Blood on the Bones (5 page)

‘And what of your family?’ he asked, once he had got over his mathematical surprise. ‘After over forty years as a nun, I imagine any contact must be minimal?’

‘It's not even that, I'm afraid, inspector. I have no living relatives remaining to me. My parents were quite old when they had me and I was an only child. Some of the other members of our community are more fortunate, though, of course, with house moves, marriage break-ups and the sequestered nature of the life of a nun belonging to an enclosed, contemplative order, generally, over the years contact tends to diminish. Especially as friends and family can only visit infrequently. In some ways, I suppose, nuns of our order are ‘lost’ to their families, some of whom, particularly those not inclined to religion, find it easier to lose their religious relatives in return.’

‘I see.’ He tapped the topmost file. ‘So I won't find many family details in these?’

‘You will of course find a few that are up to date, particularly those of the two youngest members of the community such as our novice, Sister Cecile and our postulant, Teresa Tattersall.’

‘A postulant?’ Rafferty queried. ‘I must admit, I've never understood the difference between the two, though I noticed that one of the young women in the chapel wore her own clothes.’

‘Postulancy is a way for a woman to test her vocation before making any kind of commitment,’ Mother Catherine explained. 'Most who wish to take the veil will spend six to twelve months as postulants, after which, if they and the rest of the community feel this life is right for them, they are dressed as novices. Becoming a fully-fledged nun is a far longer process than most people imagine, inspector. We don't grab naive young girls off the street and bundle them into a habit. In fact, we turn many young girls away and advise them to experience something of the world outside before they consider embracing the life of a nun, it being impossible to decide to make such a commitment without experiencing life and knowing oneself.

'But you were asking about who else's family details are up to date. Of our older sisters, fortunately, not all of their families prefer to put a distance between themselves and a professed family member. For others of our community, we have only the family names and last known addresses. We do, of course, try to track down next of kin when one of our community dies, but we're not always successful. As I said, beyond our novice and postulant, a few of our sisters have families that have managed to keep in contact over the years. But generally, once one's parents and siblings pass away, cousins, nephews, nieces and so on, generally find they are too busy living their lives to think much about the woman who chose to shut herself away from the world.

‘Occasionally, I'm sure, the parts of the families that remain do think of their loved ones. But when they realise just how long it is since they last made contact, embarrassment tends to ensure the severing of contact is final. It's probably better that way, as some of the families who do try to keep in contact seem to have difficulty in finding anything to say on their rare visits.’

Rafferty nodded. That he could understand. What could their families talk about after all? Football? The latest episodes of one of the soaps? Hardly. The sisters embraced poverty, chastity and obedience, not the latest tedious doings on Eastenders. No wonder the relatives at one remove, such as nieces and cousins, gradually cried off on the visiting. Though even he, who had sometimes had cause to wish for a severing with his own family, found it sad, cruel even, that families should be split asunder by the God who had put them together in the first place.

His too expressive face must have betrayed some of his thoughts, for the Prioress said, ‘I suspect, inspector, that you, like so many people, share the belief that to enter the cloister is to waste one's life. To run away from it, even. Am I right?’

Rafferty didn't attempt to deny it. It was what he had always thought.

The Prioress didn't appear offended by his antagonism to the lifestyle. On the contrary, she admitted that it was a common response.

‘Common, but misconceived. I've always felt that the general public's conception of nuns as ‘running away’ from life is a strange notion in many ways. Especially when you think that, unlike in the world, a nun has no chance to avoid facing up to her own weaknesses and problems.’ She paused briefly, as though seeking examples.

But Rafferty thought it likely she had outlined such examples many times to sceptics such as himself and would have little need to think about them. Certainly, once she began, she appeared to require no pause for reflection.

‘In the outside world, if you don't want to face up to something, there are always distractions. For instance, one can go to the cinema for some Hollywood escapism. Or to a concert and let the music drown your thoughts. Or, for a different kind of drowning, you can turn to alcohol or drugs. In the world, you can drown out an inability to cope with life by filling your every waking moment with non stop clamour.’

Rafferty stirred uncomfortably as he recognised himself in her words. He had often used the clamour of life to ignore things he didn't want to face up to. Alcohol had often featured prominently, too.

‘Imagine a world, if you can, inspector, with your busy life, where silence mostly prevails. A world where after nine thirty, ten o'clock every evening you will not communicate with another soul but God and your conscience till after breakfast the next day. A world where you can't pop out to the cinema or the pub to distract yourself from disturbing thoughts. No, in a nun's world, there really is no ‘running away', so one must learn to face up to things if one is to be at peace with oneself.’

She faltered for a moment, as if she had forgotten the script, but then continued with the admission, 'It's not a calling that many can survive. The discipline of such a life is what causes most novices to give up. Some have to be encouraged to see that they are not suited to the life and are asked to leave. That's why the time spent in preparation for taking one's life vows is such a long and demanding one: seven years or longer, mostly.

‘But for those who can take the life, a convent is a joyful place to be because each person has chosen to be there. Not only chosen the life, but been forced to consider their choice, not once, but many times. A nun is asked to question her choice and then choose it again.’

A smile flickered briefly across her poor, scarred face. 'I often think that marriages in the world would be better, happier and of longer duration, if all would be marital partners were required to question their choice as rigorously. But most of the time, young married couples really have little idea of what they're getting into. Little understanding of what they've 'chosen'.

‘We do understand our choice. We have taken our free will and made a positive choice, fully aware of all the pros and cons. By the time a nun is ready to take her life vows she has been encouraged to question her commitment time and time again until all uncertainty is gone. Committed nuns have found what they are meant to do with their lives. And even if we can rarely see our families, we have God and each other. It is enough. Such certainty is glorious.’

