Folly's Child

by Janet Tanner

  Or was it so impossible? Tom’s mouth hardened as he thought of the telephone call he had made the previous evening. After speaking to Harriet he had had a few drinks and buoyed up with Dutch courage he had decided to ring her again. There was so much misunderstanding between them; stupid to pussyfoot around the issue – how much better it would be to come straight out and tell her that however it looked he really was interested in her on a personal level, not simply as a means of getting information for his investigation. Knowing it would be mid-morning in New York he had placed the call. But to his amazement he had been told that Harriet had left – for Italy. At first he had disputed it – there must be some mistake! But the maid was polite, firm, and completely believable. Miss Varna had left an hour ago. She did not know when she was expected back, but yes, she thought the trip had something to do with the Greg Martin business. The information had sobered Tom completely and utterly. He had been speaking to her not more than a couple of hours earlier and she had told him she was staying in the States for the time being, while all the time she had been on the point of leaving for Italy! Why? There was still a hell of a lot that he did not know – and Harriet was a part of it. The fact that she had gone off to Italy whilst her father was still certainly ill – and deliberately hidden her intention from him – proved it. Had she been pulling the wool over his eyes all along? He didn’t like to think so. It made a complete fool of him on so many levels. But he was beginning to think that perhaps for the first time in his career he had indeed been a complete fool.

  Tom O’Neill, hardened insurance investigator, one of the best in the business, taken in by a pretty face. It hurt – oh yes, it hurt. Tom’s jaw set. Well there was not a damned thing now he could do about it except learn a lesson from the experience that he should already have known by heart – don’t mix business with pleasure. Tom had thought long and hard about it, and now, wondering how to set about tracing Paula Varna, if she was still alive, he realised that his personal loss was a professional gain. If Harriet did indeed know Paula’s whereabouts she could lead him to her and he need suffer no more pangs of conscience, no more squeamishness about ‘ using’ her. If it were so she had made use of him trapped him by the oldest trick in the book – for some purpose he could not yet begin to fathom. Now she could begin paying off some of her dues, he thought, and she would find out just how dangerous a game she had been playing. In the meantime …

  In the meantime he was going to Darwin Airport to see Greg Martin picked up. For one thing he was curious to see the fellow in the flesh. For another he would enjoy watching the bastard get his come-uppance.

  Tom had ordered an early breakfast – coffee, rolls and jam, taken in his room – and he set out in good time to allow for Greg Martin and Vanessa’s checking-in time at the airport. He parked and wandered into the terminus. Even at this early hour it was quite busy, but since it was a good deal smaller than most termini he was afraid he might be conspicuous. Martin wouldn’t know him, of course; Vanessa certainly would. He bought a coffee and a newspaper, stationed himself discreetly in a corner from which he could see without being seen, and settled down to wait. The grey dawn crept in through the windows, travellers yawned, drank coffee and trundled suitcases about, and Tom occupied himself with planning his next move. Should he try to contact Harriet again, or go direct to Italy? Karen Spooner, his assistant, had done some pretty meticulous research to discover that Sally had been there over twenty years ago, but after all this time it would be a near impossibility to ascertain just where her destination had been. Tracing Harriet’s movements after just a couple of days should be a great deal easier. Of course, what he really needed was a photograph of her. He cursed himself for not having somehow wheedled one out of her – it would have been easy enough when they were in Katherine. He could even have taken one himself if he’d had a camera with him. But in Katherine photographs had been the last thing on his mind.

  Two men came through the airport door and Tom’s mouth quirked slightly in wry amusement. Although they were casually dressed in lightweight bomber jackets and light coloured slacks he thought they might as well have had ‘policeman’ written all over them. They spoke to the girl at the check out desk, who shook her head, then moved to a corner opposite Tom, smoking and watching the door furtively.

