Vow of Sanctity (17 page)

She lit a candle and sat down to sort through the pile and
find her book of faults. A piece of paper, torn raggedly along one edge, fluttered to the floor.

…
and
feel
your
sweet
mouth
against
mine
and
the
little
fluttering
breaths
of
desire
…

The piece of a love letter caught in the tree, the tall cowled boatman striding into the grove with Morag Sinclair as the darkness shielded them. The images coalesced in her mind into a too vivid picture. That bold, black handwriting she knew, was seen last in the parlour with the notes for a sermon written by – it had to be the abbot since the parlour was his domain and he would certainly preach numerous sermons. It wasn’t the words that had seemed familiar, but the handwriting.

She sat for a long time staring at the paper; her immediate impulse was to tear it across over and over; it was an impulse she resisted, remembering incidents in the past when she had been too apt to rush headlong into action. Her surmise that it had been written by the abbot rested only on the probability of the sermon having been penned by him, of his being the only member of the community who could come and go by boat in secret without the other monks knowing. The abbot, she told herself, must be in his seventies; Morag Sinclair was twenty-three. Was it even remotely likely that a man who had devoted his life to the cloister should in his old age take to writing passionate love letters to a girl old enough to be his granddaughter? Her instincts told her that it wasn’t so, that there had to be some other explanation. Her reason whispered that the most unexpected people often did the most unexpected things.

And it had nothing to do with her. Whatever the truth she was not the keeper of the abbot’s conscience. The fragment of passionate longing had, as far as she could see, nothing at all to do with the discovery of the body in the loch.

She folded the paper neatly and put it into her suitcase. Before she left the retreat she would be guided somehow as to the right course of action to take.

For the rest of the day she concentrated upon her own shortcomings until her conscience felt as if it had been springcleaned. At the rate she was going, she thought wryly, she would soon need a new book of faults.

The mist was beginning to clear. That clinging whiteness that drifted through the aperture like trails of white smoke had dispersed and the grey sky was flaming into an
unexpected sunset. She paused to munch an apple and eat the last of the biscuits she had and lit her candle. In a little while she would get down to a good solid chunk of prayer – the sovereign remedy in times of trouble.

Outside there was a noise, so faint that it almost died before it reached her ears. She sat bolt upright on the rock, her heart beating uncomfortably fast. Was it perhaps some animal or other? Her imagination promptly supplied dinosaurs.

Another scraping noise and then a loud rapping on the door. Animals, she told herself firmly, didn’t knock on doors. She rose to answer it, seeing as she pulled back the heavy door, the thickset frame of Inspector Mackintosh.

‘Am I disturbing you, Sister?’ He already had his hat in his hand.

‘Not in the least. You’re much more welcome than a dinosaur,’ she said in a flurry, stepping back into the cave.

‘Yes, well, I hope that’s so.’ He closed the door behind him and shot her a somewhat puzzled glance.

‘Isolation isn’t giving me hallucinations,’ she hastened to explain. ‘I heard some scraping and my imagination started working overtime. Please sit down.’

‘The scraping was the sound of my boots.’ He sat down on the edge of the bed.

‘Yes, of course. May I offer you something?’

‘Not for me, Sister. A bit more light would be welcome though.’ He looked round at the shadowed rock walls.

Sister Joan obediently lit two more candles and placed them on the ledge. When she sat down again she saw that the Inspector was studying her thoughtfully, his big, greying head tipped slightly to one side.

‘I’d not like my daughter to enter a convent,’ he said abruptly. ‘Not even if I was a Catholic. It’s an unnatural life.’

‘A supernatural life,’ she corrected. ‘A life lifted above the natural order in an attempt to create a living bridge between heaven and earth. Not that we always achieve our ends. Inspector, you didn’t climb all the way up here to discuss theology with me, did you?’

‘No, Sister, I didn’t.’ He frowned as if he were rearranging his thoughts, then said, ‘Dolly McKensie identified her husband.’

‘It was Alasdair McKensie then?’ She crossed herself, murmuring a brief prayer for the reposal of souls. ‘I am sorry but in one way I suppose it must be a relief to her to get confirmation.’

‘She’ll be able to draw her widow’s pension without going through the court,’ he said dryly.

‘Yes.’

