Death of a Novice

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Your mind is moving onto murder. Is that right? Don’t think that it was an accident?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said the Reverend Mother miserably. ‘What about you? Are you going to ask the police to open a murder enquiry?’

  ‘It goes automatically to the coroner as I can’t certify it as a natural death. And yes, it will end up on the police desk if neither of us can think of a plausible reason for Sister Gertrude to consume one or another form of alcohol in sufficient quantities to poison and kill her.’

  The Reverend Mother thought about this and then shook her head. ‘No, Dr Scher,’ she said. ‘You will have to inform the police. This death needs to be properly investigated.’

  ‘I’ll do that, then.’ A yawn escaped him. He would still be tired after his trip on the ferry between Cork and Liverpool. She rose to her feet.

  ‘You’re tired,’ she said. ‘Don’t work too hard today, but I wonder whether, on your way home, it would be possible for you to drop into the printing works and ask Eileen MacSweeney whether she could come and see me. I shouldn’t ask you when you are so tired, but …’

  ‘Only three minutes around the corner from me.’ He said the words in an absent-minded fashion, visibly curious about this request. ‘What was the name of those women that held those classes?’ he asked.

  ‘Mary and Annie MacSwiney. Nothing to do with Eileen MacSweeney,’ she said, replying to his unasked question. ‘The name is spelled differently. No, no relation to Eileen. Mary MacSwiney was born in England. Her mother was English, though her father had Irish connections.’

  ‘But she runs those classes for the Gaelic League. That’s right, isn’t it? Now that I come to think of it, I believe that I have heard of the lady. Odd, isn’t it, brought up in England and an Irish fanatic.’ His eyes were very shrewd as they looked at her and she had the feeling that he was reading her thoughts, understanding her fears and her doubts. She gave a nod.

  ‘We have a saying here in Ireland, Dr Scher, “hiberniores hibernis ipsis” – more Irish than the Irish themselves. It was said hundreds of years ago about the first Norman/English settlers in Ireland, people like the Earl of Desmond who loved everything Irish and ran into conflict with Queen Elizabeth. It’s been seen down through the ages and Mary MacSwiney, despite her birth and heritage, despite her early education in England, despite her English mother, despite the fact that she trained as a teacher at Cambridge University, taught in an English school, speaks, still, with what sounds to us like an English accent, nevertheless, I would deem her to be a fanatical Republican, obsessively opposed to the treaty that was hammered out by Michael Collins and his men.’

  ‘And you are a little worried that your novices might have got themselves caught up in some Republican business.’

  It was, she thought, a valid speculation on his part. After all, why did she want to see her former pupil Eileen MacSweeney? The girl might have given up her active involvement in the illicit activities of the rebellious Republicans, but she still knew many of them and would still have plenty of information. The struggle still went on and only recently there had been an attack by the Irish Republican Army on British troops in Cork harbour. Mary MacSwiney made little secret of the fact that she was strongly on the side of the anti-treaty Republicans and completely against the present government in Ireland. Had she been stupid to allow her novices to attend these classes? And yet perfectly respectable and law-abiding people in Cork had entrusted their precious children into the hands of Mary MacSwiney. There had never been any attempt to indoctrinate the pupils in the school. She had heard that from many sources.

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself too much,’ said Dr Scher struggling to raise his bulk from the comfortable easy chair. ‘It will probably prove to have nothing to do with Republicans, nothing to do with those Gaelic League evening classes. Girls sometimes swallow strange stuff, to clear their skin, to make themselves lose weight.’

  ‘She wasn’t like that.’ The Reverend Mother, also, rose to her feet. ‘She was hardly a girl. She was twenty-two years old, mature, sensible, cheerful and well-balanced, I would have said. I relied on her good sense and on her judgement.’ And then, suddenly, she remembered the missing tin of treacle. Had that ever turned up in the convent kitchen? Could it have anything to do with Sister Gertrude’s death? She would speak to Sister Bernadette before she said anything about it.

