A VOW OF COMPASSION an utterly gripping crime mystery

by Black, Veronica

  ‘Oh, it was only that—’ Tracy Collet hesitated, biting her lip. ‘It was only that the cover on her bed was perfectly smooth.’

  ‘She died in her sleep surely.’

  ‘Of a sudden, massive heart attack, yes, but one of her hands was clenched into a tight fist. There must’ve been a split second when she’d felt a searing pain. Yet the covers were all smooth.’

  ‘Her arms were outside them?’

  ‘Yes. No, her left arm was under the covers.’ Tracy Collet screwed up her eyes in an effort to recreate the scene in her mind. ‘The right arm with the hand clenched was outside the covers but the covers were smooth. I’m sorry, Sister. It’s really not important only it stuck in my head. She was lying on her back and — no, there wasn’t anything else I noticed. Why are you asking?’

  ‘Mrs Cummings was Mother Dorothy’s godmother so naturally she wants to be sure that there was no pain involved.’

  ‘Apart from one last spasm, no. A split second, no more. Your Mother Dorothy can comfort herself with that.’

  ‘Right! Well, I’d better get back to the convent.’ Sister Joan slid from the stool and picked up the suitcase. ‘Thank you for the tea. I’m sure you did everything you could for the old lady, but we can’t cheat death when push comes to shove. Are you feeling better yourself?’

  ‘I’ll be glad when this double-duty nonsense is over and I can sleep round the clock,’ Tracy Collet said. ‘Bye, Sister.’

  In the van she put the suitcase on the passenger seat and drove sedately back to the convent. The community was still in the afternoon talk which meant that Sister Hilaria was taking the discussion. When the novice mistress chaired anything she was apt to go off into some deep metaphysical speculation and not notice that nearly everybody else was chatting. ‘Sister Hilaria,’ Mother Dorothy had once pronounced in response to a question from Sister Joan, ‘may strike you as completely unworldly and impractical but she is almost a living rule, Sister. If we lost the constitution devised by our founder — may her memory serve as perpetual blessing! — we could rewrite it again simply by observing the conduct of Sister Hilaria. It’s very good for them to be in daily contact with one whose life is so utterly God centred.’

  At least the extended discussion would give her the chance to check the contents of the suitcase. Mother Dorothy had cared more for her godmother than her habit of detachment had permitted her to reveal.

  She went through to the main entrance hall and across to the chapel wing opposite the Prioress’s parlour. The passage with its row of small windows ran past the visitors’ parlour, with the grille separating Sisters from laity, to the chapel, once the family chapel for the Tarquins but now the regular place of worship for the nuns and for any member of the public who might wish to attend.

  At the side of the Lady Altar a spiral staircase twisted up to the upper storey. A library had been established there, shelves of books neatly catalogued by Sister David, who spent much of her time up here, working on the Latin and Greek translations that brought a little income to the community and working also on the Children’s Lives of the Saints which it was hoped would attract a publisher when it was completed. Sister David was up to Saint Nicholas.

  ‘I know that some people declare he was only a bishop who had certain legends attached to his name but children ought to know who the original of Santa Claus is, don’t you think?’ she had queried anxiously, rabbit nose twitching.

  Sister Joan lugged the suitcase into the adjoining series of attics that completed the upper floor. The attics were scrubbed and bare now, the flotsam and jetsam of years cleared out. She set down her burden near one of the skylights, squatted beside it and snapped back the locks.

  Someone else had packed the case, laying underwear and two nightdresses neatly between sheets of tissue. Mother Dorothy would almost certainly want the clothes to go to a charity. The Little Way and Cafod were her favourite ones. Under the nether garments were two blouses, a pair of wide-legged trousers, a cardigan and a wraparound skirt patterned in two shades of green. There were two pairs of low-heeled shoes and a jointed, expanding walking stick. Good quality materials, conventional style. Someone had washed and ironed them. Almost certainly they had been already clean when Mrs Cummings had brought them to the hospital, but now they bore no trace of the woman who had worn them. They were merely garments, devoid of personality.

