, firstly to find a dead man buried in your grounds, and then to have your peace invaded by a bunch of clod-hopping policemen.’
Sister Rita didn't seem noticeably upset by either event. But then she exuded the rude physicality and earthy practicality of a person born to work the land. She would, Rafferty thought, take nature in all its splendour and tragedy in her stride.
She gave him a broad smile that was more warm Earth Mother than chaste nun and observed, ‘Our Heavenly Father never asks more of any of us than we can bear, inspector.’
This wasn't a sentiment with which Rafferty was in agreement, but he made no comment.
The sun-lined wrinkles around Sister Rita's brown eyes wrinkled some more as she added in as blunt a m
anner as an investigative policeman could wish, ‘Besides, sorry as we all are for that poor man, I gather from something I heard one of your officers say, that he has been dead for some weeks. And while we might be nuns, we are still alive. I hope it doesn't sound too shocking to you inspector, but this is the most excitement any of us have had in years. Even Sister Ursula, old as she is, has a twinkle in her eye from the sight of so many brawny policemen.’
Rafferty laughed, surprised to find that a nun should have an earthy humour to go with the Earth Mother smile. It wasn't how he remembered those religious who had dominated his youth.
Half afraid that the surface humour was merely a mask to conceal a desire to drag him back into the fold from which he had, or so he had thought, so long ago escaped, Rafferty was quick to say: ‘Still, if it's all the same to you, Sister, we'll do our best to keep the excitement down to a dull roar. I'm not sure that we can stand any more than that.’ His comment brought another twinkle.
‘I understand, Sister, that apart from giving religious instruction to your young novice and postulant, that mostly, you work in the grounds and that you found the body sometime after 6.30 this evening during your recreation break?’
She nodded.
Llewellyn put in a question. ‘Clearly, because of your work, Sister, you must know every outside inch of the place. That's why I'm surprised you didn't notice before that the ground behind the shrubbery had been disturbed.’
It was a question that had occurred to Rafferty, too. He awaited the nun's response with interest.
‘I understand your surprise, sergeant,’ Sister Rita quietly replied. 'And, if it had been earlier in the year, I would certainly have noticed. But at this time, we're always so busy with gathering in the last of the harvest, picking and storing the fruit from our orchard and planting the winter root vegetables, not to mention spreading the muck and compost on the soil, that the rest of the grounds tend to be neglected. But as it happens, that part of the garden has been given over to God and Mother Nature to do with it what They will. All I did was plant some wildflower bulbs and seeds.'
Rafferty's interest sparked at this admission. ‘Could you tell us, precisely, when you last walked there and might reasonably have noticed that the ground had been disturbed?’
Sister Rita's sun-warmed face looked thoughtful. ‘I believe, yes, I'm pretty sure, before today, it was somewhere in the middle of August. And I certainly would have noticed if someone had disturbed the ground sufficiently to inter a body.’
‘Yet you didn't notice the man's forearm sticking up before you stumbled over it,’ Llewellyn pointed out.
Sister Rita bent her head in acknowledgement. 'True. But I was reading the Psalms and examining my conscience rather than the ground. It is necessary to be wholehearted in such examinations, much as it is required to give oneself wholeheartedly to whatever duty one is performing, whether it is spreading muck or digging up the potatoes. An offering to God, sergeant.
‘Of course, particularly in springtime, that part of the grounds is so beautiful, first with the snowdrops and then the wild daffodils and bluebells that I like to walk amongst them for the pure pleasure of it. Though I ration my time there, too much of such self-indulgence not being good for the soul.’
Rafferty, something of a martyr to self-indulgence himself, smiled at this. ‘Can you tell us the sequence of events once you found the man's body?’
‘Of course. Firstly, I offered up a prayer for his soul. Then I went in search of Mother Catherine. As I told your female officer, Constable Green, I found the body during our usual recreation period, just after supper, so I knew I would most likely find Mother Catherine and most of the rest of my sisters still in the refectory. I broke the news quietly to Mother and she, after an understandable initial shock at the news, quickly took charge. She herself broke the news to the other sisters and instructed Sister Perpetua to return with me to the grave to confirm my discovery.’
‘Mother Catherine didn't go with you herself?’
Sister Rita shook her head. 'No. I'm afraid our young novice, Sister Cecile, became somewhat hysterical at the news. I imagine Mother Catherine thought her authority would be put to better use calming her down. Besides, Sister Perpetua is a most reliable woman. Calm and as solid as what she terms her “too solid flesh” in a crisis.’
Rafferty nodded. Glad to get the sequence of events clear in his mind. He had noticed the one really chubby sister in the chapel. He presumed this nun, who had a round, jolly face, was the Sister Perpetua who would be the perfect partner for such a morbid enterprise.
