Vow of Penance

by Veronica Black

  ‘Not so far.’ Sister Joan alighted, wild garlic in hand. ‘I met Padraic on the way and he gave me these for you, together with his respects.’

  ‘That man is a joy and a godsend,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘Mind, the year’s early for the garlic but the young shoots are marvellous provided they’ve escaped the frost. So what’s going on at the presbytery? We had prayers here for Mrs Fairly. Poor soul! she must have had a mental breakdown or something. I never met her more than once or twice myself but Father Malone always spoke highly of her.’

  By this time they were in the kitchen – large, stone flagged and blessedly familiar. Sister Teresa looked up with pleasure in her face from the knives and forks she was cleaning and from the infirmary Sister Gabrielle’s hoarse old voice called, ‘Back like a bad penny, girl? Your cooking wasn’t missed but you were.’

  ‘They like my cooking so well that they’re thinking of keeping me on as a permanent fixture,’ Sister Joan declared, darting through to the old ladies.

  ‘Then Father Stephens isn’t the gourmet he pretends to be,’ Sister Gabrielle said. ‘You’d better make your report to Mother Dorothy but come in for a moment before you leave, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Sister.’ Smiling, she hurried on to the parlour, taking off her cloak as she went.

  ‘Dominus vobiscum.’ Mother Dorothy looked up expectantly from her desk as Sister Joan came in.

  ‘Et cum spiritu tuo.’ Sister Joan knelt and took the stool her superior indicated.

  ‘We didn’t expect to see you so soon, Sister,’ Mother Dorothy said.

  ‘Father Stephens asked me to bring over some books that Sister David requires for her research, Mother. They’re in the back of the car. And he asked me to tell you what’s been happening.’

  ‘Has anything been happening?’ The other gave her a mild look.

  ‘Mrs Fairly’s niece, Sylvia Potter, was expected at the presbytery today. Father Timothy went down to the station to meet her but she didn’t turn up. Father Stephens had a telephone call from the police telling him that she had been found dead at the side of the railway track a couple of stops up the line.’

  There was silence. Mother Dorothy’s pale face had paled further but her voice was steady when she said, ‘She was quickly identified then?’

  ‘She had identification on her and the address of the presbytery in her pocket so they rang the presbytery.’

  ‘How did she meet her death?’ Mother Dorothy’s face was very still. It was a sign that behind the small, impassive features her mind was working rapidly.

  ‘They’re still making enquiries,’ Sister Joan said. ‘It’s only that—’

  ‘Only that what, Sister?’

  ‘You may not have seen a newspaper, Mother. There was a report in the one that was delivered to the presbytery to say that an unidentified man had been found, badly mutilated, by the side of the track on the northern line.’

  ‘Not in the same place?’

  ‘No, Mother, much further north. I saw the headline when I took the newspaper into Father Stephens and I …’

  ‘Couldn’t resist reading the rest of it. In your case, Sister, that was only to be expected. Do you see any connection between the two?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Mother. The first victim hasn’t been identified yet. The body had been stripped.’

  ‘One would be tempted to lose faith in the essential goodness of creation if one were to read too many newspapers,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘It sounds like a most unhappy coincidence. Miss Potter’s death is very tragic though. Very sad indeed.’

  ‘Father Stephens is trying to contact the friend with whom she lived. That’s why he didn’t bring up the books himself.’

  ‘Then you had better give them to Sister David and you’ll want to spend a little time in chapel before you drive back. I don’t suppose that anyone has been interviewed for the post of housekeeper yet?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Mother.’

  ‘Well, I’ve given you one week’s leave from the enclosure,’ Mother Dorothy said, ‘so if they haven’t found anybody within that time then they will have to make shift to manage by themselves. I am of the opinion that a nun’s place is in the convent and not gadding about at everybody’s beck and call. You are not neglecting your spiritual duties?’

  ‘I am trying not to,’ Sister Joan said honestly.

  ‘Confine yourself to your housekeeping tasks then. I suppose there is no chance of Mrs Fairly’s death having been an accident?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Mill believes that it wasn’t suicide.’