  Tom began to feel uncomfortable. He thought that if he were Greg Martin he’d spot the three of them – himself and the two policemen – immediately. To him they stuck out like sore thumbs. But to leave now would only call more attention to himself. He might run slap bang into them in the doorway …

  A moment later he was blessing his intuition for Vanessa McGuigan came into the terminus. Tom raised his newspaper to cover his face, watching her over the top of it, but she did not so much as glance in his direction. She was dressed with the same understated elegance – loose pyjama-style trousers and a lightweight Burberry style raincoat. She was pulling a large suitcase on wheels and she was alone.

  He saw the two policemen stiffen, their watchful eyes following her to the check-in desk.

  Hold it, hold it! he warned them mentally. Don’t go off at half-cock! She’s not the one you want. She is just the window dressing.

  Vanessa checked in, her suitcase disappeared from the scales and even from where he was sitting Tom saw the look that passed between the stewardess and the two policemen. For goodness sake! he thought irritated, write it on a banner that she’s under surveillance, why don’t you? But Vanessa seemed oblivious of the drama being played out around her. She walked coolly to one of the plastic seats and settled herself in it. She looked oddly out of place – as if she should be in the First Class Lounge – and Tom found himself wondering suddenly why she was not. The flamboyant Greg Martin and the beauty queen bimbo travelling tourist? Oh well, he supposed they must have figured they would draw less attention to themselves that way.

  Where the hell was Martin anyway? Even if they had not travelled to the airport together surely he should be here by now? But the minutes ticked by and no-one joined the elegant blonde. What was even more disconcerting, she did not appear to be in the least disturbed. Usually someone awaiting the arrival of a fellow traveller shows signs of agitation – even when there is plenty of time they tend to check their watch and look anxiously towards the door every so often but Vanessa did none of these things. She simply sat glancing through a glossy magazine, cool and poised, waiting for the call to go through for departure.

  Something is wrong here, Tom said to himself. Somehow something has gone wrong – the plans have been changed. Although there was still twenty minutes to go to departure he knew it in his bones. Greg Martin was not coming.

  He shifted, trapped in his corner for fear she would spot him, and sick at heart. You are losing your grip, he thought. The bloody man has slipped through your fingers again. He could see the policemen too were getting restless. Any minute they were going to barge up to Vanessa McGuigan and the whole thing would be blown. Although it would hardly matter. It was blown already.

  The message clicked up on the display unit a second before a disembodied voice announced it. The flight to New York was boarding. Vanessa rose, cool, unhurried, not looking around her even once. One of the policemen followed her, the other went outside – going to see if any late arrivals were hurrying towards the terminus, presumably. As she reached the door the policeman approached her, touched her arm, and spoke. Tom could not hear what he said but he could imagine. ‘Miss McGuigan, I wonder if you would accompany me …’

  He saw her startled response; for just a brief second her whole demeanour registered something like fear. Then her chin was up, her expression haughty, as she demanded, no doubt, to know what they wanted with her, why she was being prevented from taking the seat she had reserved. More conversation, this time with gesticulations that spoke louder than words. ‘ My luggage is on its way to the United States!’ he could imagine her protesting.

  The policeman was polite but firm. Moments later he and Vaness
a left the terminus, his hand still lightly resting on her elbow.

  Tom stood up; passengers for the New York flight had all gone through now, the next lot of bored travellers were congregating.

  Outside it was raining, a thick, warm mist. Across the tarmac he could see Vanessa being helped into a waiting car; closer at hand the second policeman was still looking round, the collar of his jacket turned up against the rain, his eyes narrowed in a sort of watchful resignation. Of Greg Martin, or anyone who might have been Greg Martin, there was no sign.

  Tom swore, quietly but vehemently, and made for his own car before he was spotted and blamed for this whole fiasco.

  The Convent of Our Blessed Lady straddled the hillside on the steepest side of the island of Savarelli, a gaunt old building reached by a stairway of stone steps cut into the sloping ground.

  In its time it had provided a haven for the sick, particularly those suffering from mental or psychological disorders, as well as a retreat, but nowadays it was no longer used for this purpose, Harriet had been told when she had enquired at the hotel. Modern medicine and treatments in specialist institutions on the mainland had rendered it unnecessary and the few members of the order who still lived there occupied their days with their devotions and with working together to eke out a communal existence.

