A VOW OF DEVOTION an utterly gripping crime mystery

by Veronica Black

  A VOW OF DEVOTION

  An utterly gripping crime mystery

  VERONICA BLACK

  Sister Joan Murder Mystery Book 5

  Revised edition 2021

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  First published in Great Britain by Robert Hale in 1994

  © Veronica Black 1994, 2021

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Veronica Black to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  ISBN: 978-1-78931-719-0

  CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  ALSO BY VERONICA BLACK

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  GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH USAGE FOR US READERS

  One

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  It was a day for feeling hopeful and optimistic. Sister Joan, who seldom felt anything else, led Lilith, the convent pony, out into the cobbled yard and mounted up, secure in the knowledge that if the breeze blew up the skirt of her grey habit she was wearing jeans underneath, a special concession permitted by her prioress, Mother Dorothy, who came now to the kitchen door and looked out, gold-rimmed spectacles clamped firmly to her beaky nose, her hands folded in approved fashion within the wide sleeves of the dark purple habit which signified her position as head of this particular community of sisters of the Order of Daughters of Compassion. When her five-year term was over she would wear a purple band on the right sleeve of her grey habit to remind her of the office she had held. Rather like a sergeant’s stripes, Sister Joan thought with an inward grin, composing her face as she turned dark-blue eyes towards her superior.

  ‘Do you want me to pick up anything else for you in town?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think so, Sister. You’ll check the velvet is good quality?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mother. Sister Teresa is going to look beautiful, isn’t she?’

  ‘And velvet is such a sensible choice,’ Mother Dorothy said briskly. ‘It can be quite chilly at this time of year and one doesn’t want to see a Bride of Christ shiver her way through her final vows. You’ll look in on Father Malone?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ Sister Joan bowed her veiled head for the swift blessing sketched upon the air and trotted beneath the arch and down the side path to the drive which curved between lawn and shrubbery to the moorland track.

  In Cornwall spring often came sooner than in other parts of the country, and this spring was no exception. The turf was starred with wild flowers and there was a faint golden haze on the horizon that hinted at a fine day to come.

  ‘Come, Lilith!’ Sister Joan slapped the pony on her rump and broke into a canter. Behind her she heard a doleful whining from Alice, the year-old Alsatian bitch acquired originally as a guard dog for the isolated community. Sister Joan had taken the precaution of tying Alice up before she set out since a gambolling dog wasn’t the most desirable companion for a trip into town. Her conscience was less stricken than it might have been since she knew perfectly well that Sister Perpetua would take Alice’s mind off her imprisonment with a few choice titbits. The infirmarian had a soft spot for animals though she would have been unwilling to admit it, having long since cast herself in the role of a red-haired, peppery individual with no time for sentiment.

  And what role do I see myself in? Sister Joan thought, checking her speed and holding Lilith to a more decorous pace.

  Thirty-eight years old, having turned her back on marriage or a career as an artist nearly ten years before to enter the religious life, she mused, trying to stand outside herself mentally and take the objective viewpoint. Not, she suspected, an ideal nun though she tried hard to fit her lively and impetuous nature to the even tenor of community life. Certainly not a Living Rule, that nun whose conduct would make it possible to write out again the rules of the order should they ever be lost. There were times when she doubted if a Living Rule had ever existed in actuality.

  She slowed further as a small stone building came into view. The building had once provided a school where local children could be taught before going into town to the ‘big’ school. She herself had been the teacher, with a small class composed of local children and a few from the Romany camp high on the moor. She had enjoyed her period of teaching until new regulations had forced the school to close. Now the stone building stood mute and locked, its windows boarded up. It was still convent property but nobody had thought of a proper use for it.

  As she turned into the main street of the town she decided she would call first on Father Malone. Sister Jerome who had kept house for him and the curate, Father Stephens, since the former’s return from his sabbatical abroad, couldn’t be said to be an amiable woman but she made splendid coffee.

  Sister Joan dismounted, leading Lilith down the side alley which bisected the streets and provided a short cut to the church and presbytery, both modest structures since in this predominantly Protestant corner of England the Catholic Church still existed more or less on sufferance and trod cautiously to avoid offence.

  As she tied Lilith to the garden gate the front door opened and Father Malone came out, beaming in his usual welcoming fashion.

  ‘Sister Joan, bonjour as they say! All’s well?’

  ‘All’s well, Father.’ Sister Joan bit her lip to stifle a giggle. Father Malone had been lacing his conversation with foreign phrases ever since his return from his sabbatical five months before.

  ‘Come in, Sister. You didn’t bring the car?’ He came close enough to give Lilith the lump of sugar in his hand.

  ‘Lilith is easier on the petrol,’ Sister Joan said with a grin. ‘You spoil her, Father.’

  ‘Now isn’t a pony a living beast now?’ he countered, dropping into his native brogue. ‘Sure but it’s a breathing, feeling thing and, if His Holiness is right, the owner of a soul which will open the doors to an afterlife.’

