The Disciple: a gripping psychological mystery (The Sister Veronica Mysteries Book 2)

by Sarah Sheridan

  Sister Veronica’s ears pricked up. Sister Catherine’s family were originally from Somerset too? And the nice men had said Mona had referenced the same place. She might be getting somewhere at last.

  ‘I did know of Mona before the police told me about her.’ A guilty look fixed itself on Sister Catherine’s face. ‘But, oh Veronica, the shame of it all. I could hardly bear to think of it, let alone tell anyone about it.’ She looked down at her hands.

  ‘Tell anyone about what, Catherine?’ Sister Veronica asked. ‘I hold no judgement for anyone. You can safely tell me absolutely anything.’

  ‘Um…’ Sister Catherine struggled to find the words. ‘Mona’s family are not the kind of people you would want to know. They are some kind of relatives on my father’s side, but I’ve never really found much out about them, to be honest.’

  Sister Veronica said nothing, privately thinking she usually rather liked the people no one else wanted to get to know. She’d always been bloody-minded; angry when people became marginalised or oppressed and sad when they suffered.

  ‘They, well, they chose a bad path in life, that’s all I know.’

  Sister Veronica smiled.

  ‘Come now. I feel there’s still a bit more you need to share with me?’

  Sister Catherine groaned.

  ‘Fine. I’ve never met them, but I only know what other relatives have told me. It’s just the girls from that family left now, Mona and Celeste. Their father disappeared out of the picture very early on, as far as I know, and their mother passed away several years ago. Mona and Celeste grew up in what you might call a cult.’

  Sister Veronica sat up.

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Do you know what it was called?’

  ‘No idea, but they lived in a commune somewhere in Somerset, near Glastonbury, I think. It’s very sad really, they were totally brainwashed by all accounts. I heard Mona left the cult under a cloud quite recently, but I had no idea she’d come to sell her body just round the corner from the convent. Poor girl. Oh, the shame of it, Veronica. You must think I’m quite heartless because I find this whole thing so difficult to talk about. But I do feel for Mona, I really do. It’s why I agreed to look after her baby for her. But I just didn’t think it would do any good to sully her name and the family’s reputation any further by connecting us all to the sordid cult she was involved with. Knowing she’s a prostitute is bad enough. To be honest, I was hoping Mona would have turned up by now. I thought she might have just gone off somewhere to clear her head for a few days, maybe needed a rest from looking after the baby, you know? Goodness knows, I’m starting to understand how tiring motherhood is now.’

  ‘You’ve done the best thing by Mona, Catherine, you’re looking after her baby for her,’ Sister Veronica soothed, leaning forwards to pat her friend’s knee. ‘So don’t you worry about that. But I don’t think Mona has just gone for a rest somewhere. Think of that awful tarot card left with Hope, with the word Destruction on it. Why would Mona have left that with her? No, I have a feeling things may be rather more serious, I’m afraid, which is why I’m so desperate to locate her.’

  A tear rolled down Sister Catherine’s cheek.

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right, Veronica,’ she said, wiping it away. ‘I can see now that I’ve been a fool to keep this information to myself. It’s just I hate the thought of this cult, it’s so disreputable and wrong to brainwash people.’

  But isn’t that what we do here in the Catholic Church? Sister Veronica mused, choosing to keep her thoughts private. Tell people what to think and what to believe?

  ‘Now, you said Mona had a sister?’ Sister Veronica drew a clean handkerchief from her pocket and passed it to her friend. ‘Do you know anything about her? She might be a good person for me to find, sisters can sometimes be so close.’

  Sister Catherine wiped her nose and cleared her throat.

  ‘I don’t know much about her,’ she said. ‘Only that her name is Celeste. I’ve heard she still lives in Somerset somewhere, possibly in Glastonbury. I really have told you all I know now.’

  Sister Veronica stared into the nun’s eyes and knew that this time, she was telling the truth.

