‘Is that where the Olives live?’ Sister Margaret gestured ahead to a dark bulk set back from the flowering grass. ‘It’s the old Druid place, surely? That was before your time, dear, but a brother and sister owned the place. Quite reclusive in their ways, so it was generally rumoured they were exceedingly rich, and a nephew — or was it a niece? I forget which and it really doesn’t matter — he or she started coming over to visit the couple, hoping for something, I daresay, but when they died — influenza, the virulent kind — they found out there was no money at all. The place stood empty for years and then the niece — or was it nephew? — sold it and it’s passed through a series of owners since. Funny, but despite the land being so fertile and rich nobody’s actually got down and cultivated it properly. But it’s a beautiful spot, and it is rather refreshing to see somewhere that hasn’t been tamed for commercial purposes.’
It looked lonely, Sister Joan thought, as they stopped the car — Sister Margaret having heroically refrained from speeding along the deserted track — and walked up to the sprawling mass of stone with its Victorian additions in the shape of cupola and turrets outlined against the evening sky. The black stone loomed against the dark night and the square of light in the windows did nothing to dispel the sudden and disturbing impression that the house crouched on the flowerstrewn moor like some wild beast waiting to spring.
She frowned impatiently at her own foolishness, deciding that while a vivid imagination was all very well in an artist it was out of place in a woman vowed to the religious life. And the impression had been erroneous anyway, since the main door opened as they neared it and a flood of cheerful light illumined Samantha’s small frame.
‘Do come in, Sister. I was afraid that you weren’t going to come,’ she invited.
‘I hope we’re not too late. This is Samantha, Sister. Sister Margaret is lay sister at the convent.’
By the time she had finished the introduction they were in a square, panelled hall and Mrs Olive, her slender figure enhanced by tight black trousers and a white shirt, was on her way down the stairs with outstretched hand and a manner very different from her previous languid one when she had first brought her daughter to the school.
‘Sister Joan, how pleasant to see you again. Sister Margaret, how do you do? I was beginning to think that Samantha had got hold of the wrong end of the stick but she insisted that you’d be coming.’
‘Only a brief visit, I’m afraid.’ Sister Joan glanced at the small steel fob watch pinned to her belt. ‘We had other parents to see and overstayed our welcome.’
‘Oh, surely not. I can’t imagine your outstaying your welcome anywhere. Come into the warmth and sit down.’
The long drawing-room was warmer than would have been comfortable in the depths of winter. Both the nuns flinched slightly as they were met by a blast of hot air from every direction at once. Not only central heating warmed the room but a huge fire burned in the cavernous fireplace above which a large photograph of Samantha, taken some years before, smiled coyly down, clutching a pink rabbit.
‘Coffee? Tea? I don’t suppose that I dare offer you a cocktail?’ She moved to a smart cabinet that looked small and incongruous against the faded grandeur of the room.
‘The point is that we wouldn’t dare accept it,’ Sister Joan said lightly. ‘All I came about was to enquire if we can ask for your co-operation in the matter of the school project.’
‘It’s a local project, isn’t it?’ Mrs Olive looked politely attentive. ‘Naturally my husband and I will give all the help we can, but as newcomers there isn’t very much we can add to the knowledge that people already have. We’re still finding our way round ourselves, you see. But if it’s a question of money—’
‘No, it really isn’t.’ Sister Joan felt the familiar blush of shame at the realization that most people associated nuns with collecting boxes.
‘Then I really don’t — my husband is fond of photography. He could take some photographs of local beauty spots, I suppose. He took that one of Samantha on her fifth birthday. We’ve always loved it.’
‘If the parents actually do the project it won’t be the children’s work,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I was hoping that we might have an open day at the school — invite people to come and see what the pupils themselves have produced.’
‘It sounds very exciting, don’t you think so, Samantha darling?’ The green eyes, so like the child’s save that they looked out between heavily mascara’d lashes, turned to where Samantha stood.
‘Yes.’ A flat monosyllable devoid of expression. Samantha’s lively welcome had flared and died.
‘Perhaps a folder about this house with drawings? I believe it’s quite an old building?’ Sister Joan suggested.
‘Now that’s a splendid idea,’ Mrs Olive said. ‘The house is eighteenth century, I believe. My husband is very keen on that period. He’s writing a book set in the — oh, darling, I was just about to boast of you.’
She had turned as a man entered the room.
‘Then it’s fortunate that I came in to put an end to it,’ he said, advancing with outstretched hands to where the visitors still stood. ‘I’m Clive Olive, Samantha’s father. You will be Sister Joan and—?’
‘Sister Margaret. How do you do?’
‘As well as can be expected.’ He glanced down with raised eyebrows.
Sister Joan, following his glance, found herself staring at a built-up shoe. A club foot? An accident?
‘Sit down, won’t you?’