  ‘Let us hope he is correct. If you were in the course of your duties and you were to chance upon something that strengthened that belief it would be your business then to acquaint him with it. I hope I make myself clear, Sister.’

  ‘Yes, Reverend Mother. Very clear.’

  She too had seen those films in which a double agent was sent out by MI5 with the words, ‘If anybody rumbles you then you’re on your own. We shall simply deny all knowledge of you.’

  ‘May I look in on Sister Gabrielle and Sister Mary Concepta before I leave?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, of course, Sister. And have a word with Sister Teresa too, will you? She looks a little troubled, I thought. Probably nothing important but she and you have worked together very amiably.’

  ‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’

  Rising, Sister Joan made her way across the hall into the chapel corridor. The chapel itself was silent, only the sanctuary lamp burning to remind those who came that the season of penance wouldn’t last for ever. She knelt down in her customary place, blessed herself, and asked silently for some guidance. In her experience it was often better to send up a simple request and wait for the answer which always came though not always in the manner one expected.

  Her petition winging on its way she rose and went up the stairs into the library. During Lent secular books were not read and Sister David used the breathing space to rebind, to check on stocks. She was here now, carefully pasting in small cards inside the front covers, her little rabbit face intent on her task.

  ‘Sister David?’

  ‘Sister Joan, how nice to see you here!’ The other looked up with genuine pleasure in her face.

  Sister David wasn’t the easiest of the community with whom to get along. She was inclined to pedantry and any sense of humour she might have possessed was well hidden. But there was something touchingly sweet about her earnestness.

  ‘Father Stephens sent me over with the books you needed for your project,’ Sister Joan said. ‘They’re on the back seat of the car. Would you like to come down and we’ll carry them up?’

  ‘Oh, I can manage them, Sister. How kind of Father to remember. He must have so many extra duties too since Father Malone went – no, I shall manage perfectly. Thank you.’

  She darted out, her sharp little nose positively quivering with eagerness. Sister Joan smiled after her and went on into the storeroom. If there had been time she would have spent half an hour sorting out the newspaper clippings for her scrapbook of the history of the district, but time was limited if she was to get back to the presbytery and make supper. Nevertheless she went over to the table and looked down at the neat piles of clippings.

  Someone had moved them. Not only moved them but also muddled them up. Irritated, she ruffled through a couple of the piles, seeing that not only days but years had been transposed. Someone had gone through the clippings, and clipped the piles together again at random.

  There wasn’t time to do anything about it now, and in any case it would be quite useless to try to guess if anything had been removed. She left the cuttings where they were and went back to the library as Sister David returned, books piled to her chin.

  ‘You should have let me help you, Sister.’ Sister Joan hastened to relieve her of her burden.

  ‘Oh no, Sister.’ Sister David pushed her spectacles higher on her nose. ‘It gives me real pleasure to be able to see and touch books that they se
em quite light when one comes to carry them! I couldn’t have asked for a better selection.’

  ‘How is your work going?’ Sister Joan asked.

  ‘Slowly but surely.’ Sister David flushed a little. ‘Of course one cannot spend too much time on it during Lent but eventually if it does find a publisher then the community will benefit quite considerably. At least one trusts so.’

  ‘And you might find yourself famous, Sister.’

  ‘Oh, God forbid!’ Sister David said with genuine horror. ‘That would be dreadful! Having one’s name known and reporters coming and – oh, I couldn’t bear that! No, I shall publish it anonymously of course.’

  ‘Sister, has anyone been up here recently?’ Sister Joan changed the subject somewhat abruptly, feeling as usual inadequate in the face of real humility.

  ‘Not to borrow any books, Sister. Not during Lent. Some of the sisters have brought books back, of course.’

  ‘So someone could have come up here?’

  ‘Why, yes, Sister, at any time, I suppose.’ Sister David looked bewildered. ‘But why would they?’

  ‘Some of the newspaper cuttings I was sorting out have been disturbed.’