  ‘Thank you, Catherine, and please don’t be worried or ashamed. We are all human, and we all do things we regret; I had a cousin who shot himself in the head after losing at gambling one night. His mother never got over it, and quickly went to an early grave herself. It’s pain and fear, you see. Eats people up and makes them do strange things. Right,’ she said, slapping her knees and standing up, deftly catching the blanket falling off her knee in one hand. ‘I know just the person to call. I have a feeling I may need a tech wizard for the next part of my investigation.’

  ‘Investigation? You really are starting to sound like an amateur sleuth, you know, Veronica.’ Sister Catherine gave her friend a watery smile as she folded her blanket. ‘By the way, how’s the crime writing going these days?’

  ‘I haven’t had much time for that recently, more’s the pity. Real-life sagas keep presenting themselves to me, and they rather get in the way of the creative process. Now I must dash. There’s someone I need to phone before evening prayers.’

  As Sister Catherine watched Sister Veronica leave the library, she realised she hadn’t seen the old nun so sprightly for weeks. There was a veritable spring in her step now. She smiled. It was good to see the old girl back to her normal self after the whole Jamie Markham debacle. That had been such a worrying time for them all. As she rose to her feet, Sister Catherine wondered who in the world her friend could so urgently need to call at this time of night…

  7

  As Melissa Carlton popped another piece of gum in her mouth and chewed slowly, she began to have second thoughts. Had jacking in her job at the Women of the World magazine been such a good idea? Maybe not, she mused, staring out of her study window at the gridlocked South West London traffic, but at least it had given her the opportunity to be a truly free agent, to spread her journalistic wings. The only problem was, she was desperate for a good story to cover, and nothing was currently grabbing her. The present political situation was tedious, and anyway, every other bloody journo in the country was writing about it. Human interest stories usually got her attention, but there didn’t seem to be anything new on offer to get her teeth into.

  Not like last month’s writing bonanza, she thought, blowing a bubble that immediately burst onto a long strand of her pink-and-blonde hair. Fuck, she’d have to cut it out; no point even trying to get gum out of tangles, she knew that from experience. As she rummaged for the sharp scissors, memories of her recent time travelling around in secret with Sister Veronica flooded her head; the night-time trip to France, the illicit and terrible events at the Vatican, meeting her new and wonderful partner Chris, formally Bishop Hammett, who was now away in Rome trying to sort out his laicisation from the Catholic Church. Blimey, she missed him like crazy and it was making her grumpy.

  It had certainly been a whirlwind adventure with Sister Veronica and one that had netted her four high-profile articles in different magazines and newspapers. And it had prompted her resignation from her steady job at Women of the World; she’d suddenly seen what she could achieve with a bit of travel and bloody-minded investigative effort. But now… things had kind of dried up, and it was worrying her. The rent wouldn’t pay itself and she’d had to buy cheaper food for the cat, who had been highly offended by this and was now ignoring her.

  The bleeping from her mobile phone cut through her reverie.

  ‘Hello?’ Why did her voice always sound so moody when she answered the phone?

  ‘Ah, Melissa. Are you free to speak?’

  ‘Sister!’ Melissa instantly felt a thousand times better. ‘This is so strange, I was just thinking about you. How’s the arm?’

  ‘Much better, my dear. Just a little stiffness left now but they cut the plaster off last week, thank the Saints. It was such a nuisance lugging it about. Listen, I have something to ask you, a
lthough I know you’re probably terribly busy.’

  ‘Not as busy as I’d like to be.’ Melissa grimaced. ‘Work’s a bit slow at the moment.’

  ‘Excellent, then the universe may be bringing us together once more,’ Sister Veronica said. ‘I have a new problem that I’m dealing with, and would cherish any help you could give me. Do you remember the little baby I told you about who was abandoned on the convent steps?’

  Melissa confirmed that she did.