  ‘Well, I’ll send your little favourite Eileen to you,’ said Dr Scher, injecting a note of cheerfulness into his voice. ‘She’s got a bank account now, did she tell you? She’s getting a little sceptical about this promised golden dawn of Patrick Pearse when “all children of the nation shall be cherished equally” and so the girl has bought herself a second-hand typewriter and is busy earning money in the evenings to send herself to university. Great little typist. Beautiful work. Persuaded me into writing a book about Irish silver. Nags me for the next bit every time that she sees me.’

  ‘And I suppose that you pay her double what she is worth.’ Despite her worries, the Reverend Mother felt a smile lift her spirits. It would be good to discuss the whole matter with Eileen. Perhaps these Gaelic League classes had been innocuous and Sister Gertrude’s death due to some terrible accident which could not have been foreseen and could not be the fault of anyone.

  ‘When you see Patrick, tell him that I shall be here and ready to see him any time,’ she said. ‘He’ll want to take a statement from the novices and other members of the community, also and I will arrange for him to have one of the parlours,’ she added. In general, novices should be chaperoned by another nun when in the presence of a man, but she decided that she would conveniently forget that rule. There were some odd undercurrents here and the priority had to be to uncover the truth as soon as possible.

  NINE

  St Thomas Aquinas

  Sic ergo summum gradum in religionibus tenent quae ordinantur ad docendum et praedicandum.

  (Thus the highest place in religious orders is held, therefore, by those who are dedicated to teaching and instructing.)

  When Dr Scher had left, the Reverend Mother did not turn immediately to her letter writing, begging letters, she thought ruefully. She had been planning a new and original project to touch the heart and purse of the managers of insurance companies, something about cutting the rate of crime, of reducing burglaries in the shops of Cork and thereby increasing the profits of insurance companies; something about the future; something that would sound well and could form a good headline on the Cork Examiner, with, of course, a list of businessmen who had generously contributed to that worthy cause. Well-educated children tended to get jobs; that was her theme, or to go to England, she admitted privately to herself. Surely it would be to the advantage of insurance companies if these potential young criminals did well in school, as they might do if she could afford an extra teacher to give special attention to those with difficulties in learning to read. Her experience was that if a child had not learned to read by seven, then they would continue to fail throughout the rest of their time in school. A dedicated teacher, one especially trained, Montessori or Froebel, perhaps, someone who understood how young minds worked, someone who would give extra lessons to these children with difficulties – if only she could afford to hire someone like that. She would think up a catchy title for the project – Insuring the Future. That sounded good, sounded like something that would appeal to hard-headed businessmen, she thought and cheered by her brainwave she set to work.

  ‘Dear Mr O’Callaghan,’ she wrote. ‘I remember how generous you have been to us in the past …’ She held her Waterman fountain pen poised in the air for a second and then put it down with a sigh. Sister Bernadette again.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Reverend Mother.’ Sister Bernadette paused in the doorway, looking hesitant and unhappy.

  ‘Come in, sister.’ The Reverend Mother replaced the cap on her new pen, a present from her cousin Lucy and turned an attentive face to the lay sister. It was unusual to see Sister Ber
nadette look so troubled.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Reverend Mother,’ repeated Sister Bernadette. She came in and shut the door carefully behind her and placed a lidded basket on the table by the window. ‘And I don’t like bearing tales, but I think that you should know about this.’ And then she opened the basket, removed a duster and took from the basket two small boxes, bearing the legend ‘For the Foreign Missions’.

  The Reverend Mother looked at the boxes with bewilderment. Surely Sister Bernadette was not about to suggest that she stop collecting money for the poor of Cork and concentrate on the Foreign Missions instead.