‘The pathologist is still continuing with his investigations,’ he said. ‘There are some puzzling features about the corpse. It is in an unusually good state of preservation for a body that has been apparently dead for six years. The initial findings which cannot be confirmed bear out the theory that the body was put into the loch quite recently. The damage to the face is recent. The rest of the body is remarkably well preserved, almost as if it had been embalmed though I understand that isn’t the case. One does occasionally come across such medical aberrations, of course, but not after long immersion in water. I have a hunch it was hidden on land for a long time.’

‘I see.’ She spoke slowly, her eyes raised to his face.

‘I’ve heard reports of a crypt,’ he said. ‘A place where the atmosphere is such that bodies are gradually mummified instead of decaying in the usual way. Have you heard of such a crypt, Sister?’

‘Yes, I have. I understand that in the old days the abbots of the community were placed in the crypt as a mark of honour.’

‘Been down in this crypt, Sister?’

‘Yes, I have. It is seldom visited these days since all the members of the community are now buried in the enclosure cemetery when they die.’

‘Have you anything else to tell me, Sister?’ His shadow flared, gigantic on the wall.

‘Not yet, Inspector.’ She clenched her hands in her lap to still their trembling.

‘I’m not wishful to intrude into the community unless I have good reason,’ the inspector said. ‘We don’t know yet how he died. On the other hand if the circumstances warrant it then I’ll have no hesitation. Is the crypt open to the general public?’

‘It isn’t locked, but the general public don’t wander around on the island,’ she said. ‘There is a mass offered on Sundays
which the lay congregation attend, but they go to the church and come away again after the service.’

‘But it would be possible to row over to the island and go into the church?’

‘Quite possible,’ she said promptly. ‘There are no bolts and bars save in the enclosed part of the community – they are on the inside, of course, but the church is almost certainly kept unlocked all the time and the crypt isn’t locked either.’

‘A bit risky that in this day and age.’

‘Not really, Inspector. It would have to be a pretty determined vandal to go to the trouble of rowing across to the island in order to break into a church or a crypt where, as far as I know, nothing valuable is kept.’

‘As you say, Sister. Most churches have to be locked up now unless there’s a service on. It’s a sad reflection on modern life.’

‘As far as I know nothing was ever stolen from the church,’ she said.

‘I was thinking that somebody might have taken something from the crypt,’ he said. ‘Taken something that they’d put there in the first place. How does that theory strike you?’

‘As a rational one. Inspector, if you want to ask me a direct question –’

‘Not until we find out how Alasdair McKensie met his death. It might only be a matter of concealment of a body – a grave matter to be sure but not as bad as – well we’ll have to see how it goes, shan’t we?’

‘Yes.’ She looked down at her entwined fingers and said diffidently, ‘I won’t withhold any information if it’s pertinent but you must understand there are other loyalties too. Men don’t enter monasteries because they crave police investigations.’

‘That’s why I’m not rushing over to ask any questions yet,’ he said. ‘The local people have always been a mite suspicious of monks – smacks of old-time popery and the like. If we go blundering in we could upset the balance that’s been achieved already. However if there has been a crime committed then nobody is above the law.’

‘That’s – considerate of you, Inspector.’

‘We’re not as flat-footed as folk appear to think,’ he said.
‘Well, I’d best be off home. My wife’ll never believe I’ve been cliff climbing.’

‘Hardly a cliff,’ she demurred.

‘Steep enough for me.’ He had risen, still looking at her with an expression that was almost avuncular. As Sister Joan also rose he said, ‘I’ve been making a few enquiries. You’re not entirely new to police matters, are you? Played quite a useful role in a couple already.’

‘Not by my choice,’ she said, flushing. ‘Nothing ever got into the papers.’

‘That’s true, but when I rang the station nearest your convent to check up that you really are who you say you are I was informed that you had twice been of some considerable help in that area.’

‘You checked up on me?’ For a moment she was disconcerted. Then her sense of humour bubbled up. ‘It was good of you not to telephone the convent itself. My prioress would be less than happy to learn that I was mixed up in anything else. I really don’t try to make a habit of this.’

‘I thought it wiser not to bother your prioress. I am conscious that nuns don’t usually seek publicity. You were a great help to my Cornish colleagues seemingly.’

Though his words were not a question his expression was. Sister Joan spoke cautiously. ‘That’s true. However I do know my duty as a citizen, Inspector. I also reserve the right to make up my mind alone about some things. I hope you understand that.’