  ‘I’m sure His Holiness is right,’ Sister Joan said, following the priest back up the path. ‘I never could imagine heaven without a few animals around.’

  ‘The blessed St Francis would have blessed you for that, Sister,’ Father Malone approved. ‘You know I helped offer Mass at Assisi. I’ve some photographs somewhere. Or perhaps you have already seen them?’

  Everybody in the convent had seen them several times. Father Malone had gone off on pilgrimage clutching missal and camera with almost equal regard for both.

  ‘I’d love to take a look at them, Father,’ she said. ‘One doesn’t get the chance for a proper look with everyb
ody crowding round.’

  ‘They’re about here somewhere.’ Father Malone led the way to the study, looked round vaguely and pounced on the buff folder. ‘Here we are! Sit yourself down and I’ll ask Sister Jerome to make us a nice cup of coffee. I’ve an idle half-hour this morning since Father Stephens very kindly offered to visit the old people’s home.’

  ‘That’s very nice of him,’ Sister Joan said diplomatically.

  From what she’d heard Father Stephens, who was young, educated and ambitious, was apt to talk rather too much about the twilight of life and the gates of heaven standing open when he was with anyone over the age of sixty.

  ‘Many of the poor souls are getting very deaf, you know,’ Father Malone said, a slight twinkle in his eyes betraying that he shared her reservations. ‘Ah, Sister Jerome, here you are! And with coffee already!’

  ‘I heard Sister Joan’s voice.’ Sister Jerome put down the tray and nodded her head in Sister Joan’s direction. ‘Good morning, Sister Joan.’

  ‘Good morning, Sister Jerome.’ Answering pleasantly, receiving a frosty smile before the priests’ housekeeper went plodding back to the kitchen, Sister Joan reminded herself that Sister Jerome had a sad history and was more in her element here ministering to men of the cloth than trying to live with a crowd of women.

  ‘Help yourself to sugar, Sister. Now let me see — this is of the façade of the cathedral. You can judge its size if you realize that the figure by the portico is myself and I’m five feet seven. A friar was kind enough to take the picture for me. He took another, a close-up but it came out a mite fuzzy. I was coming to the end of that roll of film.’

  Sister Joan shook her head to the sugar and the chocolate finger which marked the end of Lent and looked dutifully at the photographs, marvelling at her own ability to say something freshly complimentary about each one.

  ‘I’ve the ones from Lourdes somewhere around,’ Father Malone said hopefully.

  ‘Father, once you tempt me into looking at photographs of Lourdes I’ll be here all morning,’ she said, laughing. ‘I only came to ask you if everything’s being made ready for Sister Teresa’s final profession. I’m sure that it is but you know Mother Dorothy likes all her i’s dotted and her t’s crossed in good time.’

  ‘Everything’s going ahead very smoothly, Sister,’ he assured her. ‘His Lordship will be here in a month’s time, staying overnight at the presbytery, of course, and there’ll be a concelebrated Mass up in the convent chapel. She’ll be looking forward to it — Sister Teresa.’

  ‘I’m sure she will, but of course she’s still in retreat,’ Sister Joan said.

  After the postulancy and the novitiate intending Daughters of Compassion spent a year in virtual silence and isolation before taking their perpetual vows of poverty, chastity, obedience and compassion.

  ‘A pity she wasn’t able to make her profession last Easter,’ he regretted.

  ‘Circumstances delayed her entry into retreat as you know, Father. In a way the delay will work to our advantage, I think,’ Sister Joan said, rising. ‘Not being able to join fully in the celebrations at Easter with the rest of us means she starts out with a sacrifice and then, having her own ceremony after Easter, will make it a real landmark day.’

  ‘Without having to compete with the risen Christ for the attention of the community?’ Father Malone shook his grey head at her reproachfully.

  ‘I didn’t mean it quite like that, Father,’ she protested.

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t. Whatever the circumstances I’m sure Sister Teresa’s day will be a wonderfully happy one. You have errands to do?’

  ‘I’m collecting the material for Sister Teresa’s dress. Is it all right if I leave Lilith here? She dislikes being ridden through traffic.’

  ‘As long as you please, Sister. The traffic will be getting worse here soon, I’m afraid.’ He rose to accompany her to the door.

  ‘Tourists so early?’ Sister Joan looked at him.

  ‘New Age Travellers,’ Father Malone said, giving each word a large, doleful capital letter. ‘Apparently a large group are headed this way.’

  ‘They’ll probably camp out of town on the moor,’ she said.

  ‘One hopes so.’ Father Malone, who liked his fellow human beings to be in neat categories, sighed. ‘It’s very difficult to draw the line between freedom and licence, isn’t it? We shall just have to pray that they don’t cause too much damage. Give my regards to Mother Prioress and the community. Does Sister Teresa intend to continue as lay sister after her profession?’

