The Dead Virgins (The India Sommers Mysteries Book 1)

by K. M. Ashman

  The routine was familiar and she carried it out without thinking, as she had done for the last twenty years. There were five other nuns in front of her, all dressed in black except for the senior sister at the front whose robes were light grey. Sister Bernice knew that three similar columns of devotees made their way from different wings of the convent, each led in total silence by their own senior sister. They descended a stone stairwell and through another dimly lit corridor until they entered the great hall and took their places behind their nominated space at the long dining tables.

  Sister Bernice remained alone in the doorway, singled out for a special part in tonight’s ceremony. Her heart beat a bit faster as although she had done this many times before, it was always a privilege to represent the others in the ceremony.

  The hall stretched out in front of her and a table decked in a white cloth and religious artefacts stood at the far end. Behind the table, six grey robed senior sisters were taking their places and behind them an ornate carved image of the Virgin Mary was set back into a shallow alcove, dominating the far wall.

  None of this registered with Sister Bernice as it was the same as every other night since she had joined as an acolyte over twenty years ago. Her attention focussed on the lone figure kneeling in the centre of the hall, dressed in a rough, hessian gown and staring down into a wooden bowl before her.

  As soon as the room had settled, Sister Bernice walked slowly toward the sad figure and stopped before her. As she had done dozens of times before over the years, she slipped off her self-made leather slippers and held up one foot.

  The kneeling person took the offered foot and using the soft cloth in the bowl, bathed it gently in the warm water. She repeated the task on the other foot and wiped them both dry in a soft towel before looking up at Sister Bernice for approval. The Sister looked down into the aged face of the Mother Superior and smiled her happiness before turning and making her way back to her seat. She knew that behind her, all eyes would be on the old lady as she struggled to her feet. Despite her age, nobody would be allowed to help if she stumbled as any failure to complete the ceremony would be the natural sign for a succession process to be instigated. Despite their rank, every Mother Superior in the order’s history had carried out the same ritual of cleansing the feet of the humble before each meal, until they could not finish the task and a successor was appointed.

  When the ritual was over, the Mother Superior led the room in a prayer of thanks giving before taking her seat. Immediately, a door opened and a line of young girls carried tureens of soup and platters of homemade bread to the nuns’ tables. Mealtimes were one of the few times in a day when the devotees were allowed to talk to each other and Bernice turned to the colleague alongside her.

  ‘Sister Suzanna,’ she said, ‘it’s good to see you up and about again. You are well, I hope.’

  ‘Much better, Sister Bernice,’ came the reply, ‘it was no more than a heavy cold.’

  ‘You do yourself an injustice, I hear you were very ill’.

  ‘Poppycock,’ said her friend, ‘anyway, you shouldn’t listen to idle gossip and you know what the Mother Superior says.’

  ‘Gossip is for the idle of mind,’ they both said in unison with a smile.

  All around the room the devotees of the order of Santa Rosa ate their food with an air of serenity, the sound of their conversation a mere murmur in the vastness of the hall. At the head table, the six senior sisters ate in silence as they oversaw the meal.

  ‘I fear for the Mother Superior,’ said Suzanna, ‘her legs grow weaker by the day. She should step aside and spend her remaining days in retreat.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ replied the other nun’, ‘though I would be sad to see her leave. She has been my mentor since the day I knocked on the door of this convent.’

  ‘When she does leave, who do you think will have the calling to wear the veil?’ They looked up at the six senior sisters, each well over sixty years of age and all eligible for the senior post.

  ‘Who knows?’ said Bernice, ‘but whoever is chosen, I am sure Santa Rosa will guide her.’

  ‘It is said that your name has been mentioned as a senior sister,’ continued her friend.

  ‘Now who’s gossiping?’ said Bernice with a smile.

  They continued their meal with quiet chitchat before the familiar bell rang indicating the end of the meal. All the nuns left the room to return to their cells before evening prayers. As usual, the senior sisters stayed behind in the hall and the sound of a key being turned, indicated the door was locked from the inside. The rituals of the senior sisters were for the higher order only and the rest of the nuns were totally unaware of what went on behind the giant oaken doors.

  ----

  Within hours, only the sound of scrabbling mice could be heard in the corridors of the ancient convent as the occupants rested. Outside the fruit bushes in the walled vegetable gardens, so carefully tended by Maximillian the gardener, swayed in unison with the mulberry trees of the convent’s private cemetery. Bats flitted between the belfry and the crags of a nearby cliff face, chasing the myriads of insects rising from the surrounding woodlands. Like most nights, the nearby crags protected the ancient convent from the worst of the weather and apart from the usual sounds of the local wildlife, the night was very quiet, as could be expected in the isolated outpost of solitude.

  But tonight was different. Tonight there was the sound of human footsteps drawing closer to the walls of the convent of the blessed virgin.

