A VOW OF COMPASSION an utterly gripping crime mystery

by Black, Veronica

  ‘It would’ve been better still if Luther had turned up,’ Sister Martha said. ‘He’s so much taller than Sister David and me. I don’t suppose anyone’s heard anything?’

  There was a general shaking of heads. Sister Gabrielle said, ‘You should’ve asked me to help you. I’m quite tall.’

  ‘You’re also eighty-nine in a couple of weeks,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘If you think you’re going to get permission to shin up ladders you may think again, Sister!’

  ‘You haven’t heard anything of Luther, Sister Joan?’ Sister Mary Concepta looked at her hopefully.

  ‘Nothing,’ Sister Joan said. ‘He hasn’t been reported yet as a missing person as far as I know. People have every right to go off where they choose without informing anyone.’

  ‘But Luther isn’t exactly — well, he’s a bit slow-witted, isn’t he?’ Sister David said.

  ‘Indeed he is not!’ Little Sister Martha looked as fierce as her sweet-natured features would permit. ‘He never received any encouragement, that’s all. He has as much sense as anybody when he cares to show it!’

  ‘Sisters, this is recreation not recrimination,’ Mother Dorothy said.

  ‘I didn’t mean to be rude about Luther,’ Sister David said, flushing. ‘I’m sure you know more of his qualities than I do, Sister Martha.’

  ‘You said the church was full for Mrs Lee’s funeral,’ Sister Katherine said in her gentle way. ‘That must’ve been a great comfort for Padraic.’

  ‘And quite a few wreaths on the coffin,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘Yours looked lovely, Sister Martha. There were carnations from the children, and a bouquet of red roses from Padraic and dahlias and asters and a bunch of wild flowers that looked very pretty. And the men wore black armbands in the old manner. They add a touch of dignity I always think.’

  ‘Funerals should be dignified,’ Sister Gabrielle said. ‘Weddings too. I’ve no patience with those people who want to get married while they’re leaping hand in hand out of a hot-air balloon or diving into a dolphin pool!’

  A ripple of laughter ran round the semicircle. Mother Dorothy, glancing at Sister Joan, said, ‘You’re very quiet, Sister. Did anything particular happen today that you feel you can talk about?’

  ‘One of the nurses at the hospital has died,’ Sister Joan said, putting down her knitting. ‘Sister Collet. You recall the name, Mother?’

  ‘She was in charge of the ward when my godmother died. I had a very sweet note from her thanking me for the ring. Sister, you ought to have told me immediately you came in!’

  ‘I beg pardon, Mother, but you’d just returned with Father Malone and I thought it best to wait,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Anyway I felt I needed a couple of quiet hours in the chapel.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She was found in her room at the residents’ unit around lunchtime. She hadn’t gone back on duty and the chief ward sister went across thinking she’d overslept. The police were called.’

  ‘You were at the hospital?’ Mother Dorothy asked.

  ‘No, Mother. I was discussing the disappearance of little Amy Foster among other matters with Detective Sergeant Mill as you gave me leave to do when the message came. A post-mortem was begun almost immediately.’

  ‘But surely—!’ The Prioress broke off and frowned. ‘Sister, of what did Sister Collet die? Or don’t they know yet?’

  ‘She drank a glass of water in which a number of lethal tablets had been crushed,’ Sister Joan said.

  There were murmurings of dismay and several crosses were hastily drawn upon the air.

  ‘This is dreadful news,’ Mother Dorothy said quietly. ‘So many terrible things seemed to have occurred recently at that hospital. I assume that Detective Sergeant Mill has asked for the benefit of your expertise?’

  ‘Subject to your consent,’ Sister Joan said meekly.

  ‘Which is, of course, given. We must always endeavour to carry out our civic duties as well as our religious ones. Will you require permission to go into town again in the near future?’

  ‘It may be necessary, Mother.’

  ‘Then by all means do so when it becomes necessary. The sooner this matter is cleared up the better. I do pray that Sister Collet didn’t drink that lethal dose deliberately.’

  ‘I’m positive she didn’t,’ Sister Joan said firmly.

  ‘Another sad accident perhaps?’ Mother Dorothy shook her head slightly.

