She walked to the nearest call box, took the slip of paper out of her purse, and dialled the London number. Later on she would think about the fact that she was making a telephone call without permission.
‘Yes?’ The voice at the other end was female, middle-aged, slightly husky.
‘May I speak to Kiki Svenson, please?’
‘If I knew where she was you could‚’ the voice said wearily. ‘I’ve had a procession of boyfriends on the telephone, not to mention her family. Not one word in over a month — and no rent paid.’
‘You knew she went down to Cornwall?’
‘As an au pair? Yes, she mentioned it, asked me to hold her room in case she didn’t like it. Paid a month in advance before she left — and then nothing. It’s not good enough. I don’t rent out bedsitters for fun.’
‘I’m sure you don’t.’ Sister Joan spoke rapidly, afraid the other might hang up. ‘My name is Sister Joan; I’m a nun at the local convent here. If I give you the convent telephone number would you give it to Miss Svenson when she returns and ask her to ring me immediately. It’s important.’
‘I’ll get a pencil,’ the voice at the other end said wearily.
Sister Joan gave the number clearly, repeated her name, assured the landlady that she was sure Kiki would be back soon with an explanation and the missing rent and hung up, the feeling of sickness inside her intensifying. Not a physical sickness but a reaction of her body to mental strain, she thought clinically, and drew several long, satisfying breaths as she came out of the close confines of the kiosk.
The afternoon was well advanced. She would have to hurry or miss the cup of tea the sisters drank before they retired to their cells or to the library for the two hours of religious studies that preceded Benediction.
‘What makes you think that you’ll be able to stand the routine?’ Jacob had mocked when she had made it clear her decision was firm. ‘You find it hard to wake up in time for your Sunday mass.’
‘It will be very good for me,’ she had retorted then. ‘I need something to keep me in order.’
‘What’s so good about order? What’s wrong with a little divine untidiness?’ he had demanded.
Jacob had been wrong, she thought, walking rapidly to the car. There had to be order to provide the loom on which one could weave a life. Whatever the outer and inner troubles that preoccupied her there was always the unchanging routine of the convent day to remind her that stability was the framework of existence.
‘We are not an entirely closed order,’ her former prioress had said. ‘The founder of the Daughters of Compassion believed that it was possible to combine Saint Martha and Saint Mary Magdalene in a well-rounded life. To earn a living is a praiseworthy occupation, whether as teacher, librarian, nurse — anything that serves the community at large in a lawful way. But the work must rest upon a solid foundation of prayer, worship, contemplation.’
Sister Joan wondered what Jacob would say if he were to meet her now, to hear that after six years she would have felt lost without the two hours or devotions that began every day, the two hours of religious study that brought the working day to a close and the evenings filled by Benediction, a meatless supper, an hour of recreation during which each sister must have her hands occupied with sewing or knitting, the final half hour in chapel, the blessing that marked the start of the grand silence. By 9.30 she was in bed when six or seven years before she would have been putting on her eye-shadow and sallying forth to a wine bar. The woman of six years before would, she thought, have read in the newspaper about the disappearance of a child, said indignantly that there were some wicked people in the world, and turned the page.
She drove back at a moderate speed, becoming increasingly confident as her old skill revived, but unwilling to relinquish the sense of mobility and freedom that being behind the wheel brought. It was also, she thought ruefully, a way of postponing the inevitable when alone with her thoughts she would have to decide how far she was entitled to involve herself in Kiki Svenson’s disappearance, in the search for Petroc Lee.
Sister Margaret was hovering anxiously in the yard when she drove up, her round face relaxing into a smile as Sister Joan alighted.
‘No problems with the car, Sister?’
‘Not even a scrape‚’ Sister Joan assured her, handing over the keys.
‘Our Dear Lord would certainly not have allowed anything to happen while you were on a mission of mercy,’ Sister Margaret said comfortably. ‘Sister Hilaria has gone to lie down until suppertime. Fortunately it’s soup tonight, so she won’t need to chew much. Did you report the little boy’s disappearance to the police? We have all been praying about it.’
‘The police were very kind. They’ve started their enquiries.’
‘Then we must hope for a happy result, mustn’t we? Oh, Mother Dorothy would like to have a word.’
‘Thank you, Sister.’
Tapping on the parlour door she reminded herself that she had a telephone call on her conscience.
‘Sister Hilaria arrived home in a lorry,’ the Prioress said without preamble. ‘I doubt if it gives a very good impression to the neighbourhood when Daughters of Compassion are seen whizzing around in lorries with somewhat suspect companions. However for this one occasion it has to be tolerated. It was