  ‘I just thought since I had a bit of time on my hands that I would give a good going-over to the novices’ dormitory,’ explained Sister Bernadette. ‘I know they are supposed to keep it clean and neat themselves, but you know what young girls are like, Reverend Mother. Dust balls by the legs of the bed, cobwebs behind the curtains, grime at the back of the washstands …’

  ‘And you found these.’ The Reverend Mother nodded towards the collecting boxes.

  ‘That’s right.’ Sister Bernadette was having to think now before proceeding. A very practical woman with lots of common sense, she had, as long as the Reverend Mother had known her, completely and without resentment, accepted the differences between lay sisters and the ordained nuns. That did not stop her from a certain motherliness and decided indulgence which she bestowed upon the young of both sectors. The fact that she had brought these two boxes to the Reverend Mother showed that she recognized the serious implications for her find.

  ‘One under Sister Joan’s bed and the other under Sister Brigid’s. Tucked right up next to the bed leg, between it and the wall. No one would notice if they weren’t down on their hands and knees.’

  The two women stared at the find with shared dismay. Two flimsy cardboard boxes, oblong, lidded, six-sided, made with a slot for a coin on the lid. Would be used by orders of nuns such as the Missionary Sisters of St Columban who made periodic visits back to their home country in order to organize nationwide collections to fund their work in Africa or China.

  ‘What on earth have they been up to?’ breathed the Reverend Mother.

  Sister Bernadette shook her head sadly. She had too much common sense to put forward some religious explanation. She went to the window and peered out through the fog, taking the opportunity to swab the moisture with the duster that was permanently tucked into the belt around her broad waist. She kept her back turned and allowed the Reverend Mother some time for her thoughts.

  ‘You’d better send them to me,’ said the Reverend Mother, recovering herself. ‘Take your basket, but leave the boxes.’

  ‘Yes, Reverend Mother,’ said Sister Bernadette, obediently. But as she turned to go, the Reverend Mother suddenly thought of something. Something sweet, Dr Scher had said. This alcohol which was not real alcohol, not beer or whiskey or anything like that, this ethylene glycol which was a deadly poison. A syrup which could be hidden in something sweet.

  ‘Oh, Sister Bernadette,’ she enquired, ‘has the tin of treacle turned up?’

  Sister Bernadette blushed. ‘I suppose Sister Imelda told you about that. I blamed her without thinking. Poor little thing. Such a nice little girl. Best little helper that I’ve ever had in the kitchen. Cheerful and willing. I’ve said sorry to her, but I’ll have to find a little treat for her, as well. No, it wasn’t her at all.’

  ‘No?’ queried the Reverend Mother.

  Sister Bernadette hesitated. ‘Well, I wasn’t going to say anything about it to you, Reverend Mother. After all, she’s only young and she does a lot of praying. Takes the energy out of you, too much praying,’ stated Sister Bernadette, looking anxiously at her superior. ‘I dare say that she meant to return it. She’d be waiting for an opportunity. Found it under her bed when I was cleaning the novices’ dormitory. A nervous sort of girl. I wouldn’t like to get her into trouble with Sister Mary Immaculate. It doesn’t matter that much. I’m not going to miss the odd spoon of treacle.’

  A nervous sort of girl. Wouldn’t like to get her into trouble with Sister Mary Immaculate. The Reverend Mother restrained her eyebrows from moving up towards her wimple. ‘Do you mean Sister Catherine, Sister Bernadette?’

  ‘That’s right. No harm done, though, Reverend Mother. A few tablespoons gone, but plenty left. I always order those big tins and they last me through the year. Don’t worry about it, Reverend Mother. These young girls, they miss the little treats of home, you know,’ said Sister Bernadette compassionately.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said the Reverend Mother slowly. ‘Perhaps you had better send her to me, also. Tell them I want to speak to all three of them. Don’t worry, I’ll just enquire whether any of them know anything about these things found in the dormitory. I won’t say much about the treacle, but I must deal with it.’ There was, she thought, something very puzzling about this last find. As the lay sister was on her way to the door, she said, casually, ‘Did you notice at any time before now that Sister Catherine had a sweet tooth, Sister Bernadette?’