  ----

  Mother Superior Theresa made her way slowly through the passages, her ageing bones aching in the damp and cold passages. As usual, she had managed a few hours’ sleep but it was all she needed these days. She knew that her allotted span on this earth was coming to an end and when the time came she would welcome it with open arms. Every cell of her being was tired and she longed for the eternal sleep that beckoned enticingly in the not too distant future. First, she had to ensure the secrets of the convent were in safe hands. The appointment of her successor would be straightforward enough as any of the six senior sisters could step up to the role. The problem was, whoever was given the ultimate post would leave a vacancy and she wasn’t sure who, if any of the normal sisters were ready to take the huge step up that the role demanded. Every candidate had been discussed in depth on many occasions and the time was approaching when the final vote would be made. It was at that time that the order was in the most danger, for if the nominated candidate shied away from her responsibilities, the very order itself would be at risk of collapsing. Mother Superior Theresa had overseen the appointment of all six senior sisters in her time and all had gone without a hitch. In fact, there had been no refusal recorded for over three hundred years. However, the senior order were all growing old and it was possible that there would need to be several more elections in the very near future.

  Suddenly she stopped dead in her tracks, sure she had heard something in the darkness. Ordinarily this would not be unusual in this old creaking place but this was different, it sounded like a cough.

  ‘Maximillian,’ she called, ‘is that you?’ She knew the gardener should be in his cottage in the grounds at this time of the morning but who else could it be?

  ‘Maximillian?’ she said again, ‘it’s awful late, is there a problem?’

  A figure stepped out of the shadows.

  ‘No problem, sister,’ said a voice and before she could react, the figure lashed out and knocked the old lady to the floor, sending her into a world of darkness.

  ----

  India and Brandon walked down a small street running through Littlewick Green, the village India had mentioned in Rome. They had arrived back a day earlier on a flight from Italy and Brandon had allowed them a few hours rest in a motel to catch up on the lost sleep. It seemed to India that she had slept only a few minutes before he was knocking on her door. After a quick shower, they had driven from London toward Maidenhead, finally parking their hire car in a lay-by befo
re walking into the village. The shops were closed, as it was a Sunday so they made their way to the village pub.

  ‘When we get there say nothing about the missing girl,’ said Brandon.

  ‘Why not?’ asked India, ‘these people probably know nothing anyway. All we want is some guidance.’

  ‘It’s still classified and besides, don’t forget the dead Greek’s brother is still at large and if he is on the same trail as us, he probably came this way. The last thing we want to do is raise the interest of any newspapers. Don’t forget there is still a child’s life at risk here.’

  ‘Haven’t they made any headway with that?’ asked India.

  ‘Nothing.’ said Brandon. ‘I checked in this morning. We have the only lead though how the girl links with the Palladium, I don’t know.’

  ‘Perhaps whoever has abducted her hopes to hold her to ransom, with the artefact as payment.’

  ‘Possible,’ he said ‘but unlikely. The best thing we can do is continue with our investigations. There are enough other people looking for the girl.’

  They walked into the typical English country pub and approached the bar.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said the landlord.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ answered Brandon, ‘A pint of smooth please and…’ He looked at India quizzically.

  ‘Coke, please,’ she said, ‘are you still serving hot food?’

  ‘We are,’ said the landlord, ‘Sunday lunch, beef, pork or chicken, £5.99’

  ‘I’ll have beef, please,’ said India.

  ‘And you, sir?’

  ‘I’ll have the same, cheers.’

  ‘No problem,’ said the barman, ‘you sit yourselves down and I’ll bring them over as soon as they are ready.’

  They made their way over to a window seat, sipping their drinks while taking in the scene around them. A large fireplace, leaded windows and low beams exuded character while polished brass platters and horseshoes covered most of the available dark oak panels.

  ‘Nice place,’ said Brandon. ‘So, why don’t you remind me what makes you think the trail leads here?’

  ‘One of my main sources when researching any historical story or artefact is local rumour,’ said India, ‘a while ago, I was dating a music student who was studying Ivor Novello, a famous Welsh composer who made his home in this village.’

  ‘What has Ivor Novello got to do with this?’

  ‘Nothing but while I was with the musician we came here for a weekend. We came to this pub one night and got talking to locals. After a few drinks the conversation turned to the village’s history and one of the strongest stories was the tale of the white lady.’

  ‘Explain?’

  ‘A ghost’ said India, ‘said to have walked the village for thousands of years.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ said Brandon.

  ‘That may be so,’ said India, ‘but the fact is, it is a deeply embedded part of this village’s memories and in my experience, in these old parish villages where old wives tales and folklore comes into play, there’s no smoke without fire.’

  ‘And where’s the link?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘Well, though I didn’t take much notice at the time, the one thing I do recall is that they reckon she is the ghost of a Vestal Virgin. It seemed a bit strange at the time but I thought no more about it. It was only when that Italian guy mentioned the possibility of there being a Vestal temple in England it came back to me.’

  ‘What came back to you?’

  ‘There is a round temple on a hill a few miles from here and archaeologists believe it is a Vestal temple from the first century AD.’

  ‘But what makes you think this is linked to the Palladium?’ he asked.

  ‘Think about it,’ she said, ‘we traced the Palladium to Rome and the care of the Vestals in 64 AD. At about that time, it disappeared and was last seen in the care of Rubria, the priestess who was raped by Nero. She had the wealth, the education and the reason to flee Rome and if she was as dedicated as all the other Vestals, she would have tried to save whatever artefacts she could from the fire.’

