‘Do sit down, Sister Joan.’
‘Thank you, Mother Prioress.’
Seating herself on the stool placed in front of the large flat-topped desk, Sister Joan had a sudden sense of déjà vu. Sister, now Mother David, was, though some ten years younger than her predecessor, just as small and slight. It occurred to her that in the main this particular branch of the Order of Daughters of Compassion didn’t attract tall nuns. Sister Perpetua and Sister Hilaria were both tall and Sister Gabrielle had been above middle height before age and rheumatism had bent her, but the rest of them were of barely average height and Sister Martha was positively tiny.
‘Sister?’ Mother David was looking at her enquiringly.
‘I beg your pardon, Mother David!’
Sister Joan hastily abandoned the wool she was gathering and fixed the other with a businesslike gaze.
‘I decided to talk to each one of you privately,’ Mother David said, ‘so that any worries you might have or any questions could be dealt with in confidence. As you probably have guessed Mother – that is to say Sister Dorothy ran this house with quiet efficiency and understanding. I hope I can come near to her standard. Happily our Rule is there to set the standard.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Sister Joan murmured.
It was said that one ought to be able to write down the Rule simply by watching the behaviour of a perfect nun. Sister Joan doubted if she would ever come anywhere near that standard.
‘And since most of our sisters are happy in their present occupations I see no need for change simply for change’s sake,’ Mother David was continuing. ‘Sister Hilaria will make a wonderful sacristan and Sister Dorothy will enjoy her duties as librarian – as I did myself.’
There was an unconscious wistfulness in her tone. Sister Joan said, ‘What of your book on the saints, Mother David? Will you find time to finish that?’
‘Oh, I think so,’ Mother David said. ‘I am writing about St Rose of Lima at present – such a charming little saint, and I have St Scholastica researched – I did consider St Sebastian but small children might be distressed by his martyrdom, don’t you think?’
‘All those arrows,’ said Sister Joan.
‘The point is,’ Mother David went on, ‘that I have received a most encouraging letter from a publisher who is ready to consider the book as soon as it is finished. However he does mention illustrations….’
Her glance was both self-deprecating and hopeful.
‘You would like me to supply illustrations?’ Sister Joan said.
‘Not, of course, as a question of obedience!’ Mother David made haste to say. ‘If it were a matter of the book’s publication benefiting me personally then I should never dream – but any revenue from the series would naturally go to the Order. It would be cutting into your time, I fear, for you are now engaged in helping to prepare the postulancy for its tenants.’
‘I would love to illustrate your books,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Only one colour illustration for each saint and then some line drawings perhaps – something amusing and yet not improper.’
‘May I read the manuscript?’
‘It’s up in the library. The light there is not very good but one of the storerooms has a large skylight. This is very good of you, Sister Joan!’
‘Actually it isn’t,’ Sister Joan said frankly. ‘I was trained at art college; I even had thoughts of being – well, famous. I never would have been of course. Talent but no genius. Anyway I shall be very pleased to illustrate your series.’
‘Twenty-six of them – very slim volumes,’ Mother David said modestly. ‘In a couple of years – possibly three – I hope to have finished the entire series.’
‘You may have to cheat over X,’ Sister Joan said.
‘St Francis Xavier!’ Mother David said promptly. ‘Such a boon to the Jesuits! Thank you again, Sister. Dominus vobiscum.’
‘Et cum spiritu sancto.’ Briefly kneeling she went out with a light heart.
Outside, autumnal sunshine striped the grass. She stood in the hall bathing in the light that came through the windows at each side of the main door.
‘You look happy!’ Sister Perpetua remarked, coming out of the dispensary with a bottle of linament in her hand.
‘Mother David has asked me to illustrate her series of saints’ tales for children,’ Sister Joan told her.
‘As well as helping do up the postulancy? You’re going to be busy.’
‘Oh, I shall fit Lilith in too!’ Sister Joan assured her.
‘You’re a busy bee!’ Sister Perpetua said, vanishing into the infirmary.
Had there been an edge of sarcasm in her voice? Sister Joan opened the front door and went round to the back, some of the pleasure forsaking the day. She enjoyed activity, always had done, did that mean that one side of her religious life was lacking in some way?