  ‘Well, no, I didn’t, not like Sister Gertrude, God have mercy on her. Now she was a one that liked her pudding, used to have jokes with me about it. “Any second helps, Sister Bernadette,” she used to say to me. Joking, you know. Full of life and fun, she was. Poor girl. We’ll miss her!’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said the Reverend Mother gently. ‘We’ll miss her.’ A novice to be missed, certainly. Confident and happy, quite unlike Sister Catherine. She sat for a moment thinking about the oddness of that theft.

  ‘Strange,’ she said aloud. ‘Sister Catherine, of them all. I could never have imagined her doing something like that.’

  ‘Well, she’s a poor little pisáin, though, isn’t she,’ said Sister Bernadette compassionately. ‘Very religious, of course, but that was the way that she was brought up. Wanted to be special. That would be it. A mammy’s girl. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. Mind you, no speaking ill of the dead, or anything, but I think that Sister Gertrude was a bit hard on her. Mocking her, you know. Pretending that she would tell the bishop something terrible about Sister Catherine. All a joke, of course, but Sister Catherine wouldn’t be one to take a joke. Crying she was. All upset. Only child, isn’t she? Mother a widow, a very starched sort of person, so the butcher was telling me once. And, of course, Sister Gertrude was a bit like that. Would have been brought up in a different way, very close to her father, she was, and men do like to tease, don’t they? She’d have picked it up from him. Meant no harm, but that was her idea of fun. And working there in Ford’s Factory, well she would have had a lot of argy-bargy with the lads working there. She wouldn’t realize that the poor little thing would take it all so seriously. All this talk about telling the bishop, just a joke, I suppose, that was what Sister Gertrude would think, but of course, frightened the life out of little Sister Catherine. Well, don’t you worry about the treacle, Reverend Mother! A little goes a long way, ever so sweet it is. And when all’s said and done, there’s probably only a few spoonfuls taken from the tin. I’ll go and send them all to you now. I’ll just say that you want a little chat …’

  And then Sister Bernadette took herself off, leaving the Reverend Mother rather ashamed of herself. Had she hardened over the years? Had her compassion for the poor and downtrodden denizens of the slums robbed her of sympathy for a novice under her care? And was the competent, self-assured and humorous Sister Gertrude a little too fond of ruling the other girls. Perhaps she was at fault in valuing the cheerful common sense and undoubted maturity of her latest recruit, over and above the more spiritual qualities of Sister Catherine.

  She would not, she thought, labour the point about the strangeness of Sister Catherine’s theft of a tin of treacle. One glance at the girl’s thin frame would be enough to reveal that this was a person who had no love of sugar. So why had she stolen a tin of treacle?

  Or had she?

  Very easy for a novice to place something under a bed that wa
s not her own. They had unrestricted access to their own territory and no one would question or even remember a visit.

  When they arrived in her room, at first glance she saw that only Sister Catherine looked serenely unaware of any significance for this summons. Sister Joan’s small eyes were wary and apprehensive. A courageous girl, though. When the Reverend Mother’s eyes met hers, she lifted her head and stared bravely back. Her heavy brows began to knit and the resolute mouth, with its protruding lower lip, slightly trembled before she tightened it into a narrow line. She had immediately guessed the significance of the summons. Brigid looked sideways at her friend, her dark brown eyes filling with tears and her small white teeth biting into her lip.

  ‘I wanted to have a talk with you,’ said the Reverend Mother cautiously. ‘There is one serious matter and one that may not be at all serious, so, perhaps, I’ll start with that affair. But first of all, I must say to you that Sister Bernadette who works so hard for us all should not feel that she had to clean your dormitory. I want you to take that seriously and to be sure that you clean everything, under the beds, the tops of the cupboards, everything like that.’ She ran out of ideas then, but kept her eyes fixed on the three girls.