  It was a pity, Harriet thought, for there was an atmosphere of peace here which was very soothing and the very stones exuded that feeling of goodness that comes to a place that has been hallowed ground for many centuries.

  She paused for a moment on the stairway looking down at the sea, grey and windswept today, far below, and wondering if her mother had once stood here. Had she been aware of her surroundings? Or had she gone too far into the nightmare world of the schizophrenic to know or care?

  A sister came towards her down the steps carrying a large basket – going to the village for fresh fish for lunch, perhaps. She would have a long walk along the mule tracks – those same tracks that Harriet had just followed, winding around the hillside. She looked questioningly at Harriet, who was all too aware of her scant knowledge of Italian.

  ‘I would like to speak to someone who was here when the convent was a hospital,’ she said.

  The nun’s expression was puzzled, her eyes piercing blue in her ageless unmade-up face.

  ‘Mi dispiacio, non capisco …’

  Harriet struggled with her phrase-book Italian.

  ‘Parla qualcuno qui inglese?’ (Does someone here speak English?)

  She knew her pronunciation was suspect and the nun continued to look perplexed.

  ‘Non lo so …’ Suddenly her unlined face lit up with a sweet, almost childlike smile. ‘Si! Si!’ She turned back into the building, indicating that Harriet should follow, and then leading the way along a stone-flagged passage, through a cloister topped with what might have been a Norman gallery, and into the part of the building which Harriet guessed had once housed the hospital. The floors here were polished stone tiles, the walls white-painted. The nun tapped on a door, a solid chunk of some dark gnarled wood, and opened it when bidden.

  The room was sparsely furnished with heavy old furniture that looked as if it might have been fashioned from the same wood as the door but on a pedestal in a corner a statue of Our Lady smiled serenely at the Holy Child in her arms and on the wall immediately facing the door an ancient and probably priceless triptych glowed with the rich colours that had survived down the centuries. At a huge cluttered desk a nun was working. She looked up, pushing her little round spectacles up her nose and straightening her veil as they came into the room and Harriet saw that although her face too was curiously unlined she was much older. The nun who had met her on the steps addressed the other in rapid Italian and Harriet waited. Then, to her utter amazement, the older nun spoke with an American accent.

  ‘You are looking for somebody who can speak English, I believe.’ Her eyes twinkled mischievously behind her spectacles at Harriet’s surprise. ‘I’m Sister Anne. How can I help you?’

  Harriet held out her hand.

  ‘Harriet Varna. I was hoping to speak to someone who was here when the convent was a hospital – about twenty years ago. I’m led to believe my mother was a patient here. Were you …?’

  Sister Anne shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I have only been here the last five years. In fact it is less than ten since I took my vows. I was a late convert, you might say – though I sometimes think God called me in order to make use of what few talents I had in the outside world – I was a book keeper with a firm of solicitors in Boston.’

  ‘Then perhaps you have heard of my mother,’ Harriet said eagerly. ‘Paula Varna. And my father is Hugo Varna, the fashion designer.’

  ‘Varna, yes. I don’t have much interest in fashion, of course …’ another wicked twinkle, ‘… but I believe I have heard the name. And your mother was a patient here, you say?’

  ‘Twenty years ago, yes. She was suffering some kind of mental breakdown, I believe.’

  ‘Yes.’ The nun’s face saddened. ‘ She would have been. All the patients here came into that category. Some came looking for peace … I hope God was merciful and they found it. Some were brought here by their families – brushed under the carpet so to speak when they became a nuisance or an embarrassment. Very sad, but I believe we did a good job, providing them with every comfort and love and the peace of God. However, the authorities didn’t think we were capable of running what amounted to an institution, even though we had been doing it very successfully for many years. They closed us down – I say ‘‘us’’ but of course it all happened before my time.’