  ‘I realize this isn’t a topic for general discussion,’ Sister Gabrielle said, ‘but I’d like to make it clear that we can’t have Sister Mary Concepta going into St Keyne’s for a check-up until we can be sure she’ll be coming out again!’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ Sister Perpetua clapped her hands softly, avoiding Mother Dorothy’s frown.

  ‘I’m feeling quite well at the moment,’ Sister Mary Concepta said, ‘but if I was to be taken ill and die I hope that I’d accept it gracefully. Age does make one less useful after all.’

  ‘You weren’t put on earth to be useful, Mary Concepta,’ Sister Gabrielle scowled. ‘You were put here to render my old age a series of fidgety crises!’

  The bell marking the end of the hour-long recreation period sounded. Pieces of knitting and sewing were hastily folded up and the sisters rose, folding their hands within their wide sleeves, falling into line for the nightly walk to the chapel where a further hour’s worship would round off the day.

  ‘Two hours’ meditation and a Mass every morning, two hours’ religious discussion and study in the afternoon and another hour at night!’ Detective Sergeant Mill had exclaimed once when she had attempted to describe the unvarying daily routine. ‘When do you get time to work?’

  ‘That is our main work,’ she had answered, stifling a laugh at the horror on his face.

  ‘You must have knees of iron!’ he had commented.

  ‘Some of us creak a bit,’ she’d admitted. ‘Sister Gabrielle has leave to sit when she feels extremely uncomfortable, but she seldom avails herself of the privilege. It’s a question of pride with her.’

  ‘It’s a question of masochism,’ he’d retorted. ‘Don’t you show a little compassion to yourselves as well as to everybody else? No, don’t tell me! My agnostic soul would rebel against details of hair shirts, etcetera!’

  ‘Hair shirts are out of fashion this century,’ Sister Joan had retorted with a smile.

  She hadn’t mentioned the weekly discipline that all sisters imposed upon themselves. It was after all only a symbolic act designed to remind the flesh that it must be subject to the spirit. He would have regarded it as medieval and unmeaningful. There were some things on which nun and policeman would never see eye to eye.

  There were other matters concerning Sister Collet which she hadn’t yet confided to Mother Dorothy and she was grateful for the tact that prevented her superior from demanding full information as it unfolded. When Mother Dorothy gave permission for her to assist the police she left it to Sister Joan as to what and when everything could be revealed.

  In the chapel she bowed her head and prayed silently for all those who seemed to have become part of an apparently random series of events. Yet even as she prayed stray images broke free and floated to the surface of her mind.

  Sister Collet giving a cup of sweet cocoa to an old tramp, a bunch of wild flowers — two bunches of wild flowers, but she was weary and couldn’t remember where the second one fitted in. Ward Sister Sophie Meecham’s hands twisting and turning in her lap; Dr Geeson cheerfully whistling as he strolled through the hospital gates; drugs signed for by the person who might not have taken them; a curly red wig that didn’t fit a particular head.

  Kneeling for the blessing as the grand silence began she found it an effort to get up again. At this moment she needed her bed and no dreaming to disturb her slumber, she decided, meeting Mother Dorothy’s sharply questioning eyes with a reassuring nod and a half smile.

  If she dreamed at all she didn’t recall it when she woke up the next morning to Sister Teresa’
s cheerful, ‘Christ is risen!’

  Sister Teresa and Sister Marie had been up since 4.30, she reminded herself, sliding to her knees to make the appropriate response. She herself felt energetic and quick-witted despite the fact that the sky outside her small window was still hung with fading stars. She accomplished her toilet swiftly and went down to the chapel feeling as if she could cope with the new day that lay ahead.

  Kneeling in her usual place she felt something prickly against the material of her habit. A swift glance downwards showed her the cause. Tucked under the kneeling hassock was a large bunch of holly, its berries still green. She reached down cautiously and pushed it further out of sight, repressing a yelp as one of the leaves stuck into the side of her hand.

  Though the door which connected the chapel wing to the main building was locked at night the outer door of the chapel was left unlocked. Mother Dorothy had always insisted that it was better to risk a burglary than to deny someone the opportunity to seek spiritual comfort in the chapel, and remained blithely indifferent to the fact that the only people likely to be wandering about on the moor in the middle of the night were almost certainly up to no good in the first place.