‘We are,’ her original novice mistress had told her, ‘a semi-cloistered Order. We leave the convent premises only on necessary business. We work at what we can do best and earn our bread, but our main business is the glorification of God, and that is best achieved in contemplation.’
Shutting out the world had never been one of her strong points. She shook her head slightly and went across the lawn and towards the long bush-lined walk that connected with the shrubbery and led to the old tennis courts.
To her surprise as she approached the postulancy, the front door opened and a tall, tonsured figure with a halo of curly red hair about a face made for smiling, emerged.
‘Brother Cuthbert! I didn’t expect to find you here,’ she said in surprise, going to meet him.
Brother Cuthbert had received permission from his own prior to live alone in hermit-like fashion, a permission given, she shrewdly suspected, because Brother Cuthbert was the equivalent of a sorcerer’s apprentice in any community, having a heart of gold and no practical skills whatsoever.
‘I thought I’d just wander over and see if there was any way I might help out, Sister Joan. Not that Mother Prioress asked me but one ought to show willing, don’t you think?’ he returned cordially. ‘If the postulancy is to be rented out one might lend a hand with a bit of do-it-yourself, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Sister Joan said, smothering alarm. ‘However very little needs to be done and Mother David has, I believe, already contacted a couple of local builders. But how kind of you to offer!’
‘Pure self-indulgence,’ he confessed. ‘I rather fancied the idea of taking up carpentry once. Nice to think of following in the footsteps of dear old St Joseph – but the idea didn’t bear fruit. Are you here to conduct some planning for the tenants?’
‘When they arrive. Mother David stipulated a family,’ Sister Joan said.
‘A nice little family with a couple of children. I do hope so. Children always brighten the world, don’t they? Where’s Alice today?’
‘I don’t know – oh yes I do! I’m due to take her to the vet’s for her injection so, as usual, she’s hiding.’
‘I haven’t seen her anywhere around,’ Brother Cuthbert said. ‘She may have taken a short walk and be back at the convent waiting for you now.’
‘Somehow I doubt it,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Well, I must get on. Praying to do!’ He gave her a companionable grin. ‘If you’re driving into town later do stop by for a cup of tea.’
‘I will indeed,’ she assured him.
Brother Cuthbert made his home in a small building on the moor that had formerly been used as the village school. When regulations insisted local children took a special bus to the spanking new comprehensive school on the outskirts of town, the building had remained vacant until the young monk had landed there.
Now she waved him off cheerfully and went into the postulancy. There really was comparatively little to do here, she thought. The tiny kitchen could be opened up to make a larger kitchen-diner and a washing-machine and refrigerator installed and some carpeting provided. Some nice bright curtains too.
Under the sink, the whitewash covered the offending word. The unpleasant thought that other words might have been inscribed in other places, under the beds for example, sent her upstairs to get down on her hands and knees for a close scrutiny. There was nothing.
Downstairs again, she went into the library. Sister Hilaria’s own things had already been packed and carried to the main house, but the books still leaned together on the shelves. They could be boxed up and put in the main library above the chapel since she doubted if The Confessions of Saint Thomas Aquinas or The Little Way of St Thérèse of Lisieux would appeal to any tenants.
She took up the latter and opened it at random. A page covered with heavy black scribble met her eyes. Not a thick crayon this time but ink, smudged and smeared over the page and, when she turned the pages, over the remaining ones. Hastily she rummaged through the remaining volumes, finding the same meaningless, spiteful defacement over all but a couple.
Vandalism? If so it was a curious variety. The books were still in order, their spines undamaged, only the printed words within almost obliterated. Someone, she thought uneasily, had what amounted to a personal grudge.
The books would have to be dumped. She would make some excuse to Mother David about their being mildewed or something. No use in upsetting the new prioress unnecessarily.
She found a large paper bag in the little shed and stuffed the dozen or so volumes into it. She would put them in the three large refuse bins that were emptied, courtesy of the local council, every couple of weeks.
The bag bulging in her grasp she began the walk back to the main house, pausing now and then to shift the weight and call hopefully for Alice.