  ‘The cuttings for the scrapbook? Oh, that’s dreadful!’ Sister David stared at her. ‘I hope that you don’t think that I – I would never do such a thing!’

  ‘No, of course I don’t,’ Sister Joan said warmly. ‘As you say anyone could have slipped up and taken a look and – muddled them. There’s no need to mention it. I don’t suppose that it’s important.’

  ‘But nobody has the right to meddle with someone else’s papers,’ Sister David said, distressed.

  ‘It’s not important,’ Sister Joan repeated.

  Going downstairs again she wondered if the rule of not meddling also applied to the possessions of the dead. Perhaps it was justified when one was trying to find out the truth.

  Sister Teresa was in the enclosed part of the visitors’ parlour, cleaning the grille that separated it from the part where visitors from outside the convent could enter through a side door that opened on to the garden and sit chatting for the permitted twenty minutes.

  ‘Sister, how are things going?’ Sister Joan entered the parlour and sat down on one of the two stools there.

  ‘Oh, all the sisters are being very helpful,’ Sister Teresa said. Her eyes were downcast and there was something evasive in her voice. Sister Joan, glancing at her sharply, decided that Reverend Mother had reason for concern. Teresa was a sturdy young woman whose placid manner and rosy cheeks betokened a contented nature and a healthy body. Today she looked pale and there were shadows beneath her eyes.

  ‘You’re not driving yourself too hard?’ she queried anxiously. ‘I think it was Saint Clare who told her nuns not to be too hard on themselves because bodies aren’t made of brass. You’re not fasting beyond the rule?’

  It was not, she reflected, any of her business but Mother Dorothy had requested her to have a quiet word, and Sister Teresa answered docilely, ‘No, Sister. I eat everything that’s allowed.’

  ‘In just over a year you’ll be a fully professed member of the community,’ Sister Joan said cheerfully, wondering if the trouble lay in the spiritual realm. ‘You must be feeling rather nervous at the prospect of a year’s seclusion but it isn’t as bad as one always imagines. Mother Dorothy and Father Malone will be talking to you and Sister Hilaria, of course, and the rest of us will be praying for you.’

  ‘Oh, going into seclusion doesn’t trouble me,’ Sister Teresa said. ‘It will give me the chance to look into my own heart before making the final commitment.’

  ‘But something is troubling you.’

  ‘Sister Joan, if someone you knew was doing something against the rule, something very much against the rule, and you weren’t yet fully professed, what would you do?’ Sister Teresa blurted.

  ‘Does this breach of the rule involve cruelty or distress to anybody else?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t think so. Nobody else knows about it except me. They’re all asl—’ Sister Teresa bit off the last word, looking painfully guilty.

  ‘You know sometimes the rule can be interpreted in a fairly relaxed way,’ Sister Joan said carefully. ‘When I had to ride Lilith to the schoolhouse every day Mother Dorothy allowed me to wear jeans under my habit. If it is medically advised a sister is permitted to eat meat for a period. These are all matters decided between the nun and her prioress.’

  ‘Surely a sister wouldn’t be allowed to go out walking all night!’

  ‘Out walking? You mean when the rest of the community is asleep? After the grand silence?’

  ‘I can’t help but hear the back door being unbolted,’ Sister Teresa said, looking miserable. ‘The first night just for an hour, but last night it was nearly time to get up again before Sis— the person returned.’

  ‘You’re talking about Sister Jerome, of course? She sleeps in the cell next to yours just off the kitchen.’

  ‘I do hate telling tales.’ Sister Teresa looked uncannily like the schoolgirl she must have been not many years before.

  ‘Nobody likes a snitch,’ Sister Joan agreed, ‘but when the rule is flouted then it is a big temptation to say something if only to prevent one’s Sister in Christ from falling into sin. It doesn’t mean we’re being spiteful.’

  ‘You’ll not say anything?’ Sister Teresa looked imploring.

  ‘Have you asked Sister Jerome why she goes out at night?’

  ‘Sister Jerome isn’t the kind of person one can easily ask.’