  ‘Coincidence,’ said Brandon, ‘she could have gone anywhere.’

  ‘She could have,’ agreed India, ‘but consider everything else we know. Fact one, scholars believe the Palladium was never burnt and is not beneath the Constantine tower. It is now thought it was spirited away during the fire and left the country.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Brandon.

  ‘Fact two,’ continued India, ‘A Vestal Virgin with a grudge against Nero disappeared from history forever. Not long after, a temple to Vesta was built in England. Don’t forget, transport between Rome and Britain was common at that time as it was just after the Boudicca wars and Rome was busy trying to dominate the island.’

  ‘I still don’t buy it,’ said Brandon.

  ‘Well look at the other factors,’ said India, ‘the people in this village believe there is a ghost of a Vestal Virgin haunting these streets. Now this may be poppycock but the story is hundreds of years old, if not thousands. Don’t forget, in the past, our ancestors believed absolutely in the presence of ghosts. To them it was a fact of life. For a rumour like that to survive the dark ages, as well as all the subsequent historical periods and various religious upheavals, it must have been a very strong story, don’t you think?’

  ‘Perhaps but how do you know it is our virgin?’

  ‘I don’t but the timeline fits perfect and besides, our man from Samothrace seems to have come to the same conclusions and he is much more closely involved than you or I.’

  ‘Okay, so let’s assume you are right and this Rubria came here. Why have you brought us to this village? Shouldn’t we be going to this temple?’

  ‘We can’t,’ said India, ‘it’s not there anymore.’

  ‘What do you mean, not there?’

  ‘Well, it used to be on a place called Weycock hill a couple of miles away but over the years the locals, like in many cultures, stripped it bare for building materials. Most was used in the construction of the local church a couple of hundred years ago.’

  ‘Perhaps the Palladium is buried on the temple site,’ said Brandon,

  ‘I doubt it,’ said India, ‘it has been excavated twice that I know of. No, if there was anything there then it was long gone before the archaeologists even got their trowels out.’

  ‘And you think the villagers know where it is?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘Not consciously,’ said India, ‘but I am very interested in the stories and fables of the village. There are grains of truth in most ghost stories.’

  ‘So where do we start?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘Churches are usually goldmines of information,’ said India, ‘I think we should start there.’

  ‘So why did you bring me in here,’ asked Brandon looking around the pub, ‘where’s the link here?’

  ‘No link,’ said India, nodding toward the approaching barman, ‘but in the rush this morning, I didn’t have time for breakfast and I think better on a full stomach.’ She beamed a disarming smile at Brandon who stared back at her in amusement.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ she asked, ‘pay the man.’

  ----

  Sister Bernice poured cold water from the chipped enamel jug into the bowl and washed her face in the candle light. Though she did not own a watch, she knew that it was approaching four am and the bell for morning prayers would sound soon enough. She sat back on her bunk and waited patiently.

  Half an hour passed and the bell did not come. Bernice approached the door and peered out through the opening into the passage. She hesitated, as though the doors were not locked, it was forbidden to leave their rooms except at the sound of the bells. Still, this was very strange for in twenty years of service, she had never known any time where the first call to prayers had been missed.

  Peering out into the corridor, Bernice could see that several other sisters had also left their rooms and were gathered in the hallway.

  ‘Sister Bernice,’ said o
ne, ‘do you know what is happening?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ she said, ‘but, wait here, I will see if I can find out.’

  ‘But you will be punished if you leave the wing without a senior,’ said her colleague.

  ‘And deservedly so,’ said Bernice, ‘but I have to find out in case there is any emergency. I fear for the Mother Superior’s health and I have some medical training. They may need me.’

  ‘Surely they would have called for you?’

  ‘Perhaps so but I will check nevertheless.’ She moved down the corridor, watched by the eleven nuns behind her and paused before turning the ancient bronze knob. She eased the creaking door outwards and held her candle up higher before calling out into the corridor.

  ‘Hello. Sister Agnes, are you there?’ When no answer came, she continued down the corridor toward the great hall. Just before she reached the double doors, she heard the mumbling sound of voices in hushed yet strained conversation and as she turned the corner, she almost bumped into two of the seniors, both looking very worried.

  ‘Sister Agnes,’ said Bernice, ‘is everything okay?’

  ‘Bernice, what are you doing here?’ came the answer, ‘you know it is forbidden to leave your cell without being summoned.’

  ‘I know,’ said Bernice, ‘I was worried, we all were.’

  ‘Don’t fret, Bernice,’ said the second nun, ‘everything is fine. Go back to your corridor and await instructions.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Sister Agnes before turning to her colleague. ‘It may be beneficial to allow Bernice to help, after all, she is the preferred choice to join us in the inner order when the time comes and we need all the help we can get.’

  ‘I am happy to help in any way I can,’ said Bernice.

  Agnes’s colleague nodded her approval.

  ‘Explain what she needs to know,’ she said ‘but no more.’

  Sister Agnes smiled and approached Bernice, lowering her voice so not to be overheard.