A VOW OF POVERTY an utterly gripping crime mystery

by Veronica Black

  ‘A child could pick the outside lock. I’m surprised you didn’t try.’

  ‘No, of course I didn’t! I thought the estimate was a bit high — Padraic and Luther will help cart away the rubbish without charging very much. And then she phoned the convent and asked me to meet her for coffee.’

  ‘Without saying why?’

  ‘She said she was worried and she mentioned the Tarquins and resurrection,’ Sister Joan said slowly. ‘She wouldn’t say any more until we met but she did sound worried — oh, and she mentioned the cemetery. She has a flat in Cemetery Road and as I was giving Lilith some exercise I thought it wouldn’t hurt to find out if she was at home.’

  ‘Did you go to number twenty-two?’

  ‘I turned aside into the cemetery so Lilith could crop the grass a bit.’

  ‘And you went tomb spotting.’

  ‘Something like that. Alan, how did you know it was number twenty-two where Jane Sinclair lives? And the note? How did you get my note?’

  ‘The office where she worked was broken into early this morning. Someone coming into one of the other offices saw the damage and phoned the police.’

  ‘And you found the note. I see. No, I don’t! Why were you called to a simple break-in?’

  ‘I wasn’t. Constable Petrie went round at lunchtime just after we got the call. He found your note and he found Jane Sinclair.’

  His voice had not altered. It remained calmly official but she stiffened in her seat, her blue eyes darkening as she looked at him.

  ‘Something’s happened to Jane Sinclair, hasn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Constable Petrie found her. She’d been strangled,’ he said.

  Five

  ‘Poor girl.’ Her hand rose to bless herself as she murmured, ‘May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed rest in peace.’

  ‘Religion has a sentence to fit every occasion, doesn’t it?’ he said bitterly.

  ‘It doesn’t imply lack of feeling.’ Her blue eyes were dark with pain. ‘When one has no adequate words for something terrible the approved formula does help sometimes though I realize that’s hard for you to understand.’

  ‘Sorry, Sister! What I just said was completely out of order. Look, I was on my way to her flat to find out what I could when we spotted Lilith. Constable Petrie’s ridden her back and I can drive you back at once but—’

  ‘You prefer to see the flat first. Yes, so would I.’

  ‘I’ll get Petrie on his mobile and assure him that you’re safe and he’s to wait at the convent until I pick him up.’

  ‘That will set Mother Dorothy’s mind at ease,’ Sister Joan said, hoping that it would.

  She waited while he made the brief call, forcing herself to calmness. What had happened was shocking and sad but there was no way of bringing Jane Sinclair back to life and getting in a panic would help nobody.

  ‘We’ll drive to the flat. It’s only a couple of minutes down the road,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said, starting the engine.

  The large house was a remnant of the Georgian age. The woman who opened the front door looked ordinary, anxious and a trifle flustered.

  ‘Police? Have you any news of Miss Sinclair?’ she demanded. ‘I’m getting really worried about her. She’s not the kind of girl to stay out two nights in a row. I’ve never known her do such a thing before!’

  ‘You’re the owner of the house?’ Detective Sergeant Mill enquired.

  ‘I’m Anne Dalton, yes. I keep the ground floor for myself and rent out the second and third floors. They’ve been converted into flats, very nice and not very expensive. My main concern has been to have nice, quiet people in. Miss Sinclair came here about six weeks ago and old Mrs Trevelyan has been here for five years.’

  ‘This is Sister Joan from Cornwall House,’ he broke into the flood. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Mill. I’m afraid the news isn’t good.’

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  Belatedly she held the door wider, ushering them into a square hallway with stairs opposite. ‘Please, in here. Do excuse the mess. I wasn’t expecting — what’s happened to Miss Sinclair?’

  ‘A body has been found in the office where she worked. We believe that it’s hers.’

  ‘In Nightingale Court? Oh, that’s a very nasty, cold building! She said she felt nervous working there. All those layabouts hanging round! Please sit down!’