‘I know this is difficult, but was there anything about the body or what you could see of it – I'm thinking of the noticeably expensive looking watch, in particular – that caused you or Sister Perpetua to think you might have seen the dead man before?’
The nun shook her head. ‘I certainly can't recall seeing such a watch before. And as Sister Perpetua made no such comment in my presence, I doubt she had, either.’
Sister Rita answered their other questions as well as she was able, but although appearing anxious to be helpful, she was able to tell them nothing more than what the Prioress herself had already told them.
Next, they questioned Sister Perpetua, whose nature was as jolly as her rounded appearance and smiling countenance had earlier suggested. A year older that Sister Rita, she had been in the convent for nearly thirty years, having joined as a young woman. Her previous name had been Annette Enderby and her family were from Devon.
But, although as pleasant and open as could be, apart from agreeing that she was currently on the community's rota to work in the kitchen and confirming all that Sister Rita had said, she could tell them nothing further, so Rafferty let her go.
Next, they questioned Sister Benedicta, who, at sixty-two, was another long-term member of the community. Her former name had been Daisy Hodgson and she was originally from Sussex. Another matter-of-fact country girl, she worked alongside Sister Rita in the gardens and was as tanned of face and as muscular as her garden labourer colleague. Though, again like her gardening partner, she told them she had no knowledge of the dead man or how he came to be buried in the community's grounds.
Sister Ursula, Edith Grey as was, originally from London, was a tiny, wizened woman of seventy-nine. And while her back might be bent from osteoporosis and her hands had the typical curl of arthritis, she waved away Llewellyn's readily proffered arm with the air of one not yet ready to accept either that she might need assistance or that the yawning grave was her next likely destination.
She reminded ex-Londoner Rafferty of a London sparrow, all bright eyes and inquisitiveness. Her body might have let her down and have scarcely more strength than the sprightly little bird, but her gaze showed the alertness of someone still interested in life. And while she certainly studied the current two, variously brawned policemen, with every sign of appreciation, she admitted, quite cheerfully, that she had few duties nowadays, beyond tottering about the place and showing willing.
And, although she might be willing to do whatever chores her ailing body would allow, Rafferty doubted it would allow her to swat a fly, let alone a grown man. Mentally, as soon as she had begun her slow, stick-aided walk towards the chair, Rafferty had dismissed her as a possible suspect. Apart from any other considerations, she was so tiny and their corpse was around the six foot mark, that she would have needed to stand on a chair to hit him on the back of the head with any force. Nor, for that matter, was she able to claim any knowledge of their cadaver.
After Sister Ursula had left them, Rafferty decreed that they took a short break. He wanted to assimilate what they had learned so far, before he tried to force any more details into his head.
He sent Llewellyn off to the refectory in search of tea and on his return, he said, ‘You're a deep sort, Dafyd – did you ever fancy the religious life?’
Llewellyn shook his dark head, placed the plain, workmanlike, mugs of tea on the table, for once not worrying about mark
ing the already well-scarred surface, and added as he sat down, ‘But I can see its appeal. Especially that of the contemplatives. Set against a modern world that is becoming increasingly complicated and with values ever more trivial, shallow and hedonistic, such a life has an attractive order about it.’
Rafferty, frequently baffled and frustrated by the modern world and its endlessly updated technology, was surprised to find himself nodding in agreement with Llewellyn's words. ‘And then, I suppose, there's the added incentive of having no worries about paying the bills,’ he commented, warming to the theme even though he felt slightly shocked that he should do so. ‘All that stuff which grinds people down in the real world is taken care of for you.’
‘True. But you'd have no money – or very little – to spend, either.’
Rafferty, denied the financial incentive for such a life, again to his surprise, found another attraction. 'At least you'd be guaranteed people to look after you in your old age. That's got to be a draw.'
But then he thought again. ‘What am I saying? Let old age take care of itself. What's the point in worrying about that if you haven't lived the life you were given? Imagine turning senile and dying after spending your best years on your knees? I think I'd rather live my life with all its ups and downs, its difficulties and problems, than have a non-existence doing little more than have endless monologue conversations with the Big Bloke in the sky, who probably doesn't even exist.’
He took another slurp of tea. ‘I always thought being a contemplative religious was a terrible waste of life. OK, if you must sign up for the cloister, at least join one of those communities who do something useful, such as caring for those no one else wants to care for, like the world's lepers, Aids orphans, and so on.’
Having got that off his chest, Rafferty began to consider other drawbacks. ‘And apart from all the time you'd spend on your knees, praying, there's the no sex rule to contend with as well.’
‘Even the Garden of Eden had its snake,’ Llewellyn murmured.
Blood on the Bones Page 5