Her description of her life and that of the other professed sisters, made Rafferty feel envious of such certainty. He was so full of uncertainties about so many things that he found it impossible to grasp a life that held such a total lack of doubt.

His only certainty – with regard to work, at least – was that if he failed to find some answers to all his questions during the course of this investigation, Superintendent Bradley or 'God', Rafferty's personal, all powerful super being, would cast a very large, dark shadow over his life. The thought reminded him he had much yet to do. It seemed it was a thought the Prioress had discerned for herself.

‘But I apologise. I didn't mean to give you a lecture.’ She became brisk. ‘Now. Perhaps we should get on?’ Mother Catherine returned to the dictation of her personal details for Llewellyn, quickly supplying her original name and that of her family, along with the last address she had for them. She removed a cheap A4 lined pad from the desk drawer and quickly wrote a few lines.

‘I have put down the address and telephone number of the diocesan office which holds my records as well as the name of the person responsible for them.’

Mother Catherine had been called Erica Jardine, Rafferty noted, and her now deceased family had come from the north of England, near York. But in the intervening years, any trace of a Yorkshire accent had vanished as surely as had her previous life.

Rafferty nodded acknowledgement of this information and turned to other matters. ‘What about keys to the convent?’ he now asked. ‘How many are there and where are they kept?’

Mother Catherine responded by raising the large key ring that he had already noted and which she carried about with her. ‘We have two sets. This is one of them.’

‘You always carry it on your person?’

She nodded. ‘Except when I'm in bed. Then it hangs from the inside doorknob of my cell.’

‘You said there was another set.’

‘That's correct.’

‘Where is it kept?’

‘In the key cupboard in the back lobby.’

‘This key cupboard – I take it it's kept locked?’

Mother Catherine looked surprised at his question. ‘No. Of course it's not kept locked. We only keep them all together in the cupboard so we know where to find them and where to replace them. We are all devout people here, inspector. We see no need to lock things away.’

She paused and gave a faint smile as if she appreciated the irony of what she had just said and corrected herself. ‘Or perhaps, I should say, that the only things we lock away are ourselves and files containing information of a confidential nature. Why would anyone want to take the spare keys?’

So they could gain access to the convent, he could have said. Such as when they needed a convenient time, when the sisters were otherwise occupied in the chapel, in order to bury a body. But the Mother Superior was an intelligent woman. She could work out the answer to her question herself once she had got past the difficulty of realising that not everyone with legitimate, regular and knowledgeable access to the convent was necessarily as trustworthy as they might appear.

‘I'd like to see this key cupboard, Mother,’ he said. It must be kept in an unobtrusive place, he thought. He hadn't noticed it in the back lobby as they had returned from the rear grounds and the scene of the crime.

‘Very well.’ She rose from her seat. ‘If you will follow me. Though I'm sure your implication is groundless. The spare key will still be where it is meant to be.’

It wasn't. They all peered into the dark key cabinet in the little cubby-hole round the corner from the main part of the back lobby. The hook with the label above it saying 'spare keys', was empty.

‘But–’ Mother Catherine frowned as she stared at the empty key hook. ‘But how can this be? Where can the spare set have gone?’

Where indeed? Rafferty was surprised that the key was missing. Or rather, he supposed, he was surprised that it was still missing. Given that the victim had certainly died some weeks earlier, whoever had taken it – presuming they were also the murderer – had had ample time to get a copy and replace the spare. So why hadn't the murderer done so as soon as he'd accomplished the interment of his victim?

Rafferty noticed he was using the masculine pronoun. For the first time, he began to believe he might be right to do so. Before, he had believed that Father Kelly and Dr Peterson, although being regularly admitted to the convent because of their callings, had lacked easy access and had still to gain permission for entry, the same as any other would-be visitor. But if one of these two gentlemen had taken the spare keys, which both had had ample opportunity to do, they could now be said to have made a significant rise up the suspect list.

Rafferty, Llewellyn and Mother Catherine all trooped silently back to her office, each appearing deep in thought.

Shortly after their return, Mother Catherine rose. ‘Perhaps now you would prefer that I left you to look through the sisters’ files before you speak to each of them?’

Rafferty nodded and thanked her. ‘And about an office for us?’

She nodded and slipped a key off her ring. ‘You can use the office next to mine. It's seldom used.’ She handed him the key. ‘Should you need me for any reason, I will be in the chapel, with my sisters, communing with our Heavenly Father and praying that, in his Divine mercy, he will forgive the sins of His children.’

Only the swish of her habit and the tiny click of the door closing behind him, told Rafferty that she had gone. He breathed out on a sigh of relief. He couldn't help it. In spite of Mother Catherine's ready explanation of their calling, nuns still spooked him. The whole place did.

‘Right, he said. ‘Let's shift ourselves next door and make a start.’ He handed half of the files to Llewellyn. Once they had unlocked and settled themselves in the next-door office, he said, 'I don't suppose this place runs to a photocopier, so just jot down the salient details: Date and place of birth, religious name and previous name and last family address. We should, from that, be able to track down anyone we might need to speak to.'

Llewellyn interrupted to correct another assumption. ‘Actually, I think you'll find you're behind the times when it comes to the religious life. The sisters have embraced modern technology. They have a photo copier and a fax machine in their general office. According to Constable Green, they even have their own website. But,’ Llewellyn picked up his pen and began to note down the information from the files. ‘I don't suppose it would be right for us to presume to help ourselves to the sisters’ paper and equipment.’

This was a sentiment with which Rafferty was in wholehearted agreement; not being willing for the Catholic Church to think his embrace of their equipment meant he was ready or willing to embrace anything else.

They had barely made a start, when the head of Constable Timothy Smales appeared round the door, with the information that Dr Dally was ready to leave.