  Beneath the garments, protected by more tissue and secured by two broad straps were the rest of Louisa Cummings’s things: a sponge bag in a floral design with toilet accessories inside, hairbrush and comb that smelt now faintly of Dettol, a sachet of paper handkerchiefs, a box of soluble aspirin, a make-up case with powder, foundation, blusher and lipstick neatly slotted into place. Mrs Cummings had retained her feminine vanity. A block of notepaper and two pens had been slid into a plastic bag; the block was smooth and not written on. There was a roll of cotton wool, a small tube of liniment, a box containing a solitaire diamond ring and a gold wedding-ring, a photograph of a middle-aged man with a suntan — the late Mr Cummings, no doubt — two paperback books — Louisa Cummings had enjoyed thrillers — a pair of reading spectacles in a leather case, rosary beads and a Cornish Pisky, perched cross-legged on top of a thick pencil. A neat handbag with a shoulder strap was at the bottom. Sister Joan opened it with a faint shiver of reluctance. Handbags were such personal objects. Some people carried clues to their innermost selves in their handbags.

  This one contained only a small bunch of keys (house keys?), a mirror, a tiny phial of eau-de-cologne and a wallet containing a credit card, a bank card and fifty pounds in loose change and notes.

  One object remained: a thin exercise book with hard covers was wedged into the corner of the suitcase. Sister Joan tugged it free and opened it.

  Mrs Cummings had obviously used it as a commonplace book such as the Victorians had been fond of. There were shopping lists and recipes jotted down between extracts from various poems, dates which clearly marked birthdays and other anniversaries, reminders to order fish, bits and pieces cut out from newspapers and sellotaped in. Mrs Cummings had been an active member of the Churchwoman’s Catholic Guild with her name appearing regularly in items published in a local paper. Here and there among the entries, a few sentences were dated in the manner of someone who doesn’t keep a regular diary but wishes to mark some days.

  June, 1994, 6th day.

  Harold would have been seventy-eight today. Funny to recall that he was in the Normandy Landings on his birthday. I remember how worried we all were, not knowing exactly what was going on until it was all over. And the relief when the good news came! Seems a pity we can’t celebrate it together.

  Other entries were equally unilluminating though Sister Joan thought they had their own pathos. She read on here and there.

  Dec 26th, 1994.

  Very quiet Xmas. Dorothy sent me a very pretty scarf and a hand-painted card. Dear girl! It seems aeons since we met. Still find it hard to think of her as a prioress. Well, even the most mischievous child can astonish one.

  Sister Joan repressed a snort of mirth at the idea of Mother Dorothy as a naughty little girl and turned the page.

  August, 1995, 27th day.

  Settled in at St Keyne’s but not really happy. Nurses always in a hurry going somewhere or other, and very muddling since they all seem to be Sister So-and-So now. Doctor very young and thinks he knows it all. People these days won’t listen! Tried to tell him that the tablets have been changed, but he says they haven’t. Thinks that I’m a bit wanting in wits, I daresay. Will ask him again when I get the chance.

  The rest of the neatly ruled exercise book was blank. Sister Joan read the entry again and sat back on her heels, frowning. So Mrs Cummings had been under the impression that her regular medication had been changed. Possibly it had been for the good and simple reason that she had been due for a general anaesthetic within a few days and extra care was being taken. And old ladies did sometimes imagine things.

  After a moment
’s thought she took the book through into the library and wedged it on one of the lower shelves. The rest of the stuff she returned neatly to the case. Snapping the case shut she stood up and carried it downstairs.

  ‘There you are, Sister!’ Sister Perpetua was emerging from Mother Dorothy’s parlour. ‘Did everything go well? Where’s Mother Dorothy?’

  ‘She stayed behind to take supper with Father Malone but she’ll be home directly after recreation. She asks you to take her place at supper.’

  ‘Right. Then I’d better get on. I’m trying to persuade Sister Mary Concepta to have the meal in the infirmary because she’s been quite breathless this afternoon, but she can be as obstinate as Sister Gabrielle when she’s a mind. What’s that? Are you rushing off somewhere?’ Sister Perpetua nodded at the suitcase.

  ‘It’s Mrs Cummings’s belongings — what she took with her to the hospital. Mother Dorothy told me to collect it and check it through.’