  She was hastily gathering up knitting and magazines that were scattered over couch and fireside chair.

  ‘I’d like to see her flat first. There was a key in her handbag which I assume — perhaps you’d like to sit down for a moment yourself?’

  ‘I think I will,’ Anne Dalton said, sitting down abruptly. ‘I’ll be quite all right in a moment, honestly. It was just — not that it was exactly a shock. I’ve had such a funny feeling ever since — she never stays — stayed out all night. Always so polite and pleasant. Yes, do go up. She’s on the top floor. I’m afraid there’s no lift.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to make some tea?’ Sister Joan suggested.

  ‘Yes of course!’ The woman was on her feet again, clearly glad to have been given something to do. ‘You go on up and I’ll put the kettle on. Yes, tea is very good for shock, isn’t it?’

  She bustled into the back as they mounted the stairs.

  ‘Did you want me to help with the tea?’ Sister Joan asked.

  ‘No, I need you as a witness to forestall any bright lawyer who might pop up in the future and say the police planted or removed something.’

  ‘I thought lawyers served justice.’

  ‘They serve their clients and earn their fees’ he said wryly, fitting the key into a door at the top of the second flight of stairs.

  They stepped into a narrow hall which was clearly part of the original landing. To the left and right were doors; opposite was a round window. Sister Joan went to it and looked down across a narrow alley into the cemetery, now blotted out by mist.

  ‘Not a very cheerful view,’ Detective Sergeant Mill remarked, glancing over her shoulder.

  ‘You can see the little chapel from here,’ Sister Joan said thoughtfully.

  ‘So let’s find out what’s to be seen indoors!’ He opened the door on the left and went into a large sitting-room with an obviously adapted kitchen leading off it.

  The room was undistinguished, its white paintwork faintly yellowed, its carpet an indeterminate swirl of browns and greys, the furniture fairly modern and the wallpaper faded. There was a small television set in one corner, some paperback romances in a bookcase, two flower prints on the wall. On the coffee table were a few women’s magazines and a plastic bag containing a half-finished knitted sweater in pale blue.

  In the kitchen everything was neat and in place, the cups and saucers ranged on a shelf, some ready meals and a cheesecake quarrelling with a diet sheet sellotaped to the fridge door.

  ‘What do you think?’ Detective Sergeant Mill glanced at her.

  ‘She hadn’t been here long enough to impress her personality on the place,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘What was it like — her personality?’

  ‘I only met her the once on the day I went to the office. She was very pleasant, a bit naive, inclined to be nervous because she was on her own in the office, quite glad to talk even to a strange nun. Just a nice ordinary girl.’

  ‘And that nice ordinary girl arranged to meet you for coffee because she had something important to tell you and never turned up.’

  ‘She said it was her morning for going in late to the office so we agreed to meet at ten. She must’ve called in at the office earlier before coming to meet me — I wonder why.’

  ‘And found someone there already? Someone who’d broken in?’

  ‘Isn’t it unusual for a burglar to strangle someone?’ Sister Joan asked. ‘I’d have thought he’d be more likely to hit her over the head before making his getaway.’

  ‘You’re right, Sister.’ He frowned consideringly, then walked into t
he hall again and opened the right-hand door.

  Sister Joan followed reluctantly as he switched on the light and moved to draw the curtains across the misted windows. To enter someone’s bedroom with the object of looking through their belongings went against all her instincts. Only the knowledge that somewhere here might lie a pointer to her killer made it bearable.

  The bedroom with its adjoining bathroom was decorated and furnished with the same lack of style as the rest of the flat. There was a paperback romance and a box of sweets on the bedside table, jeans and sweaters and T-shirts in the shelves down the side of the wardrobe in which hung a summer jacket, a pinafore dress and two summer dresses with ribbon shoulder straps and bolero jackets. The colours were mainly pink and blue and the shoes at the bottom of the wardrobe neatly ranged and polished.

  ‘Very conventional,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said.

