‘Another eleven years,’ Sister Joan said teasingly. ‘How will we endure them?’
‘Don’t be impertinent,’ Sister Gabrielle said with a chuckle. ‘I came in to tell you that Mary Concepta has a queasy stomach this morning. She fancies a drop of that ginger wine you keep.’
‘I’ll heat up some at once, Sister,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘Would you like a tiny glassful yourself, Sister Gabrielle?’
‘I’ll stick to tea,’ Sister Gabrielle said, stumping out again. ‘Alice, come and have a biscuit.’
Alice promptly switched allegiance and trotted after the thickset figure of the old woman as she returned to the infirmary where she and her younger companion spent most of their time when they were not fulfilling their religious obligations.
It was a pleasant room with a pair of large windows that looked out on to a rock garden Sister Martha had built and planted. Two chairs were drawn up before a small fire, the only room to contain one save in the severest weather. There were flowering plants along the windowsill and spanking fresh white covers drawn over the two low beds. Sister Mary Concepta looked a trifle pale but she never had much colour at the best of times and the smile she turned upon Alice was long-suffering. Sister Mary Concepta was of a natural sweetness of disposition and never grumbled, a fact of which she reminded people from time to time. Sister Gabrielle grumbled constantly. Of the two Sister Joan secretly preferred the latter. If she’d been confined for several years in the same room as Sister Mary Concepta she suspected that she’d have grumbled a bit too.
‘How are you feeling, Sister Mary Concepta?’ she asked guiltily.
‘A little sickly, Sister Joan, but one can’t really complain on such a lovely morning,’ Sister Mary Concepta said gently.
‘You shouldn’t have eaten that pickle last night,’ Sister Gabrielle said briskly, going to the biscuit tin. ‘Sit, Alice! Sit! There’s a good girl. Cheese and pickle for supper is death to the digestive system. I don’t know what Sister Teresa was thinking about.’
‘I’m afraid it was my fault,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Sister Marie had the toothache and went to lie down with an aspirin and a hot pack on her cheek and I helped Sister Teresa to cook the supper.’
‘You burned the potatoes,’ Sister Gabrielle said in a resigned tone.
‘Worse! I burned the fish.’
‘So we were reduced to cheese on toast and pickles! Sister Joan, it was kind of you to help Sister Teresa but you never could cook so next time get someone else to help and you go paint a picture or something!’ Sister Gabrielle said.
I wish! Sister Joan said inwardly, going out into the short passage that connected the kitchen wing with the main hall.
There had been a time when she had dreamed of making her living as an artist. A very long time ago, she reflected. She had been wise enough to know early on that her talent would never be touched with genius but Jacob had encouraged her to make the most of her inherent gift, had taught her to live life fully too. And then real life had intruded, reminding them both that their religions were not mutual but exclusive, and that neither could bend sufficiently to accommodate the religious demands of the other. Jacob had gone out of her life and she had embraced a new life and never felt a moment’s conscious regret about her decision. But the painting she did regret because it would increase the shaky income of the community if Mother Dorothy allowed her to use her canvasses and brushes for something more than the occasional Bring and Buy Sale.
‘How is it, Sister,’ enquired the Prioress, emerging from the antechamber to her parlour as she almost invariably did whenever the thought of her came to mind, ‘that whenever I meet you I have the strongest suspicion that you’re wasting time?’
Sister Joan might with justice have pointed out that she’d already spent three hours at prayer, scrubbed out the stable and taken Alice for a walk but Mother Dorothy had on her unyielding face, eyes cold behind their gold-rimmed spectacles, small frame rigid. Now wasn’t the time for arguing. Now was the time for getting down on one’s knees and kissing the floor. Sister Joan did so, wrinkling her nose at the smell of floor polish.
‘It’s your turn to go hospital visiting, Sister,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘You’ll drive down into town in the van and buy some groceries on the way back. Last night’s supper was somewhat inadequate.’
‘That wasn’t Sister Teresa’s fault, Mother,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I burned the fish.’
