Vow of Chastity

by Veronica Black

  ‘It’s Padraic Lee, yes.’ Sister Joan half rose but he had spotted them and was entering the cafe.

  ‘Sister Joan, I thought as how it was you. Sister.’ Seeing her companion he touched his forelock in an old-fashioned gesture that should have looked ridiculous but didn’t.

  ‘Sister Hilaria is the novice mistress,’ Sister Joan said. ‘She has just had a tooth out.’

  ‘Nasty.’ He clicked his tongue in sympathy. ‘Sister Joan, I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve been everywhere I can think of to ask but there’s no sign of Petroc. I went back to the camp but nobody’s seen a sign of him. Young Hagar said they took a walk up by the pool last evening but it looked like rain so she came back. She’d had a row with her brother, Conrad, on account of him telling her she didn’t help out sufficient, so she went off in a paddy and met Petroc up by the willows.’

  ‘And? – please, sit down. I’ll get you a cup of coffee,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Nothing for me, thank you. I’ve a fancy for something stronger to tell you the truth and that’s not like me.’ He pulled up a spare chair and sat down, his brow furrowed. ‘I questioned Hagar close and she said she’d let off steam a bit about Conrad and Petroc said he saw her point of view and then he said he had to go and ran off and she came back to camp.’

  ‘He didn’t say where he was going?’

  ‘Not according to Hagar. She called after him that it looked like rain and he called back that he’d soon be under cover. That’s all. Sister, I fear we’ll have to report he’s missing, little though I enjoy meddling with the law.’

  ‘That’s a very sensible decision,’ Sister Joan approved.

  ‘In fact I was on my way to the station when I saw you through the window‚’ Padraic continued. ‘I was wondering if you might – possibly –?’ He hesitated.

  ‘You would like Sister Joan to report it‚’ Sister Hilaria said surprisingly.

  ‘That’s the way of it. Truth is that I’m never – comfortable in a police station‚’ he said. ‘Mind, I’ve no criminal record but I never did trust a uniform.’

  ‘I’m sure Sister Joan would be happy to help out‚’ Sister Hilaria said. ‘If you can wait while I take another aspirin –’

  ‘Sister Hilaria, you ought to be back at the convent resting, not running around Bodmin‚’ Sister Joan said, observing the other’s increasing pallor with alarm.

  ‘I fear you are correct, Sister. The injection has certainly made me feel not quite myself‚’ Sister Hilaria admitted. ‘Mr Lee, if you would be so kind as to take me back in your vehicle then Sister Joan can follow in the car when she has made her report to the police officers. I will explain the circumstances to Mother Dorothy.’

  ‘It’s only a lorry‚’ Padraic said doubtfully.

  ‘Splendid. Sister Joan, thank you for the coffee. Most refreshing. Mr Lee?’ She rose, pulling the scarf up to her swollen cheek, and preceded Padraic to the door.

  ‘You’ll make it clear, Sister‚’ he lingered to say, ‘that the kids are well looked after? I’d not want them social workers messing round.’

  ‘I’ll do my best‚’ she promised, and watched him hurry after Sister Hilaria.

  The police station was at the corner of the next road, a panda car drawn up outside, the young policeman behind the wheel giving her an incurious glance as she went up the steps. Or had he been as young as all that? Perhaps she was ageing more rapidly than she had fancied.

  ‘May I help you, Sister?’ The policeman behind the desk was certainly verging on middle age. Sister Joan drew a breath and launched forth.

  ‘I am Sister Joan from the Order of the Daughters of Compassion. I also teach at the school up on the moor.’

  ‘Yes?’ A faint spark of interest had come into his heavy face. Probably he recalled the events of the previous year that had ended so tragically for some.*

  ‘One of my pupils has been missing since last evening. His uncle has asked me to report the matter.’

  ‘Why not come in himself?’

  ‘The child is from the Romany camp.’

  ‘A gyppo, eh?’

  ‘A Romany child,’ she corrected, wincing slightly. ‘I said that I would come in and give you the details.’

  ‘Right then. Oh, come round and sit down, Sister.’ He lifted the wooden barrier, indicated a chair, and drew a form towards him.