  ‘Well she’s still here, and we are still trying to trace her mother. The police aren’t telling us anything, of course, and I’m not sure it’s a priority for them, what with all the other troubles we have around here; so much drug dealing, and that’s just the start of it. So I’ve been doing a bit of digging myself, and some lovely locals have pointed me in the direction of Glastonbury in Somerset. It might be where the baby’s aunt lives, and I need to find her address, but that would involve searching on the computer, and you know how inept I am at that sort of thing. I know this business might not appeal to you, it’s all tarot cards, prostitutes and a disappearance, but if you could spare the time–’

  ‘Oh Sister, this is right up my street.’ Melissa sat up, a smile creeping across her face. ‘I can’t tell you how bored I’ve been this week. Just tell me where to meet you and I’ll be there with bells on.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Sister Veronica said. ‘And thank you so much, my dear. I can’t wait to see you. Now I must tell you that when we do find her address I’m planning on tracking her down, which may involve a trip to the West Country. If you don’t have anything better to do you could always accompany me? It might help the search for Mona if you could write a little story about it? Maybe interview her sister if we find her? I know you’re terribly clever at that sort of thing.’

  ‘It would be my pleasure.’ Melissa punched the air with her free hand. Yes! Blimey, Sister Veronica was a crafty old goat. She’d clearly had the whole idea planned before she’d even called her. ‘Shall I meet you at the convent tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Ah, no,’ Sister Veronica said quickly. ‘It’s probably best if Mother Superior doesn’t see you actually, Melissa. There’s a slight problem there with her keeping a close eye on me after the whole Jamie Markham affair. I don’t want to worry her with this, so I’m trying to be as discreet as possible; she’d only stay up all night performing a novena for my soul if she knew how involved I was, and that sort of carry on exhausts her for days. Perhaps I could meet you at the library in Soho around ten tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Melissa grinned. ‘I can’t wait to see you again, Sister.’

  They said their goodbyes and Melissa put down the phone. She grabbed a bag and stuffed her laptop into it, suddenly eager to get everything ready for the next day’s adventure. Good God, that woman was a sly old fox; so sharp she’d cut herself one day. And a good friend now, too. They’d been through a lot together already and it looked like their adventures weren’t over just yet. Slapping a new nicotine patch on to the inside of her arm and sweeping her hair up into a messy bun, Melissa caught sight of herself in the mirror. She hadn’t looked this happy for days. My, my, how one little phone call could unexpectedly change the direction of life.

  8

  Lucan Butler exhaled, his heart heavy, as he watched King Arthur speaking to his crowd of followers from the centre of the room. As usual, they’d met in the Great Hall, a large canvased structure in the heart of the New Avalon compound, with huge ornate red dragons painted along its interior walls. The words ‘Rex Quondam, Rexque Futurus’ were emblazoned above the door. Everyone present knew their meaning: ‘King once, and king in the future’. In homage to the age-old round table tradition, they always gathered in a large circular formation, and Art took centre stage on a small podium, so that he could see everyone’s faces, whichever direction he chose to face while talking.

  There were only twenty-four New Knights left now and six of them were children. So many people had left after Mona had spoken out, revealing truths to them about Art’s depravities that had sent shock waves through the commune. Of course, many people who stayed had utterly refuted Mona’s claims, denouncing her even more viciously than Art did. Lucan had stayed because he had nowhere else to go; at fifty-two years old he’d spent the best part of his life at New Avalon, and considered his friends there to be his family. Just the thought of leaving caused his heart to hurt. But the doubts he had about Art kept on growing, and each time he listened to the king talk he felt empty and soulless. And he felt guilty for this, because deep down he still wondered if Art was the chosen one. And he was terrified of going to hell, as Art repeatedly told all his followers that they indisputably would if they were ever disloyal to him. All Lucan knew was that what had started out as a place of love and safety had morphed – over the years – into the exact opposite. He couldn’t talk freely about his feelings to most other followers, of course, because to do so would be heretical, and there were now spies in every corner.