  Harriet nodded. The nun’s reference to relatives ‘sweeping sufferers under the carpet’ had upset her again. Wasn’t that exactly what Sally had done?

  ‘How is your mother now?’ Sister Anne asked.

  Harriet pressed her fingertips on to the surface of the huge old desk, staring down at them.

  ‘My mother is dead.’

  ‘Oh, I am so sorry …’

  ‘At least, I think she is. That is really what I’ve come here to try and find out.’

  The nun tilted her head quizzically, waiting. Behind her spectacles her eyes were bright and sharp. Harriet pushed her hair behind her ear with a quick defensive movement.

  ‘It sounds silly, I know. And it’s rather a long story.’

  Sister Anne glanced at the first nun, spoke in rapid Italian, and smiled gently at Harriet.

  ‘I’ve asked her to rustle us up some coffee. I guess you’d like a cup. Won’t you sit down, Miss Varna?’

  Harriet sat, relieved.

  ‘Now, perhaps you’d like to tell me what all this is about and I’ll see what I can do to help you.’

  It was very peaceful in the room. Soft grey fight filtered in through the window and only the distant sound of a bell broke the stillness. It might have been a confessional, Harriet thought, and wished, for the first time in her life, that she had been brought up to a strong religious faith.

  ‘I was told when I was four years old that my mother was dead,’ she began and the simple statement opened the way. It was easy, suddenly, to talk about Paula, a relief to be able to express her doubts and fears to this calm kindly woman. The other nun brought coffee in enormous breakfast-sized cups of plain white pottery but Harriet’s remained untouched on the dark wood desk until she had finished.

  She raised her eyes to see Sister Anne looking at her with compassion and sadness.

  ‘You poor child.’

  Ridiculously Harriet felt like crying. It was years since anyone had spoken to her in such gentle tones and she could not remember anyone ever calling her ‘a poor child’.

  ‘Can you help me?’ she asked. ‘I have to find out the truth, Sister, whatever it might be.’

  The nun nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘All the old records will be filed away and I expect we could turn them up for you. But I’ve a notion I can do better than that. Most of the nursing sisters moved on when the hospi
tal closed to carry out their duties elsewhere. But one or two were too old.’ She smiled gently. ‘A nun never retires from being a nun, but the time comes when she can no longer be a nurse. They remained here.’

  A nerve jumped in Harriet’s throat.

  ‘Sister Maria Theresa?’

  The small bright eyes sharpened.

  ‘Now how do you know that?’

  ‘It was she who wrote to my father. Is she still here?’

  ‘Yes, she is. I don’t know how much help she will be to you. She tends to be a little forgetful – she is over eighty years old now. But there are times when her mind is as sharp and clear as yours and mine – and old people often remember events that occurred many years ago more clearly than what happened yesterday.’

  A pulse was throbbing in Harriet’s temple. She pressed on it with her fingers to still it.

  ‘Could I talk to he?’

  ‘Wait here, my dear. I’ll see what I can do.’

  Their return was heralded by the tapping of a stick on the stone-tiled passageway. Harriet turned as the door opened.

  ‘This is Sister Maria Theresa,’ Sister Anne said.

  Sister Maria Theresa was small and birdlike with a wizened face that reminded Harriet of a little brown monkey. Although she leaned heavily on her stick her movements were quick and jerky and her eyes were bright and alive. Sister Anne pulled up a chair for her but for a moment she stood staring at Harriet in almost disbelieving wonder.

  ‘So you are the daughter of Paula. Si, I can see it.’ Her English was broken, spoken with a strong regional accent in a sharp querulous voice but totally comprehensible. ‘You are like her.’

  ‘Harriet wants to know about her mother,’ Sister Anne said, quite loudly as if she knew the older woman’s hearing was somewhat impaired. ‘You do remember Paula, then?’

  ‘Si … si… of course I remember. It was I, Maria Theresa, who cared for her, was it not? I speak a little English so she became my special charge. Though she would say little enough, and often I do not know if she hear what I say to her.’