  The holly pricked at her mind as it had pricked her hand. She set herself to concentrating entirely on her meditations, but the philosophical sayings of St Thomas Aquinas were too frequently interrupted by stray sentences spoken at random by faces she had scarcely known six weeks before but which were now becoming familiar.

  Ward Sister Sophie Meecham, outwardly the calm, efficient nurse who in earlier times might confidently be expected to rise to the post of matron. Even without that title the job was a stressful one. Sophie Meecham ruled her staff with a loose rein and herself resorted to an occasional swig from the brandy bottle in the office. Sister Collet was — had been — tender hearted, slapdash and emotional, rushing into the drugs unit to sign for the digoxin she — or someone else — had taken. Sister Merryl was of the old school, together with Sister Warren regarding the new ways as suspect. She suspected that Dr Geeson with his hard eyes and immaculate hair would be in favour of anything that spared him from having to establish a personal rapport with a patient. But people weren’t so simple and uncomplicated, she reminded herself.

  After breakfast she excused herself, caught the eye of Mother Dorothy who nodded as if to reinforce the permission she had previously given and went back to the chapel. Sister David would be arriving at any moment to dust the chapel and change the water in the vase at the foot of the Lady Altar and check that the silver candlesticks still gleamed. As sacristan she took her duties as seriously as she took everything else.

  The bunch of holly was still under the hassock. It was tied with a length of thin string. She lifted it out cautiously, avoiding the prickles and carried it up to the library.

  Settled at a table under one of the skylights, the bunch of holly at her feet, she drew out the thin sheaf of typed information that Detective Sergeant Mill had given her. In the end justice relied on solid facts. They were here, life histories neatly compressed into a few sentences.

  Dr Enoch Meredith. Aged 59. Born Swansea. Educated Charterhouse. Medical degree from Bart’s, London. Qualified as surgeon in 1962. Settled in Cornwall 1963. Married Alicia Fenton, 1970. No children. Wife died 1987. Left general practice full-time in 1988. In 1990 became part-time consultant at St Keyne’s.

  There was nothing there to suggest the murderer. A childless widower, growing bored during retirement and choosing to get back into harness. Possibly slightly jealous of a younger doctor who was now in a senior position?

  Dr Russell Geeson. Aged 34. Born London. Educated Harrow and Cambridge. Medical degree from Cambridge, 1985. 1990 left post as resident surgeon at Battersea General Hospital and moved to St Keyne’s as resident surgeon.

  Sister Joan leaned her chin on her hand and grimaced. Not much there to go on beyond the fact that an obviously capable and ambitious doctor had moved from a large city hospital to a smaller rural establishment. Perhaps he preferred to be a big fish in a small pond.

  Ward Sister Sophie Meecham. Aged 34. Born London. Educated Fulham Comprehensive. Basic nursing training in Battersea General Hospital. Qualified 1985. Ward Sister at Battersea General Hospital until her transfer to St Keyne’s in 1990. Promoted to chief ward sister 1991. Unmarried.

  So which one had followed the other? Had Dr Geeson advised Sophie Meecham to follow his example or had she opted for a rural post? Perhaps the friendship between them had stopped Dr Geeson from remonstrating with Sister Meecham about her tippling. Was there any friendship between them outside their professional relationship? Thinking of Sophie Meecham’s thin figure and undistinguished features Sister Joan begged leave to doubt it.

  Sister Maud Merryl. Aged 47. Born in Paignton. Educated at Paignton High School. Basic nursing training at St Columba’s General Hospital, Torquay. Joined St Keyne’s in 1971. Unmarried.

  Sister Jan Warren. Aged 36. Born in Canterbury. Educated Canterbury High School. Basic nursing training at Dartford General Hospital. Nursing Sister at Dartford Trust Hospital. Married David Wickley 1983. Widowed 1986. Resumed maiden name and joined staff at St Keyne’s in 1988. No children.

  So the coldly efficient Jan Warren had a past sorrow in her life. Sister Joan felt a pang of compassion, suddenly seeing Sister Warren’s hard exterior as a shield against unwanted feeling.