  Since Mona left, suspicion abounded in New Avalon, and many people were becoming paranoid. Art encouraged his followers to tell on each other if signs of disloyalty to him became apparent; Lucan would never forget seeing his good friend Kay hauled into the centre of a meeting to be publicly condemned by Art. She’d also become disillusioned by the king’s increasingly bizarre ways and demands, but was much more courageous and vocal in her questioning of this than him. Her punishment was being humiliated by Art in front of the whole group, stripped of her privileges, and told she was ruined and on the path to hell. She now lived in isolation in the furthest hut from the Great Hall, and was forbidden from joining in with commune life until Art was satisfied she’d repented, which he showed no sign of, flatly refusing to talk about her and becoming angry if anyone dared mention her name. Lucan still visited Kay, of course, brought her secret food parcels whenever he could, as her daily rationing was abysmal. She’d lost so much weight since the night of her banishment, and her hair was now falling out in clumps, which Lucan suspected was to do with stress. She wanted to leave New Avalon, but like all the New Knights, had given Art all her money and possessions on arrival, and had been out of regular society for so long that she feared she wouldn’t be able to survive if she went back.

  Lucan – not his real name, but one given to him on his arrival at New Avalon – knew he was a coward for living the way he did; inwardly disgusted with Art, but outwardly conforming to New Avalon’s rules and ways of life. But what else could he do? He shook out his long mane of hair. The sense of desperation within him seemed stronger every day. All males and females at the group were encouraged to grow their hair long and keep it parted in the centre because, as Art reiterated from time to time, this was how he – as the first King Arthur – wore his all those years ago. Lucan’s gaze transferred from Art to the figure moving to his right. Ah, Celeste, the beauty of the group and Art’s right-hand woman. As loyal to New Avalon as her sister Mona had been rebellious.

  As usual, Celeste’s golden hair was worn long, and she was dressed in her red Renaissance gown, one of her favourites, that Lucan knew was inspired more by modern paintings of the old King Arthur’s wife Guinevere than any historically accurate attire. He bit his lip, hating the fakery at New Avalon. All the men and boys had to wear tunics and all the women had to wear skirts or dresses, but as there wasn’t much information on what King Arthur and Guinevere actually wore all those centuries ago, the New Knights made up their own styles based on more modern depictions of King Arthur. And this seemed kind of inauthentic to Lucan. He would have preferred it if they’d been allowed to wear normal clothes. If the New Knights went ‘outside’ – their term for the world beyond the commune’s walls, the girls were allowed to wear trousers if whatever task they were undertaking required it. But not inside. Art, of course, was the only one who wore a robe. But Lucan didn’t think the original King Arthur would have worn a robe all the time. Certainly not when he was fighting, it would have got in the way. He�
��d come to think of New Avalon as shallow, which pained him, as his first ten years there had been the happiest of his life.

  In 1990, at the age of twenty-two, Lucan – then called Simon – had left Bristol University with an accounting degree, and a deep desire to never become an accountant. The Conservatives were in power, and John Major had just taken over from Margaret Thatcher’s reign of capitalism. Lucan’s young socialist tendencies were causing him to increasingly distrust mainstream society, much to his parents’ vexation, and during a particularly enlightening night at Glastonbury Festival he’d met New Knights Bors and Geraint by the stone circle, becoming captivated with their praise of Art and New Avalon, and the law-abiding, loving commune they described living in. Within a month, he’d moved from London to Somerset, and found all of Bors and Geraint’s claims to be true. Art – oozing with charisma – had welcomed him with open arms, and Lucan had immediately felt like he belonged at the commune, feeling accepted and loved in ways he’d never experienced before. It had been such a relief to find fellow human beings who also rejected the worst parts of capitalism, and who wanted to live a different kind of life, full of loyalty to one’s friends, fairness and justice. It was fun to paint the placards and banners that were arrayed around the exterior of the compound fence, with socialist slogans like Trotsky’s ‘Cleanse evil, oppression and violence’ and Malcolm X’s ‘You show me a capitalist and I’ll show you a bloodsucker’. Their leader, he discovered, was not above calling on more modern theorists to drum home his message.