  ‘Not in every respect.’

  Sister Joan had opened a drawer to reveal a tangle of scarlet underwear, lacy and almost transparent. Beneath the scraps of net and lace was folded a black nylon nightgown, its bodice transparent, ruffles round the hem.

  ‘She had a boyfriend then?’ He stared at them.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I think these were part of her dream life.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘She struck me as a lonely girl, not having friends. The books she read were all very mild romances and she seems to have liked knitting and watching television. I think she bought these for herself. They made her feel glamorous and desirable. I might be wrong, of course.’

  ‘She was a virgin anyway. The police surgeon checked on that.’

  ‘So it wasn’t a sexual murder?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Poor Jane Sinclair!’ Sister Joan closed the drawer and swung round, her cheeks reddening. ‘This makes me so angry! A nice, ordinary girl — a decent girl with dreams of passion and romance and cheated of any hope of it, cheated of the rest of her life by — who?’

  ‘Better ask why,’ he advised.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She scowled at her reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall.

  ‘There was nothing in her handbag but her chequebook, her keys, some tissues, and an address book with only a few addresses pencilled in. We’ve contacted her parents by the way. They’re coming down tomorrow to make a formal identification and arrange the funeral. Sister, think hard! What could she have wanted to see you about?’

  ‘I think it must have been about Mr Monam,’ Sister Joan said slowly.

  ‘I thought she mentioned the Tarquin family.’

  ‘Grant Tarquin. She said something about resurrection. Grant Tarquin’s buried in the cemetery over there.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting he’s come back to life, are you?’

  ‘No, of course not! As far as I know she’d never even heard of him.’

  ‘And how does that tie in with the mysterious Mr Monam?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Sister Joan moved to the window and lifted the curtain, gazing out into the mist, collecting her thoughts. ‘That was the name on the circular that was pushed through the convent door and a Monam had registered with the telephone answering service, by phone. Did you find out anything about that?’

  ‘I rang the main office this afternoon. It’s a bona fide organization. The clients pay a set fee to have messages relayed and passed on to them. Mr Monam paid by cash, sent notes through the mail which is unusual. And we don’t know when his estimate sheet was put in the files.’

  ‘How was Jane Sinclair supposed to send on messages to him?’

  ‘She wasn’t. He said he’d phone in himself once or twice a week. Another point. You seem to have been the only one favoured with a circular. Petrie made some extensive enquiries but nobody else has had one of those circulars.’

  ‘Then he must have wanted to get into the convent storerooms,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Who knew you were clearing them out?’

  ‘Well, we’ve talked of doing it for ages but I did tell Luther who was asking if there was any work for him and Padraic told me that Luther had been chattering about it all over the place. Someone in the pub or in town might have heard him, I suppose, but it doesn’t make sense. If someone wanted to cash in on any scrap metal or old silver we found, all they had to do was come to the convent and present the estimate. Why all this elaborate secrecy?’

  ‘Mr Monam does seem slightly elusive,’ he said. ‘Anyway we’re checking up on all the clients of the answering service. What does the late Grant Tarquin have to do with any of this?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Grant Tarquin’s dead.’

  ‘Not resurrected?’ He cocked an eyebrow at her.

  ‘Of course not!’ she said sharply.

  ‘But you’re holding something back.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘When I find out something that’s relevant I’ll tell you,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t wait too long, Sister.’

  His dark eyes held her blue ones for a moment. She nodded slowly.

  From downstairs Anne Dalton called quaveringly, ‘Shall I bring the tea up?’

  ‘We’re just coming down.’ Detective Sergeant Mill ushered Sister Joan ahead of him, locked the door leading into the flat and came down the stairs.

  ‘I kept it hot.’ There was a faint reproach in her voice as they entered her sitting-room.

  ‘This is a sad inconvenience for you, I’m afraid.’ He sat down on one of the upright chairs and favoured her with one of his most charming smiles. It was a smile intended to dispel alarm and put a possible witness at ease. Sister Joan observed it with a feeling of affectionate amusement.

