As she made her way back to London, resting her head on the train’s window, Sister Veronica’s thoughts wandered back to the matter that had been occupying her since yesterday morning.
She’d received an invitation, quite unexpectedly, from her cousin Florence, inviting her to spend Christmas at Chalfield Hall. The old Gothic pile had been in the family for years, and Sister Veronica remembered infrequent visits to it as a child, her parents always dressing her in her Sunday best before their arrival, whispering to her in hushed tones to mind her manners while they were there. Florence had inherited it, of course, as the oldest child of her great grandparent’s eldest son. She herself hadn’t been there for years, remembered never liking it as a child – it was so dark and cold inside, full of the promise of ghosts and ghouls. A very cold building, inside and out.
She and Florence had been mildly close as children, they were similar ages, and had played together whenever all the cousins met up. But as they’d grown into adulthood they’d drifted apart, as people do, with Sister Veronica entering her order and committing her life to God, and Florence marrying that awful man Giles – who none of the family could stand. From what she remembered, his obnoxious personality filled any room he walked into like a bad smell. What Florence saw in him she never knew, perhaps it was his fat cheque book that was alluring, because in any case, Chalfield Hall was not cheap to run and Giles had been left a hefty inheritance by his parents. A marriage of convenience, rather than love, was not uncommon in Florence’s circles.
But there seemed something strange about Florence’s invitation. They hadn’t spent Christmas together for nearly fifty years, and back then it had been with all the cousins and their parents, and grandparents – a fusty mix of old-fashioned, upper-middle-class Victoriana and the more free-spirited Veronica, whose mother had married below her station – a sentiment never said directly but often implied – after falling in love with a farmer.
Perhaps Florence was ill and wanted to spend her last Christmas with extended family before another was not possible? Perhaps it was her husband who was poorly, and her cousin was lonely and needed someone around to help. The possibilities were endless. Whatever the reason, it was very surprising and strange of Florence to write such a friendly solicitation that sounded as though she and Veronica had been close friends for years, when the truth was that they simply hadn’t.
Knowing that any nun with an ounce of common sense would politely decline, citing the busy nature of Christmas at the convent as a very valid reason, Sister Veronica couldn’t help mulling over the request. It had intrigued her, rather piquing her interest. Also, she felt a familial tug of duty – what if Florence really needed her help and was too polite to ask outright? Mother Superior would not be happy with her going away again, of course. But as it was now nearly the end of March, Christmas was in nearly nine months’ time – the early nature of the invitation being another strange factor about it; good gracious it seemed like the last Yuletide had only just passed – leaving her ample opportunity to become a model nun for those intervening months. She would be as biddable, inconspicuous and devout as humanly possible, while hopefully earning at least a few ounces of Sister Julia’s trust back. Enough to negotiate a quick seasonal trip away to family, anyway. She may even have time to finish her crime novel during those quiet months, goodness knows she’d waited long enough for that pleasure.
Hmm, she thought. She’d have to mull the invitation over a bit longer before making a final decision. That would be the sensible course of action. Don’t do anything rash, Veronica, she told herself. Weigh up the pros and cons, make the right choice. Great Saints in Heaven, it’s not as though you haven’t had your ample share of exploits and disturbances recently. A nice, calm Christmas at the convent is just what you need, surely. No distractions, no quests to go on, nothing but quiet prayer and festive contemplation. She rested her head back and shut her eyes. A faint smile broke across her lips. Because at the back of her mind she already knew what her reply to Florence was going to be.
THE END
Acknowledgements
A huge thanks to all those at Bloodhound Books, especially Betsy and Fred Reavley, Ian Skewis, Tara Lyons, Maria Slocombe, and everyone who puts an enormous effort in to helping each book launch and fly.
For the encouragement and chocolate, and for generally being wonderful, thank you to Rich. Also thank you to my mum and friends for their ongoing interest, and for making so many supportive cups of tea. And of course, massive thanks to my three bright sparks, Bethan, Olivia and Ben.
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