‘Ah, there you are, Sister!’ Sister Marie greeted her cheerfully as she entered the kitchen.
‘Have you seen Alice?’ Sister Joan enquired.
Sister Marie shook her head.
‘Isn’t it the day for her jab?’ she asked.
‘Yes, and there’s no sign of her.’
‘We do need some stuff from town,’ Sister Marie said.
‘I can take the van in and keep an eye open for Alice at the same time,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Are you doing the cooking this week then?’
‘I’m going to be doing the cooking this week and every week,’ Sister Marie said on a joyous note. ‘Mother David has decreed that taking turns simply isn’t practical so she’s given me the job.’
‘Bully for Mother David!’ Joy almost unconfined sang in her voice.
Though epicurean cuisine was not recommended in the Order she had loathed the whole business of preparing food as much as her fellows had silently gritted their teeth before eating the results.
Breakfast, taken standing up after private devotions and Mass, was a piece of fruit, a slice of dry bread and a mug of coffee. Simple enough! Sister Joan, when her turn came, either found she had left the bread to develop hard edges or forgotten to put coffee in the pot.
Lunch was invariably a salad sandwich, soup, fruit and a cup of tea. Simple in summer but in winter almost impossible to ring the changes as the supply of lettuces, spring onions and tomatoes dwindled and even soup could burn if you turned your back on it for a moment.
As for supper – Sister Joan mentally blanked out memories of potatoes having to be scraped from the bottom of the pan, fish leathery on the surface and raw within, and milk pudding to which she had absent-mindedly added black pepper instead of nutmeg.
‘Mother David did think of giving you the job,’ Sister Marie said with a teasing glint in her eye, ‘but she decided after much thought against the idea.’
‘Give me the list,’ Sister Joan said, suppressing laughter.
‘If Alice turns up I’ll keep her here,’ Sister Marie said.
Sister Joan took the list, raising her eyebrows at avocados and went through to where the van, used ostensibly by any sister bound for town on some necessary errand but actually seldom driven except by Sister Joan, stood.
She enjoyed driving though Sister Gabrielle had hinted it was only one degree better than her cooking – and how would she know when she hadn’t left the enclosure for years? Getting in, adjusting the seat, she cast a satisfied glance towards the bins where the vandalized books were now buried under several layers of old newspapers.
But who had done it? Who had left the ugly little word on the wall under the sink? Not the usual kind of yobbo surely? Not a window was cracked, not a single bit of wood scratched. Granted one could approach the back of the postulancy from the housing estate that disfigured the slopes of the moor, but why would anybody bother?
Her thoughts were tending unwillingly closer to home as she drove along the winding track that turned itself into a road as the moor dipped down into the town.
This was the old town, largely unspoilt apart from a bingo hall and an amusement arcade. Some of its streets were still cobbled and little had been done to change the outward appearance of the fishermen’s cottages that clustered along the ancient quay. The antique shops still had their bulging windows in which ships in bottles, Cornish piskies and framed seascapes jostled with beautiful old silver and copper jewellery.
She braked abruptly as a familiar figure hailed her with a wave.
‘Detective Inspector Mill! How nice to see you!’
Sticking her head out of the window she gave him his full, recently promoted, status with pleasure.
‘You don’t happen to have mislaid a dog by any chance?’ he asked.
‘You’ve found Alice? Where? Nobody’s seen a sign of her since last night.’
‘A young fellow brought her along to the station about an hour ago. Said he’d found her tied up on the quay. Covered in mud and her paw was hurt – don’t get in a flap. I took her along to the vet’s myself. It’s a sprain. Anyway she was due for her usual injection it seems so he’s keeping her in for a couple of days.’
‘But is she all right?’ Sister Joan demanded.
‘Enjoying being fussed over when I left,’ he said. ‘I’ll pick her up myself and bring her over when the vet releases her. Have you time for a quick cup of tea?’
‘I’ve the shopping to do – yes, a quick cup then.’
‘And don’t chip the wall,’ he admonished with a grin as she sat back behind the wheel and started to swing left into the station yard.
‘I haven’t broken a single law all morning!’ she retorted, making a neat turn and braking gently.