  Sister Elizabeth Foster. Aged 29. Born Battersea. Educated Battersea Comprehensive School. Basic nursing training at Battersea, 1991. Gave birth to female child, Amy Foster. Father not named. Appointed as ward sister at St Keyne’s in 1993.

  Sister Joan read over the sparse entries once again. The picture that was forming in her mind was growing clearer. She was certain that Detective Sergeant Mill had already arrived at the same conclusions. She frowned slightly and read through the rest of the file.

  Ward Sister Tracy Collet. Aged 25. Born in Wrexham. Educated at Wrexham High School for Girls. Basic nursing course at St Faith’s Hospital, Birmingham. Appointed as ward sister at St Keyne’s in 1993. Single. No living relatives. Died 1995, September. Cause of death digoxin poisoning. Pregnant three and a half months.

  Ward Sister Ann Croft. Aged 24. Born Penzance. Educated Merchant Taylors School. Basic training at St Keyne’s Hospital. Engaged to James McKensie, motor mechanic.

  Ward Sister Ceri Williams. Aged 23. Born Wrexham. Educated privately. Basic nursing course now being taken at St Keyne’s. Two years completed with credits. Single.

  Howard Johns. Aged 62. Male orderly and porter. Retired 1994. Returned to St Keyne’s where he had worked for thirty-five years as part-time orderly.

  It was all there, she supposed, and yet it wasn’t. The list of facts established links between various members of the staff but it didn’t tell you anything about the actual people. It didn’t explain anything about their interior lives, the fears that crushed them, the hopes that buoyed them up.

  She drew a piece of paper towards her, picked up a pencil and began to make her own jottings. If you want to find the murderer first study the victim, she mused.

  John Doe. Aged sixties? Tramp. Diabetic. Died 1995 after drinking a cup of sweet cocoa supplied by Sister Collet. His medical notes being typed up at the time by Sister Meecham. Cause of death, diabetic coma.

  Louisa Cummings, widow. Aged 75. Died 1995 of heart attack. Was being treated for a mild heart condition and awaiting a hip-replacement operation. Sister Collet on duty at the time. Death discovered by Sisters Meecham and Williams. Left her property to Mother Dorothy, her goddaughter.

  Madge Lee, thirties. Alcoholic. Took LSD tablet from red-haired woman outside public house and became violent. Cut her hand on broken glass and died the next morning having drunk most of a bottle of brandy. Cause of death acute alcoholic poisoning. Personal possessions burned in accordance with Romany custom.

  Sister Tracy Collet. Drank glass of water in which large number of digoxin tablets had been dissolved shortly before being due on dut
y. No suicide note found. Red wig hanging on wardrobe door was too large for her. Wearing her uniform minus shoes. Signed for thirty grams of digoxin. Query — was this just before Louisa Cummings died? Pregnant.

  Amy Foster. Aged 4. Daughter of Sister Elizabeth Foster. Born in Battersea. Fostered from birth. Abused by foster parents and brought to St Keyne’s Children’s Unit. Habit of injuring herself. Disappeared from garden when Sister Collet was on duty.

  Something was still missing. Some motive bound these together. Sister Joan winced as she realized that she had included Amy’s name in the list of the deceased. She picked up the pencil again and carefully drew a line above the name to separate it from the others.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Sister Joan!’ Sister David had come in and paused, irresolute. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  ‘You’re not disturbing me, Sister. I’m at an impasse.’ Sister Joan leaned back in her chair, letting the pencil drop from her fingers.

  ‘I know we’re not supposed to ask questions,’ Sister David said, ‘but are you helping the police with another murder investigation?’

  ‘At the moment I’m not helping anybody,’ Sister Joan said wryly. ‘I’m not even certain that a murder or murders have been committed. Look at this list, Sister, and tell me if anything springs to mind.’

  Sister David adjusted her spectacles on her snub nose and peered at Sister Joan’s handwriting.

  ‘They all seemed to have been very sad people,’ she observed after a moment. ‘I mean nobody will really miss them very much, will they? Not even poor Madge Lee. Padraic won’t admit it but she wasn’t the best sort of wife for him, was she? Oh, you’ve been over to the old chapel! After everything that happened I’m surprised you have the courage. I wouldn’t!’