  ‘The child’s name is Petroc Lee,’ Sister Joan said. ‘He’s twelve years old, tall for his age, slim with dark eyes and hair, olive skin, gold ring in one ear. I don’t know what he was wearing – jeans and sweater, I imagine.’

  ‘Would his uncle be Padraic Lee?’ The policeman looked up.

  ‘Yes. The boy’s father is in gaol – a minor offence, I believe, and his mother left. Do you know Mr Lee?’

  ‘I do and a right – pleasant gentleman he seems to be,’ the policeman said, meeting her steady gaze and obviously amending what he had intended to say.

  ‘Mr Lee shows a great interest in the welfare of his nephew,’ Sister Joan said. ‘He tells me that he saw the child last evening going off somewhere and assumed when the rain began at midnight that he’d already returned to his own wagon. This morning the wagon was empty with no signs of anyone having slept in it. I went up to the camp myself and, with permission, looked round the wagon myself. Nothing seems to have been taken and he left his money box behind.’

  ‘And you sorted through everything and left your prints everywhere, Sister?’

  ‘Prints? Why, yes, I suppose I did but I didn’t think –’

  ‘The public,’ he said sadly, ‘never does. Go on. Was his uncle the last person to see him?’

  ‘His friend, Hagar Smith, another of my pupils, walked with him as far as the trees fringing the pool. He said he had somewhere to go and ran off.’

  ‘Anything else?’ His biro was poised.

  ‘Apparently – I have this only at second hand from Mr Lee – Petroc said he’d soon be under cover, referring to the threatened rain which didn’t actually begin until later.’

  ‘How old is this Hagar?’ He was making notes.

  ‘Hagar Smith. She’s twelve. Her brother, Conrad, is also in my school.’ Realizing that she was beginning to chatter nervously she bit her lip.

  ‘It’s not our concern if they haven’t moved on into the secondary school,’ he said. ‘If the education authority’s content they’re getting an adequate education then it’s fine by us. Would you say this Hagar is a truthful child?’

  ‘She’s never told me a lie to my knowledge.’

  ‘And the boy? Ever been in trouble?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. He’s lively.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have a photograph?’

  She shook her head regretfully. ‘The Romanies are apt to be superstitious about having their photographs taken. His uncle may have one somewhere.’

  ‘Left it a bit late to report a missing child, haven’t you?’ He was reaching for the telephone.

  ‘I only learned of it this morning when Mr Lee came over to the school to see if Petroc had turned up there. I gave the children the rest of the day off and went first to the camp – leaving my fingerprints.’ She made an apologetic little gesture. ‘I had to come into town with one of the other sisters who required dental treatment, and we met Mr Lee again. He told me there had been a search but without results and asked me to come here.’

  ‘Can you let me have a list of your pupils?’ He turned away, talking rapidly into the telephone, giving details of the paper he had just filled in.

  ‘Why?’ Sister Joan asked when he turned to her again. ‘Why do you need the other names? I’m sure they don’t know anything helpful.’

  ‘As to that we’ll have to see, won’t we, Sister? If the lad was going somewhere last evening maybe he mentioned something to one of the others. You’ve only got a small school, haven’t you?’

  ‘Ten pupils when they’re all there.’

  ‘Yes?’ He had taken another piece of paper and was l
ooking at her expectantly.

  ‘Mr Lee’s two little girls, Tabitha and Edith, attend. They’re aged six and seven, and they’re cousins to Petroc. Then there’s Petroc himself, and the two Smith children, Conrad and Hagar. The other Romany children are either too young for school or attend the one in Bodmin – when they attend anywhere.’

  ‘And the other five?’

  ‘The Penglow children, Madelyn and David come to the school. They’ll both start in Bodmin next term; Timothy Holt, the son of a local farmer – the Penglows are farmers too – Billy Wesley, a bit of a harum scarum but a nice boy, and Samantha Olive – they are newcomers to the district. Samantha is eleven.’

  ‘Would you be kind enough to jot down their addresses, Sister?’ He passed paper and pen to her, rose and went into an inner room. There was the murmur of voices.