  ‘It’s sad altogether, isn’t it?’ Anne Dalton passed the teacups. ‘Help yourselves to sugar. Oh, and the biscuits are homemade. Miss Sinclair was quite partial to my biscuits. She did her own bit of cooking, of course, but once or twice we had a nice cup of tea together. It was the first time she’d been away from home, you know. Oh, her parents—’

  ‘They’ve been informed. They’ll be coming on Monday.’

  ‘Here? I’m not sure whether—’

  ‘They’ll be staying over at an hotel,’ he reassured. ‘However they’ll want to see her flat, I daresay, and pack up her things. The forensic chaps will want to have a look first though. Have you another key to her flat?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve never used it,’ she said. ‘I’m not the kind of landlady who pokes and pries.’

  ‘Obviously not but for the moment we’ll be needing it ourselves.’

  ‘It’s here.’ Looking slightly offended, she reached up and took down a key from a hook on the wall. ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘Did she have any visitors while she was living here?’ he asked.

  ‘No, nobody at all.’ Anne Dalton sipped her tea with a ladylike air. ‘Not that I’d have objected, mind! I made it clear that she was welcome to invite friends. I wouldn’t have said anything if one had stayed overnight. One has to be broadminded these days, if you’ll excuse my saying so, Sister. But she didn’t know anyone in the district, spent most evenings up in her flat, watching the television and knitting. She showed me the pattern.’

  ‘She didn’t go out at all?’

  ‘She went to the cinema in town once and she sometimes went for a walk. At dusk, after she’d had her tea. She said it was nice to be able to take a quiet stroll and feel safe, but I told her not to be too confident. There are some nasty types live over on the council estate.’

  ‘Did she walk in the cemetery?’ Sister Joan asked abruptly.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know.’ The landlady looked surprised at the question. ‘It’s not everybody’s idea of a cheerful stroll, is it? Not that it isn’t peaceful and some of the old gravestones are quite interesting — you wouldn’t believe how many women died in childbirth a hundred years ago, but all the same—’

  ‘Well, we won’t be troubling you any further.’ Detect
ive Sergeant Mill set down his cup.

  ‘You don’t think it might be a maniac about?’ The elderly woman looked at him with eyes anxious in her crumpled face. ‘I always make sure to lock up properly and see the windows are all right and tight.’

  ‘I doubt it but it’s always wise to take sensible precautions,’ he approved. ‘Oh, I take it she didn’t drive a car?’

  ‘She could drive but she didn’t have one of her own,’ Anne Dalton said. ‘She walked to work.’

  ‘And she kept regular hours there? At work, I mean?’

  ‘Set off at eight-thirty every morning except Friday, and she didn’t work at the weekends. Except yesterday.’

  ‘Yesterday was different?’

  ‘She left at eight-thirty as usual. Seemed a bit excited but she didn’t say why.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have taken her an hour and a half to walk to the café,’ Sister Joan said. ‘She must’ve decided to call in at the office first.’

  ‘She didn’t say she was going early to work?’ He glanced at the landlady.

  ‘No. She just went off. Perhaps the gentleman who phoned up had some message for her.’

  ‘What gentleman?’

  He had spoken a touch too sharply. Anne Dalton’s face set obstinately.

  ‘I don’t pry into my lodgers’ private affairs,’ she said. ‘A gentleman telephoned and asked to speak to Miss Sinclair at about eight o’clock that’s all I know. There’s a telephone in the hall and I called up to let her know she had a call, that’s all.’

  ‘And she came down to answer it. You didn’t happen to hear—?’

  ‘I heard her say “Jane Sinclair here” and then I went through to the back to put some scraps on the bird table,’ Anne Dalton said frostily. ‘When I returned indoors she was just coming down the stairs with her jacket on. She said something like, “I’ll see you later, Mrs Dalton” and went out. I assumed she’d gone off to the office as usual but your asking made me recall it was Friday.’