He held the door open for her to pass in, to be greeted by Sergeant Petrie, also recently promoted and wearing his stripes like a veteran.
‘Sister Joan, it’s months since we’ve seen you! How are the other sisters?’
‘All fairly well, Sergeant Petrie,’ she returned brightly. ‘Oh, and Sister David has just been elected as prioress.’
‘The little one with specs?’
‘She’s Mother David now. Sister Dorothy is our new librarian.’
‘Give them my best, Sister. I’ll rustle up some tea, shall I?’
‘Three cups,’ Detective Inspector Mill said.
‘Right away, sir!’
In the office, Sister Joan was motioned to a chair and looked round. Since her last visit nothing had changed save the calendar on the wall. The main desk held neatly clipped documents and a newspaper folded in half. No sign of any personal clutter, no photographs of family. Alan Mill had a wife called Samantha and two sons both in their early teens and away at boarding-school. She had never laid eyes on any of them, but she was aware that the marriage itself had always been rocky.
A young female officer, slender and blonde in her uniform, long legs encased in tailored trousers brought in the tea. Sister Joan, whose own legs, under the mid-calf length skirt of her light-grey habit, were charming, found herself hoping uncharitably that the hair was dyed.
Sergeant Petrie came in and seated himself.
‘Not good to hear about Alice,’ he said.
‘No indeed, but she is going to be all right?’
‘Right as rain,’ he assured her. ‘What I’d like to know is who tied her up on the quay? The inspector here says she was tied to one of those big iron rings where they make the boats fast.’
‘Even here there’s a crime rate,’ Inspector Mill said.
‘Vandalism?’ Sister Joan sipped her tea.
‘Lot of incomers flooding the town,’ said Sergeant Petrie.
‘Six Algerians and a family of Chinese who wouldn’t say boo to a goose,’ Inspector Mill scorned. ‘However, I admit there’s a certain – unrest in the air – can’t define it exactly. In fact it’s only been around for a couple of weeks – nothing definite. Just – a feeling.’
‘More vandalism than usual?’
‘Not really.’ He sighed irritably. ‘Oh, slogans on walls, a bin tipped over – now the kids are back at school there’s actually been rather less of it than usual. Benefit fraud of course. That goes on everywhere. An old dear down Fetter Lane reported she met the Devil the other night.’
‘The Devil!’
‘Slightly senile,’ Sergeant Petrie said. ‘Trotted in to report that she met him in the old churchyard. She likes to wander around there, tidies up a bit and waters the flowers. Strictly unofficial.’
‘Do we know her?’ Sister Joan asked.
‘Mrs … Pearson. Aye, that’s the name. Nothing in the story. She was toddling round after dark so likely her imagination started playing tricks.’
‘So nothing to account for the feeling?’
‘Not a thing,’ Inspector Mill said. ‘By the way I see that the postulancy is going to be rented out. No novices?’
‘Not one,’ Sister Joan said glumly. ‘There’s a sad shortage of vocations all through the Church. No, rather than having poor Sister Hilaria rattling round alone she has moved into the main house as sacristan and Mother David – well, to be strictly accurate Sister Dorothy just before the election, decided to advertise for a tenant or tenants – preferably a small family. We’re having a few alterations made.’
‘Not with Brother Cuthbert’s help?’ Sergeant Petrie put on an expression of mock alarm.
‘Some local builders are coming to do some bits and pieces. We’re hoping for a nice little family. Father Malone might know of someone suitable if the advertisement doesn’t produce a result.’
No point, she thought as she rose, telling either of them about the vandalism in the postulancy. In future she’d make a point of reminding whoever went there to lock up securely.
‘Give our congratulations to Sister David,’ Inspector Mill said, as Sergeant Petrie opened the door.
‘Mother David now and I certainly will,’ Sister Joan said.
‘I already told you that I hadn’t broken a single—’
‘Far be it from me to argue with a professed nun,’ he said, dark eyes crinkling at the corners, ‘but when I saw you your seatbelt was nowhere near you.’
‘Oops!’ She met his smile with a wry grin of her own and went out to the van, past the blonde officer who was typing as busily as if there was an outbreak of serious crime in this part of Cornwall.