  She wrote steadily, finishing just as he returned.

  ‘All done, Sister? That’ll be very useful.’

  ‘I’ve added the telephone numbers where there are any,’ she pointed out. ‘Sergeant, I don’t want you to think that because Petroc is a Romany child his relatives are not concerned about him. The children from the camp grow up fast, become self-reliant at an early age, but their families still care.’

  ‘So,’ said the sergeant, ‘do the police. One more thing, Sister. Could you step into the back and permit us to take your fingerprints for elimination purposes?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m afraid that I simply didn’t think – you’re going to search the wagon? That doesn’t mean –?’

  ‘It means we’re making routine enquiries. Sister. Don’t start imagining what isn’t there,’ he advised.

  She bit back a retort and followed him meekly. A couple of officers were studying a map of the district, glancing up briefly as she went in.

  ‘Just dip your fingers in this, Sister. You can wash your hands immediately you’ve finished. Officer Lloyd will see to you.’

  Obediently she submitted, washed her hands at the small sink in the corner, and stood uncertainly until the desk sergeant came over again.

  ‘As soon as the lad turns up your prints will be destroyed‚’ he said. ‘No need to worry on that score.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ she said with dignity.

  ‘Now will you want transport home?’ He looked at her with a kindly air. ‘You said you were with another nun?’

  ‘She got a lift from Mr Lee and I have the convent car here.’

  ‘The one Sister Margaret drives?’ He raised his eyes briefly to heaven. ‘All right, Sister. Thank you for coming in. Try not to worry.’

  As well tell the wind not to blow, she reflected, coming out into the street. Petroc had been missing now for nearly twenty-four hours.

  There remained one other task for her to do before she drove back to the convent. She had contemplated mentioning it to the sergeant but his remark about imagining things had effectively silenced her. The trouble was that she might be imagining that something needed to be explained about Kiki Svenson’s abrupt departure from the Olive household.

  She walked to the nearest call box, took the slip of paper out of her purse, and dialled the London number. Later on she would think about the fact that she was making a telephone call without permission.

  ‘Yes?’ The voice at the other end was female, middle-aged, slightly husky.

  ‘May I speak to Kiki Svenson, please?’

  ‘If I knew where she was you could‚’ the voice said wearily. ‘I’ve had a procession of boyfriends on the telephone, not to mention her family. Not one word in over a month – and no rent paid.’

  ‘You knew she went down to Cornwall?’

  ‘As an au pair? Yes, she mentioned it, asked me to hold her room in case she didn’t like it. Paid a month in advance before she left – and then nothing. It’s not good enough. I don’t rent out bedsitters for fun.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t.’ Sister Joan spoke rapidly, afraid the other might hang up. ‘My name is Sister Joan; I’m a nun at the local convent here. If I give you the convent telephone number would you give it to Miss Svenson when she returns and ask her to ring me immediately. It’s important.’

  ‘I’ll get a pencil,’ the voice at the other end said wearily.

  Sister Joan gave the number clearly, repeated her name, assured the landlady that she was sure Kiki would be back soon with an explanation and the missing rent and hung up, the feeling of sickness inside her intensifying. Not a physical sickness but a reaction of her body to mental strain, she thought clinically, and drew several long, satisfying breaths as she came out of the close confines of the kiosk.

  The afternoon was well advanced. She would have to hurry or miss the cup of tea the sisters drank before they retired to their cells or to the library for the two hours of religious studies that preceded Benediction.

  ‘What makes you think that you’ll be able to stand the routine?’ Jacob had mocked when she had made it clear her decision was firm. ‘You find it hard to wake up in time for your Sunday mass.’

  ‘It will be very good for me,’ she had retorted then. ‘I need something to keep me in order.’

  ‘What’s so good about order? What’s wrong with a little divine untidiness?’ he had demanded.

  Jacob had been wrong, she thought, walking rapidly to the car. There had to be order to provide the loom on which one could weave a life. Whatever the outer and inner troubles that preoccupied her there was always the unchanging routine of the convent day to remind her that stability was the framework of existence.

