Little Sister David sounded near to tears.
‘I’m sure it will be sorted out‚’ Sister Joan said warmly, wishing she was as sure as she sounded, and went on into the chapel, sliding to her knees with a sense of relief.
Prayers and the nightly blessing that immediately preceded the grand silence were effective barriers against discussing the matter further that night. She put the other questions firmly into the storage cupboard at the back of her mind and concentrated on her Maker.
Morning brought a light shower of rain that was refreshing to the spirits even though it meant she would have to don the unwieldy gaberdine over her habit to protect herself against a wetting. When she went out to the back to saddle up Lilith she bumped into Sister Margaret who looked less than her normal cheerful self.
‘Mother Dorothy has told me to go to the presbytery with the water cans so that Father can bless a new batch of holy water‚’ she said. ‘It seems there isn’t any left, which seems quite extraordinary to me. I do so dislike driving in the rain. Lampposts are apt to leap up at one, you know, and the car skids on the wet track.’
‘Wait until it clears up. It is only a light shower‚’ Sister Joan suggested.
‘One hopes so, which is a very ungrateful thing to say‚’ the other replied, ‘seeing that without rain the flowers wouldn’t grow. But it is terribly bad for poor Sister Mary Concepta’s rheumatism, and the worst of it is that she never complains. I can feel every twinge of her pain in my own joints — oh, what a grumbler I sound today! You must forgive me, Sister. This is poor thanks for the delightful visits we have paid.’
‘You probably got out of bed the wrong side this morning. I know that I did.’
‘I’m sure you’re right. Gadding about isn’t conducive to a quiet mind, is it? Well, as I have to drive into town at least I can get some more of Sister Mary Concepta’s embrocation at the same time. Have a pleasant day, Sister.’
Something, thought Sister Joan, saddling the horse and mounting up, had ruffled the clear stream of the lay sister’s spirits. Surely not the weather or the unaccustomed visiting? Perhaps the evil that William Holt had so startlingly mentioned had reached out to affect even Sister’s tranquil spirit. She wished that her former prioress were here. Mother Agnes with her El Greco profile, her air of timeless aristocracy, had understood subtleties, half-formed fears, uncertainties in a way that the brisk Mother Dorothy could not. For the latter there were no greys, no shadows, only plain black and white. She was perfect when it was a matter of dealing with would be saints in the postulancy or a nun uncertain of a particular aspect of the rule, but she couldn’t deal with spiritual cobwebs.
Once riding across the moor her spirits lifted even though the rain was becoming heavier. The air up here was clean and sharp and heathery and the faint pain that had been gripping her temples when she awoke was lifted. This morning there would probably be absentees. Contrary to popular belief the Romanies hated rain, huddling like cats in their wagons when it was wet. For the children who did turn up she would light the old-fashioned oil stove in the corner of the classroom and brew up hot soup.
As she had expected none of the Romanies were there. The Penglows were, clad in identical mackintoshes and sou’westers and conscientiously scraping their shoes on the iron mat outside the door; Billy Wesley arrived in the pick-up with Mr Holt and Timothy; the car dropped Samantha closer to the school than usual and sped off, the beautiful young man at the wheel. Considering the weather fifty percent attendance was excellent.
Having only half the school present also meant they could pull their chairs into a semicircle around the glowing stove while she abandoned the formal curriculum in favour of story-telling, first relating the Hans Christian Anderson story of the Ugly Duckling and then inviting the children to make their own contributions.
‘I know Cinderella,’ Madelyn volunteered, after some prompting from her brother.
‘Fine. You tell it then.’ Sister Joan frowned at Billy Wesley who had audibly groaned and rolled his eyes up to heaven.
Madelyn, with David supplying at least half the narrative, launched into a long and meticulous and infinitely boring retelling of the old tale. Sister Joan allowed her mind to wander.
Someone — and she doubted if it was one of the nuns unless someone was quietly going mad without anybody else noticing — someone was helping themselves fairly liberally to candles, flowers and holy water from the chapel. All those things were readily available elsewhere, but would not of course be blessed. Someone needed candles, flowers and water that had been blessed. Why?
The big crucifix had been removed from the altar and put back again within a few minutes. She cast her mind back to the sequence of events. She had gone to the chapel and found the altar bare save of candlesticks. She had hurried into the hall and stood there, debating with herself whether or not to interrupt Mother Dorothy’s session with the postulants. Then she had returned to the chapel and seen the crucifix back in its place. Either