‘I understand but don’t entirely approve. For the time being I’ll not press you.’

‘Thank you, Inspector. You’ll take care going down the steps? I have a torch if you want to borrow it.’

‘I have one myself but the mist is clearing and I have twenty-twenty night vision. About the inquest –’ He paused on his way to the door.

‘I will be there if I’m needed.’

‘Probably only your statement will be required. If there are any questions – I can ask the Coroner if he has any particular problems and then you can slant your statement to incorporate them.’

‘That would indeed be kind.’ She felt a small surge of
gratitude. ‘The order prefers that we don’t get ourselves into the newspapers.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind. You won’t catch cold here? I’d not like to think of my daughter being stuck in this place.’

‘She probably hasn’t had my training,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I appreciate your concern but I’m fine.’

‘Right then, Sister. Good night to you.’ He went out, closing the door. There was silence for a moment as he obviously got his bearing and then the soft scraping of a boot against stone.

She sat down again, feeling the silence close round her again. Silence and isolation repeated over and over spelt loneliness. If there had been a telephone in the retreat she would have rung her convent, just for the comfort of hearing a familiar voice. It wasn’t any use. Despite her resolve it was impossible to settle down to her devotions. She went to the back of the cave and struggled into the oilskins, found her torch and put out the candles. Perhaps now wasn’t the most tactful time but she had the excuse of collecting her coat and scarf when she called on Dolly McKensie.

A brisk wind was whirling away the last ribbons of mist. Overhead the first stars were venturing. She held the torch steadily and made her way down the steps and the slope that ended in the rough shingle of the loch side. The damp air on her face was refreshing and she quickened her step as she turned into the gully and made for the bridge.

There were lights in the houses along the village street. Families would be gathered together now about their television sets, or discussing the finding of the body in the loch. She wondered if any neighbour had called in to express sympathy with Dolly McKensie over the sad finish to her long waiting, but she doubted it. They might wish to call but from what she had gleaned Dolly McKensie had never made any particular efforts to assimilate herself into the life of the locals. She served them in the store, watched jealously and proudly over her son, and kept herself to herself. She had only talked to Sister Joan because she knew the latter’s stay was temporary.

When she rang the bell there was a pause and then a window was opened over her head.

‘You’ve not forgotten your key surely?’ a voice questioned fretfully.

‘It’s Sister Joan. I hope I’m not disturbing you.’ She tilted back her head to answer and saw the frizzy outline of Dolly’s hair framed in the casement.

‘I’ll open the door from up here. Just give it a push and come up the stairs.’

The head withdrew and the window was closed. A faint buzzing announced the freeing of the lock and she pushed the door wider, closed it behind her, and mounted the feebly lit stairs to where the other woman was opening the flat door.

‘Nasty night for you to be out, Sister,’ she commented, leading the way into the comfortable living-room with the overstuffed chairs. On the table was the inevitable pot of tea.

‘It isn’t too bad at all now,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I came to ask if my coat and scarf were dried out and to return the oilskins. It was very good of Rory to lend them.’

‘Oh, they’re not Rory’s. Alasdair used to wear them. If I’d had any sense I’d have realized he wasn’t coming back and thrown them out ages ago. They were the only things of his that I kept. Would you like a cup of tea, Sister? It’s only just brewed.’

‘Half a cup would be very welcome, thank you. Shall I put these in the bathroom?’ She was stripping off the oilskins, feeling a sudden inexplicable unwillingness to go on wearing them.

‘I’ll put them away. Help yourself to some tea, Sister – your own coat is good and dry now; I’ll bring it out to you.’

She bustled out and Sister Joan obediently poured herself some tea. The room felt warm and airless and she fought down a desire to fling open the window and stick her head out into the cool evening.

‘Here we are, Sister. I’ll join you in another one myself.’ Dolly had returned, Sister Joan’s coat and scarf over her arm.

‘I heard that you had identified Mr McKensie,’ the latter said diffidently.

‘Yes, it was him all right even if the face had been battered against those old trees. I guessed that it would be him the minute I heard someone had been found.’

‘I’m very sorry. I know it’s been a long time but to find out for sure must be –’

‘He was never much use as a husband when he was around,’ Dolly said with a little flare of resentment. ‘Never here when he
was here, if you know what I mean.’