‘I thought that Sister Teresa was not at fault. She’s always so careful,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘You will remember the incident in general confession, Sister.’
‘Yes, of course, Mother Prioress.’
‘Very well.’ The Prioress went past, sunlight glinting on her deep purple habit. The habit denoted her position and would be worn by her until a new prioress was elected. Elections took place every five years, no prioress being allowed to hold office for more than two terms. They were, however, permitted to sew a narrow purple band on to the sleeve of their grey habit for each term served.
‘A bit like the army really, isn’t it?’ Sister Bernadette had joked when she had first made application to join the order.
Now she was nearing the end of her first year as a postulant, a mute figure in the heavy boots, pink smock and large white bonnet that effectively crushed any remnants of vanity, permitted to talk only to the Prioress and the novice mistress. Recalling her own time as postulant in the London convent Sister Joan marvelled that she’d ever got through it.
Hospital visiting wasn’t an activity she particularly enjoyed. Happily her turn came round only three or four times a year. She went obediently, said the right things, distributed holy pictures and the sweet-smelling posies of herbs that Sister Martha made up and felt immense relief when the whole embarrassing business was over. Had she been a patient in hospital just recovering from an operation or pumped full of drugs then the last person she’d want to see was a nun with holy pictures and a large basket of herbs.
If she went on thinking in this manner she’d have even more to confess at the general confession on Saturday evening. She hurried upstairs to her cell to get her cloak from the hook behind the door and, as usual, paused for an instant to look round the tiny room and marvel that for nine years, first at the London house and now here, she had slept every night on a horsehair mattress with grey blankets and one pillow, the white coverlet which was only spread by day neatly rolled to the foot of the bed. A small table with a deep drawer held her underwear within it and her toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, flannel and soap on top. A bowl and ewer on the floor was filled with cold water and had a small towel folded by it. A shelf contained a few books and a mug with some pens stuck in it. The tiny window was barred and a solitary candle in a tin candlestick stood on the windowsill to be lit only in a case of extreme emergency.
The cells had once been decently sized bedrooms over the kitchen wing and what was now Mother Dorothy’s parlour. They had been divided into six smaller rooms, the dividing walls of hardboard so that one could hear the snores and night mutterings of one’s neighbour. Sister David slept to one side of Sister Joan and snored infrequently but noisily; the Prioress occupied the slightly larger space at the other side and slept silently. At the other side of the narrow passage Sisters Perpetua, Katherine and Martha slept in the three remaining cells. At the end of the passage two bathrooms provided the twice-weekly bath allowed, one in cold water, the other in hot. Everything was grey and white and Spartan and unchanging. Cells were for sleeping in and for writing up one’s spiritual diary which would be read after one’s death and deposited in the library. Sister Joan hoped that wherever she went after death would be a good long way away from earthly comments since she had no wish to spend eternity with her ears burning.
‘Are you still here, Sister?’ Mother Dorothy stood in the doorway staring at her.
‘I’m just going, Mother,’ Sister Joan said quickly.
‘Sister Martha has the herb basket ready and the holy pictures,’ the Prioress
said. ‘Don’t forget to give the pictures first to the older children. Sister Teresa will give you the list of groceries she requires and the money for them. One further thing—’
‘Yes, Mother Dorothy?’
‘My godmother, Mrs Louisa Cummings, is at St Keyne’s having a hip-replacement operation,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘Perhaps you would look in on her and give her my regards?’
‘Yes, Mother.’ Staring at her superior, Sister Joan said impulsively, ‘Your godmother! I never thought of your ever having had one!’
‘You think I came into the world wearing the habit, did you?’ Behind the gold-rimmed spectacles the pale eyes were amused. ‘She was very kind to me when I was a child, but then she married and moved away and we exchanged only an occasional postcard for many years. However she was widowed some years ago and has no children so I am the nearest thing to a relative she has.’
‘She lives in the district?’ Sister Joan wondered how on earth Mother Dorothy had managed to refrain from rushing over to visit her.