  ‘Best leave it in her parlour then,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘Then find something useful to do.’

  Of all the nuns that particular injunction seemed to be addressed the most often to herself, Sister Joan thought wryly. The problem was that at the moment she had no distinctive function. Prioress and novice mistress had their allotted roles; Sister Perpetua was in her element as infirmarian and wouldn’t have relinquished it without a struggle; Sister Martha kept the gardens and Sister Katherine dealt with the linen; Sister David combined the offices of sacristan and librarian and the lay sisters, Teresa and Maria, shared the cooking and the cleaning. If she had a regular task then perhaps her mind wouldn’t persist in flying off at odd tangents.

  Louisa Cummings thought her tablets were different. Louisa Cummings had died too peacefully, one hand clenched, the bedclothes smooth and unwrinkled.

  She carried the suitcase into the parlour, set it down, hesitated and picked up the telephone, dialled the hospital and waited.

  ‘Sister Joan from the convent here. Would it be possible for me to have a word with Dr Geeson, please?’

  A voice she didn’t recognize asked her to wait. Sooner than she’d hoped she heard Dr Geeson’s impatient tone.

  ‘Yes? What is it you want, Sister?’

  ‘About Mrs Cummings’s medication,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Was it changed when she came in to St Keyne’s?’

  ‘She was on digoxin, low dosage. We gave her a weaker dose since she was due for surgery. Do you need details?’

  ‘No, that sounds fine. It’s what I thought,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘I hope nobody’s thinking of making any waves,’ Dr Geeson said irritably. ‘I can assure you that she’d have died whether or not the dosage had been decreased. She was agitated because of the muddle in the computer, though not to the extent that I thought might have put her at risk. Hearts are peculiar organs, Sister. They can go on for years under the most adverse conditions and then stop suddenly for no apparent reason.’

  ‘And Mrs Cummings was agitated?’

  ‘Naturally; having steeled herself for the hip replacement, she wasn’t very pleased to be delayed. If that’s all, Sister?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Goodbye, Doctor.’

  Nothing to worry about then. She replaced the receiver and went through to help with the preparations for supper. Vegetable hash tonight with a fruit pie to follow. Only Alice was permitted meat.

  Peeling vegetables, feeding Alice and giving her a second walk through the grounds in the hope of burning off some of her boisterous energy, laying the table, snatching ten minutes in which to write up her spiritual diary took up the time until the evening benediction, supper itself and the recreation which followed. Sister Hilaria towed Bernadette back to the postulancy since novices were not permitted to join in recreation. Sister Teresa and Marie spent the hour washing up and cleaning the kitchen. Sister Perpetua checked up on Sister Mary Concepta who had struggled upstairs to the dining-room looking very frail indeed.

  The sound of Father Malone’s ramshackle old car blurred the silence, stopped and drove off again with a great clashing of gears. Mother Dorothy came in, looking, from Sister Joan’s vantage point on the staircase, tired and curiously vulnerable.

  ‘Would you like anything to drink, Mother, before we go into chapel?’ she asked, coming down to floor level.

  ‘We’ll go directly into chapel. I enjoyed a very nice supper at the presbytery.’ Mother Dorothy was unpinning the black band on her purple sleeve. ‘I am glad you didn’t come to the second service, Sister. I found it very impersonal, but then I’m old-fashioned, I daresay. Burial has always seemed to me to be so much gentler than cremation.’

  ‘Your godmother was cremated?’

  ‘Apparently it was her wish. Cremation is such a final kind of thing, don’t you think?’ Mother Dorothy said.

  THREE

  ‘Sister Joan, it seems that my late godmother’s will can go to probate almost at once,’ Mother Dorothy said, ‘which is pleasing since it enables her assets to be distributed without waste of time. I’ve received a most helpful letter from her solicitor to that effect, and he has kept his fees remarkably low in the circumstances. Not all lawyers are as greedy and grasping as they are depicted.’