The blonde hair, Sister Joan thought as she climbed up into van, was quite definitely not dyed.
The essential shopping done and stowed in the van, she glanced at the little fob watch pinned to the belt of her habit.
Time for a quick walk to the quay to see where poor Alice had been tied. She dismissed the idea of calling in at the vet’s. Alice would only get upset to see her friend start for home without her.
The question of Alice nagged at her as she walked down one of the narrow alleys that gave on to the old quayside.
Here, once, in the days Daphne du Maurier had immortalized, the contraband goods from France had been unloaded and then carried by pony or on the humped banks of hay wagons across the moors to be sold along the borders or left at the doors of certain authorities who turned a blind eye to the smuggling. Today, the river which ran clear and sparkling still down from the heights of the moors, was sluggish and the fish were scarce. Small boats that had formerly braved wind and storm now took visitors for trips across the bay or were used on outward-bound courses.
But something of the old atmosphere still lingered and a few diehards still went out to set their lobster pots, or fished upriver for the still plentiful salmon.
A short length of rope that had obviously been cut with a knife still coiled around the base of one of the iron rings. Stooping to it she discerned golden brown hairs caught in its fibres.
Who on earth had tied up the injured Alice here and then left her? Come to that, how had Alice left the enclosure in the first place?
As official guard dog, though anything less like one would be hard to find, Alice slept in a basket under the lee of the stable roof but was free to roam at will. Certainly she could have trotted through the unlocked front gates or wriggled through some gap in the shrubbery but she had never shown any signs of straying before.
If someone had enticed her away she might possibly have gone. With a stranger? Recalling her dog’s universal benevolence to anyone on two legs Sister Joan thought it likely that not much enticement would be needed.
She stood up, looked round and began the walk back towards the main street.
The alley a few yards distant from the one into which she was turning caught her eye. A neat wall sign informed her that the particular alley was Fetter Lane.
There was still almost an hour before lunch. Sister Joan changed direction and headed up the alley, past back gates swollen with damp and bins overflowing with rubbish.
‘And in which house,’ she mused aloud, ‘does Mrs Pearson live?’
As if in answer to her query, a large cat sprang down from the top of the wall, missed her shoulder by inches and gave an indignant yowl.
‘Malkin! Inside at once!’
One of the doors was wrenched open and a small, elderly woman came out, almost colliding with Sister Joan.
‘You wouldn’t be Mrs Pearson by any chance?’ the latter said.
‘Did Father Malone send you?’
The other, who must have been pretty once and still retained a kind of faded charm in her face, smiled at her.
‘Not exactly,’ Sister Joan said cautiously. ‘Are you a parishioner of his?’
‘Officially. Unofficially I’m a bit lax about going to church,’ the other said. ‘You’re from the convent up on the moors.’
‘Sister Joan. I wonder if I might have a word?’
‘If it’s about collecting—?’
‘Nothing like that. I wondered if you heard a dog whining last night.’
Mrs Pearson, pulling a brightly patterned if somewhat shapeless knitted coat about herself, shook her head.
‘What time would that’ve been?’ she enquired.
‘I’m not sure. During the night.’
‘I sleep very sound and my bedroom’s at the front of the house,’ Mrs Pearson said. ‘It was windy too last night.’
‘The convent dog was found tied up on the quay this morning,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Oh, poor thing! Not hurt?’
‘A sprained paw. She’s in the vet’s now. I asked you because – I understand you do occasionally—’
She paused awkwardly wondering how to frame the question.
‘You’ve seen him too?’ Mrs Pearson took a step forward, eagerness in her eyes.
‘Inspector Mill mentioned—’
‘That I’d seen the Devil. Not that he took me seriously. Batty old dear is what the police think!’
‘In the cemetery? After dark?’
‘I was setting some of the vases to rights – a rising wind could have some of them over if they aren’t wedged right. It took longer than I expected but there’s no danger in a churchyard – only memories and a sigh or two. Leastways that was what I believed.’
‘What exactly did you see?’ Sister Joan asked.
Mrs Pearson pushed her door open wider and stood aside.