  ‘We’re all hoping so,’ Sister Joan said. ‘A year of my cooking is about as much as the community can endure. Goodbye, Sister Jerome.’

  From the kitchen door Sister Jerome afforded her a curt nod before returning to the sink.

  The line between lay and semi-enclosed sister was in the Daughters of Compassion as fine as between the freedom and licence the priest had remarked upon, she mused, as she strode off down the main street, the ends of her short white veil fluttering in the spring breeze. Within the community the nuns remained within the confines of the enclosure, earning their living as far as was possible from their home base. Only the lay sisters went out to do the marketing and, in return for that small freedom, lived more separately than their sisters, taking their meals and recreation separately, the Marthas of the community. Sister Teresa’s year-long retreat had imposed a certain loneliness on Sister Joan too. Mother Prioress had hinted that if Sister Teresa chose to continue as lay sister she herself might be considered as assistant mistress of novices. Not that she considered herself a suitable mistress of anyone but it would be nice to write home and tell her family about it. Her mother would certainly regard it as a promotion. In her letters she frequently hinted what a thrill it would be if her only daughter got elected as prioress one day.

  To which dizzy heights I am unlikely to aspire,’ Sister Joan muttered and walked full tilt into a tall man walking in the opposite direction.

  ‘Talking to yourself, Sister Joan? Times must be desperate!’

  Detective Sergeant Alan Mill took a pace backwards and looked down at her, one dark eyebrow raised in amusement.

  ‘It’s probably the onset of my twilight years,’ Sister Joan said. ‘How are you, Detective Sergeant Mill?’

  ‘Well enough.’ He gave her a second look. ‘And you, Sister? It’s months since we’ve met.’

  ‘I don’t come into town more than once a month and then I’m usually in the car. I rode in today on Lilith.’

  ‘Not shopping?’

  ‘Sister Teresa makes her final profession next month and I’m here to pick up the material for her dress.’

  ‘Dress?’ His eyebrow rose again.

  ‘Wedding dress,’ she said provocatively, waiting for the scowl.

  It came, reminding her of Jacob whom she seldom thought about these days except when she ran into the detective. Both were dark, lean men, Detective Sergeant Mill having the advantage in height and a chiselled profile while Jacob had borne the palm for intensity of dark eyes and quick, nervous gesture.

  ‘You can’t expect an agnostic to be very thrilled at the prospect of a healthy young woman getting herself togged up to exchange marriage vows with someone who was executed nearly two thousand years ago,’ he said.

  ‘You must allow us our eccentricities,’ she said lightly, but there was a flash of concern at the back of her eyes.

  Detective Sergeant Mill had never spoken so sourly of religious matters before. He and she had, at the beginning of their acquaintanceship, tacitly agreed to beg to differ. He had always shown respect towards her beliefs, and she had gleaned the impression that he was more sympathetic than otherwise to the Faith.

  ‘Sorry, Sister,’ he said quickly. ‘That was rude and insensitive. The truth is that I’m not in a mood to talk about marriage today.’

  He had told her once, briefly and casually in passing, that he and his wife were having problems, but she had never enquired further. Nor wo
uld she do so now. It was no business of hers how a man with whom she had been associated in his professional capacity lived in private. Before she could change the subject, however, he said, ‘My wife’s asked me for a divorce and I’ve agreed.’

  ‘I’m truly sorry.’ Her expression had darkened slightly.

  Divorce was always a sad end to a relationship and in this case there were children.

  ‘We’re merely closing the book on a tale that was told quite a long time ago,’ he said. ‘She’ll take the boys but I’ll have ample access. There’s nobody else involved.’

  ‘Then couldn’t you—?’

  ‘Not unless I left the Force and I’m not prepared to do that. It’s not her fault. When we first married she didn’t realize — neither of us realized — the inroads the job makes into one’s private time. We’ve lived apart for two years in fact if not in name so there won’t be any difficulties.’

  ‘Aren’t there places you can go for counselling these days?’ she ventured.

  ‘We’re neither of us interested,’ he said.

  ‘Then I am sorry,’ she repeated gently. ‘I can understand how you feel when I go on about Sister Teresa’s final profession. It must seem like a medieval mockery to you.’

  ‘I wish her happiness anyway,’ he said. ‘How’s the dog getting on? Alice?’

  ‘Alice is a joy and a delight,’ Sister Joan said, relieved to have moved away from the personal.

  ‘I gave her to the community as a guard dog.’

  ‘Oh, she’s that too — or will be when she’s completed her training,’ Sister Joan assured him. ‘She’s very intelligent and obedient.’

  ‘I’ll call one of these days and see how she’s getting on.’

  ‘You’ll be very welcome, Detective Sergeant Mill. How are things apart from—?’

  ‘On the work front everything’s very quiet — for the moment. We’ve just had word that a group of new-age travellers are headed in this direction. If we all keep very quiet they might pass on by.’