  ‘St Thomas More,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Indeed so! A very good example. Anyway, my point is that the solicitor sees no reason why matters can’t be expedited. I looked through Aunt Louisa’s suitcase. One must steel oneself to do such things eventually, and it is nearly a month since her death. I will place her wedding-ring below the altar in the chapel but I had thought of giving her engagement ring to the nurse who tended her during her stay at St Keyne’s. It is not, as far as I can judge, a very valuable stone and it would be pleasant to think of it on the hand of a nursing sister, don’t you agree?’

  ‘I think it’s a very good idea,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘The solicitor sees no reason why the gift shouldn’t be made immediately. I would like you to go over to the hospital and find out who was in charge of the ward Aunt Louisa was in and give her the ring. You may drive over this afternoon and thank the medical team for their care of her.’

  ‘Yes, Mother Dorothy.’

  Sister Joan took the little box in which the Prioress had put the modest ring and knelt for the customary blessing.

  The other, however, stayed her hand in mid-air, a slight frown corrugating her brow. ‘I would have thought,’ she said musingly, ‘that my godmother’s heart would have withstood the trifling annoyance of having her operation delayed for a few hours. In her occasional letters to me she mentioned her heart condition as a nuisance more than a burden. Aunt Louisa was not a woman to suffer pain or discomfort in silence so I assumed that her ailment was being controlled by medication. Of course one can never tell.’

  She gave the blessing then, sketching a neat, small cross upon the air.

  She isn’t happy about her godmother’s sudden death, Sister Joan thought, as she climbed into the van. She wants me to make a few discreet enquiries without actually telling me to do so.

  The realization surprised her. Mother Dorothy had never approved much of Sister Joan’s penchant for landing feet first in a mystery. Now, she had seemed to be giving her younger colleague tacit permission to ask a few leading questions. Probably to put her own mind at rest since there was no proving now that anything untoward had happened, but it denoted an interesting change of attitude on the part of her superior.

  She drove out on to the moorland track, slowing and stopping as she neared the small stone building where Brother Cuthbert lodged in what he regarded as almost sinful luxury, which meant he had a few pieces of furniture, a proper toilet and a small stove on which he could boil a saucepan or in which he could bake a fish.

  ‘Good morning, Sister Joan!’ He left off fiddling with the innards of an old broken-down car that stood permanently at the side of his hermitage and came over to the van, wiping his big hands on a rag before reaching in to shake Sister Joan’s hand.

  �
��It’s a lovely afternoon,’ Sister Joan said, gently emphasizing the last word.

  ‘Is it afternoon already?’ Brother Cuthbert laughed, ruffling up his fiery crown of hair. ‘Goodness, doesn’t time stand still when life’s so good. I promised myself that I’d walk up to the convent today to present my condolences to Reverend Mother Prioress.’

  ‘Mother Dorothy’s godmother died over three weeks ago,’ Sister Joan reminded him.

  ‘Father Malone was telling me that the lady had left her property to Mother Prioress. What a terrible burden for a religious to bear!’

  ‘She plans to share it out,’ Sister Joan said. ‘You may yet be burdened, Brother!’

  ‘Oh, I do pray not!’

  He looked so distressed that she said quickly, ‘As far as I know she’s giving you nothing at all, but even if she does you can have the pleasure of giving it away. You could buy toys for the kids in the children’s home.’ Privately she decided to mention that to Mother Dorothy.

  Brother Cuthbert said, ‘You’re right, of course, Sister. I always look at things from a selfish viewpoint. Yes, it would be rather fun to buy toys for the children. Well, we’ll see. I’d not want to be seen as a kind of Father Christmas, but there! life has its little problems.’

  ‘Go and get yourself some lunch,’ Sister Joan said severely, starting up the van again.

  ‘Lunch? Yes, yes, indeed I will.’

  Brother Cuthbert stepped away and called a cheerful ‘God bless’ as the van moved off. No doubt he was already thinking happily of dolls and train sets, she thought. In Brother Cuthbert’s world everything was simple. There was no room for little girls with bruised faces who avoided human contact because they had known only blows.

  She slowed down as she reached the main street of the town. Mother Dorothy hadn’t requested it but it might be a good idea to have the ring valued anyway since presumably its recipient would want to get it insured. With this in mind she parked at the side of the bank and walked on the few yards to the jeweller’s shop, where Mr Trevellyan presided over trinkets, clocks and watches.