‘No, in Devon, but she was informed that she could have the hip replacement done here more speedily. I assume she will return to Devon for her convalescence.’
‘We could invite her here.’
‘We?’ Mother Dorothy’s sparse eyebrows climbed towards Heaven. ‘Sister, this is a convent. We are not a nursing order and we none of us has the right to invite visitors here save for the gravest and most urgent of reasons. I myself don’t care to set a precedent in this matter. Hurry along now.’
‘Yes, Mother Prioress.’
And hallelujah to you too, Mother Prioress. Sister Joan grimaced as she went down the wide curving staircase and through to the kitchen to collect the shopping list. It was considered a virtue to practise detachment but wasn’t there something about a virtue being carried too far?
‘Sister Martha has the herbs and the holy pictures,’ Sister Teresa said. ‘Who will you take with you?’
‘Hasn’t Mother Dorothy said?’
‘She’s left it to you,’ Sister Teresa said. ‘Sister Martha has the apples to pick and Sister David is working in the library and Sister Katherine has the new vestments to finish, and I’ve the potatoes to finish—’
‘And Sister Marie isn’t allowed off the premises unless she’s ill.’
‘She’s trying not to complain but her toothache’s started up again,’ Sister Teresa said. ‘I thought you could take her to the dentist. He’s awfully kind about fitting us in at short notice.’
‘Right! Sister Marie it is,’ Sister Joan said cheerfully. ‘Tell her to get a move on.’
Outside, Sister Martha came up with two large baskets of herb posies, each one tied neatly with coloured thread. In her wake shambled the ungainly figure of Luther, face bright with doglike devotion.
‘Morning, Sister Joan!’ He stuck out a huge hand. ‘Sister Martha and me is going to pick apples.’
‘Without Luther I simply couldn’t manage,’ Sister Martha said. ‘He knows which ones are ripe now and which ones must be left a while longer.’
‘Sister Martha showed me,’ Luther said proudly.
He was a gangling figure, round faced and amiable though he could be obstinate when he imagined his pride was hurt. He had Romany blood but none of the sharp intelligence of his cousin, Padraic Lee. In the past he’d been up before magistrates who failed to understand that his unnerving habit of following women never went further. Helping out at the convent delighted him and kept him out of trouble because he could follow Sister Martha round all day. The sight of her tiny frame always a few yards ahead of his huge one was so usual that people had ceased to notice it.
Sister Marie arrived just as Sister Joan was getting into the van. From the kitchen came Alice’s furious and indignant barking at being left behind.
‘Sister Perpetua thinks I ought to see the dentist,’ she said, ‘but it’s stopped aching again.’
‘It always does,’ Sister Joan said with a grin. ‘By the time you’re in his surgery you’ll believe that you imagined the whole thing. Nevertheless!’
Sister Marie climbed up to the passenger seat.
The track from the convent into town ran across the moor. Over on the right the pile of rusting metal and other refuse that marked the site of the Romany camp was just visible. The track veered away towards the small stone building once used as a school but now occupied by Brother Cuthbert who was on an extended sabbatical from his monastery in the Highlands. The tonsured red head wasn’t visible this morning and Sister Marie said, ‘I can’t imagine the place without Brother Cuthbert now. Do you think that his prior will let him stay here?’
‘I think he might. Brother Cuthbert is considered a bit of a loose cannon back in his monastery.’ Sister Joan, who was a bit of a loose cannon herself, spoke sympathetically. Not that she could compare herself with the young friar. Brother Cuthbert was too innocent to fit easily into a community. She was too awkward. Innocence, she mused, wasn’t a fault to which she could lay claim.
She dropped Sister Marie at the dentist’s and drove on towards the Cottage Hospital. It stood on the outskirts of the town, a reasonably spacious car-park in front of the main building with the smaller additional units surrounding it. It had expanded in the years since Sister Joan had come to Cornwall but the main building still retained something of the cosy atmosphere of the original institution.
‘Good morning, Sister.’ The nurse on the reception desk looked up. ‘Just visiting, are you?’