  ‘No. No, she isn’t.’ Sister Joan gnawed at her lower lip for a moment. ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘She went out mid-morning,’ Sister Teresa said. ‘She had leave to drive down into town to see the doctor there. Mother Dorothy gave her some things to buy – candles and polish and so on, and some garden tools, so she had quite a lot to do.’

  ‘Even though she’s sick?’

  ‘I don’t think she’s sick, Sister. She goes regularly to a doctor for some medicine or other, and as she’s only just come here she’ll need to sign on with a new doctor.’

  ‘Well, leave it with me.’ Sister Joan endeavoured to sound casual. ‘I’ll have a word with her if I see her – don’t worry, I’ll keep your name out of it. She may have leave to perform some unusual, and private penance, you know, so I’d put it out of my head if I were you.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister.’ The other looked marginally happier.

  ‘And I have to go or Father Stephens will be screaming for his supper. Do you know what medicine Sister Jerome takes? Another time I could pick it up for her myself.’

  ‘Valium,’ said Sister Teresa. ‘She takes a Valium before every meal. Sister Perpetua reckons that at the rate she takes them she must get through bottles of the stuff.’

  Nine

  What she needed to do was to find somewhere quiet where she could sit down and sort out the information she had into some kind of coherent order. For the moment however that was a luxury she couldn’t afford. She said reassuringly if inaccurately to Sister Teresa, ‘There, you see! Poor Sister Jerome suffers from insomnia. That’s probably why she was prescribed Valium in the first place. There’s nothing to worry your head about.’

  She went out into the passage briskly, wondering if that particular drug was ever prescribed for insomnia. Her own experience of medication was limited to an occasional aspirin and Sister Perpetua’s cough mixture. She had, however, set Sister Teresa’s mind at rest for the moment.

  ‘Are you going back now, Sister?’ Sister Mary Concepta’s voice drifted plaintively out of the infirmary.

  ‘Very soon, Sister, but I have a few minutes.’ Sister Joan went into the warm, pleasant room where the two old ladies were living the long twilight of their old age, spending much of their time in the two basket chairs by the winter fire but still managing to get to most of the devotions and even, on occasion, to get up the stairs to eat and join in the recreation.

  ‘Don’t do us any favo
urs, girl.’ Sister Gabrielle spoke crustily, her eyes holding a decided twinkle. ‘You’re probably longing to get back to the fleshpots of the outside world.’

  ‘Take no notice of her, Sister. She’s only teasing you,’ Sister Mary Concepta said.

  ‘Good heavens, Mary Concepta, the child knows that!’ Sister Gabrielle said.

  ‘And there aren’t many fleshpots around the presbytery,’ Sister Joan added.

  ‘Not with that new priest there,’ Sister Gabrielle said, her grin stretching into a grimace. ‘I never saw such a joyless creature in my life. All starch and no smile.’

  ‘Sister, he is a priest,’ Sister Mary Concepta gently reproached.

  ‘I wasn’t under the impression he was a rabbi,’ Sister Gabrielle said, looking pleased with her own wit. ‘I’ve known priests of all shapes and conditions in my life and this one doesn’t please me at all. He trotted in here after mass this morning and told us that it wouldn’t be very long before we were released from our earthly exile.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that it’s true,’ Sister Mary Concepta said.

  ‘Of course it’s true,’ Sister Gabrielle said impatiently, ‘but I don’t need to be reminded of it. Sister Joan, hand me my stick and I’ll walk out with you to the car.’

  Sister Joan did as she was bade wondering if the old lady were merely indulging a whim or if she had something private to say. It was evidently the latter since, the moment the back door had closed, the other said, ‘Suicide, accident or have you hit upon a murder?’

  ‘There has been a murder,’ Sister Joan said. ‘A body was found on the railway track, unidentified; a man apparently who’d been stripped naked and was very badly mutilated.’

  ‘What has that to do with the housekeeper?’

  ‘Her niece, a Miss Potter, was expected today. Father Timothy waited for hours at the station but she never turned up. Meanwhile Father Stephens had a message telling him her body had been found at the side of the railway track, a few miles up the line.’