  ‘We are not an entirely closed Order,’ her former prioress had said. ‘The founder of the Daughters of Compassion believed that it was possible to combine Saint Martha and Saint Mary Magdalene in a well-rounded life. To earn a living is a praiseworthy occupation, whether as teacher, librarian, nurse – anything that serves the community at large in a lawful way. But the work must rest upon a solid foundation of prayer, worship, contemplation.’

  Sister Joan wondered what Jacob would say if he were to meet her now, to hear that after six years she would have felt lost without the two hours or devotions that began every day, the two hours of religious study that brought the working day to a close and the evenings filled by Benediction, a meatless supper, an hour of recreation during which each sister must have her hands occupied with sewing or knitting, the final half-hour in chapel, the blessing that marked the start of the grand silence. By 9.30 she was in bed when six or seven years before she would have been putting on her eye-shadow and sallying forth to a wine bar. The woman of six years before would, she thought, have read in the newspaper about the disappearance of a child, said indignantly that there were some wicked people in the world, and turned the page.

  She drove back at a moderate speed, becoming increasingly confident as her old skill revived, but unwilling to relinquish the sense of mobility and freedom that being behind the wheel brought. It was also, she thought ruefully, a way of postponing the inevitable when alone with her thoughts she would have to decide how far she was entitled to involve herself in Kiki Svenson’s disappearance, in the search for Petroc Lee.

  Sister Margaret was hovering anxiously in the yard when she drove up, her round face relaxing into a smile as Sister Joan alighted.

  ‘No problems with the car, Sister?’

  ‘Not even a scrape‚’ Sister Joan assured her, handing over the keys.

  ‘Our Dear Lord would certainly not have allowed anything to happen while you were on a mission of mercy,’ Sister Margaret said comfortably. ‘Sister Hilaria has gone to lie down until suppertime. Fortunately it’s soup tonight, so she won’t need to chew much. Did you report the little boy’s disappearance to the police? We have all been praying about it.’

  ‘The police were very kind. They’ve started their enquiries.’

  ‘Then we must hope for a happy result, mustn’t we? Oh, Mother Dorothy would like to have a word.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister.’

  Tapping on the parlour door she
reminded herself that she had a telephone call on her conscience.

  ‘Sister Hilaria arrived home in a lorry,’ the prioress said without preamble. ‘I doubt if it gives a very good impression to the neighbourhood when Daughters of Compassion are seen whizzing around in lorries with somewhat suspect companions. However for this one occasion it has to be tolerated. It was most sensible of you to take Sister for a warm drink. The tooth extraction was more painful than she will admit. You have seen the police?’

  ‘Yes, Mother Dorothy. They took down all the details.’

  ‘We will pray that there is a happy result. Boys do sometimes wander off and think it a great adventure,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘But these days – the world sometimes seems to me to be regressing into barbarism. Is something else on your mind, Sister Joan?’

  ‘Yes, Reverend Mother,’ Sister Joan said simply.

  ‘Yet you hesitate to confide in me. No, don’t jerk your chin at me in that undutiful manner. It is a most eloquent chin but it cannot alter facts. I am well aware that since you came to us last year you have found it difficult to accept me as prioress instead of your former prioress in your mother house. Mother Agnes is a woman of subtle and godly gifts, Sister. If the rest of us find it difficult to live up to her high standards then you must bear with us.’

  ‘Mother Dorothy, I never meant to imply –’ Sister Joan began, horrified.

  ‘I was elected as prioress because, I suspect, the community felt that a practical person was required here. This entire convent was tipping over into hysterical nonsense. You helped to bring it to an end for which we owe you gratitude, but it must be sometimes a temptation to wish for more excitement, a cause, a white horse to ride. You do not talk over problems with your superior because you like her personally. You do so as a matter of obedience.’

  ‘I took action without asking first for permission,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘There is an American term, I believe,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘So tell me something new – that is how it goes. What is your latest misdemeanour, Sister Joan?’

  ‘When I’d made the report to the police I made a telephone call. I ought to have returned first to the convent and asked for permission, but I didn’t.’