‘It’s my turn,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Is it all right if I start over in the children’s ward?’
‘No problem, Sister.’ The nurse added with unexpected sensitivity, ‘You’ll be ready for tea then.’
Seeing small children who ought to be running and playing and getting into mischief confined to bed or hobbling round on mended limbs was always hard to bear. Sister Joan, who had never been particularly maternal, steeled her heart, put a bright smile on her face and went through the swing doors into an artificially cheerful environment with cut-outs of cartoon characters trying to hide X-ray equipment.
She went round, forbidding herself to hurry, persuading one reluctant little girl that the herbs were to smell not eat, though she was certain they would be harmless enough, assuring another that she had proper legs like other people. In one corner of a room a small girl crouched, arms wrapped tightly about her knees, face bruised and adorned with sticking plaster.
‘And what happened to you?’ Sister Joan enquired.
The child gave a long shudder and swivelled her whole small person round to face the wall.
‘She was abused by her foster parents.’ A young nurse touched Sister Joan lightly on the arm. ‘The bruises she made herself, banging her face against any hard surface she can find. Creating pain to shut out pain. I’ll take the posy and the picture for her and see if I can get to give them to her later. Amy isn’t responding to kindness because in her four years she’s never known any, but we go on trying.’
‘What happened to the foster parents?’
‘Remanded for trial. They both ought to get a good long stretch in prison.’
‘They both ought to be shot!’ Sister Joan said low and vehemently.
‘The sad thing is that Amy loves them,’ the nurse said. ‘She keeps asking when she can go home. Ah well! Tomorrow’s another day.’
She went away on her low, rubber-soled shoes, consciously efficient and impersonal. There were other children who needed her attention.
Back in the main building, the nurse on reception brought her a cup of coffee and a biscuit.
‘No biscuit, thank you. Just coffee.’ Sister Joan perched on a stool and drank deeply.
‘You’re never slimming!’
‘No, but snacking between meals isn’t allowed. We have bread, fruit and a coffee for our breakfast and that suffices until lunchtime. Is there any patient in particular I ought to see?’
‘I don’t think so. The new mothers might appreciate a visit. They go home
today.’
‘And I have to see a Mrs Louisa Cummings,’ Sister Joan remembered. ‘A hip-replacement case? She was transferred from Devon.’
‘Was she a friend of yours?’
‘No, I never—Was?’ Sister Joan looked up sharply.
‘She was — that is to say she died last night. Heart attack,’ the girl said.
‘She was what?’
‘Nothing. She had a heart murmur and then her operation was delayed because there was a blip in the computer and a couple of patients got muddled up, but she died of a heart attack. We found her.’
‘We?’
‘Ward Sister Meecham — she’s head ward sister — came round with Sister Williams, one of the student nurses around midnight. I was on duty in the surgical ward. Oh, I’m Sister Collet. Tracy Collet. I’d been in the toilet, but not for very long. Dr Geeson said she’d been dead for at least two hours.’
‘And you were on duty then?’
‘Yes. I left the desk a couple of times but I was never away long, a minute or two. She was in the end bed furthest away from the desk. I never heard her make a sound.’
‘Then she died very quickly and peacefully,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I’m sure you can’t be blamed.’
‘She died very peacefully,’ Tracy Collet said. ‘That’s just the trouble. Excuse me, Sister. That’s my beeper. I’m wanted on the ward. Enjoy your coffee.’
She was gone in a rustle of starched skirts. Sister Joan drank her cooling coffee and found herself frowning.
TWO
‘Sister Joan? You wanted to see me?’ The young doctor gave her a brusque handshake and a nod, designed to let her know how busy he was.
‘Dr Geeson, it’s very kind of you to see me at short notice,’ she began.
‘What can I do for you? You look healthy enough!’
He had the brisk tone of a man diverted from more important duties.
‘A lady called Louisa Cummings died late last night,’ Sister Joan said.
‘The hip replacement, yes. Heart attack. Were you acquainted with her?’
A VOW OF COMPASSION an utterly gripping crime mystery Page 2
