‘The history of the rosary devotion, Mother.’
‘Meditate upon the rule, child. Poverty, chastity, obedience and compassion — the four branches of our order. They must be held in balance. Think about them. Think about them positively — and Sister, at general confession you need not mention the telephone call. Your last confession was quite sufficiently startling. Our two postulants sat there with the most peculiar expressions on their faces.’
‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’ Kneeling for the brisk blessing, she was emboldened to add, ‘May I apologize for my lack of candour?’
‘Which was inadvertent, I’m sure. Thank you, Sister Joan.’
Put Petroc Lee and Kiki Svenson out of your mind and concentrate on your religious duties, she instructed herself firmly as she made her way to her cell.
Peace reigned over the convent. Seated cross-legged on the floor, Sister Joan dragged her mind back to the implications of the rule for the community as a whole, for each individual nun.
The bell tinkled for Benediction. Filing into chapel with the others she clung to the illusion of tranquillity. After Benediction, supper, with the promised soup and an omelette. Sister Hilaria looked better after her rest. The reading was from a study of Saint Mary Magdalene. The sinner turned saint, according to tradition. Love wasn’t always sexual even between human beings. It could be transcended. Hagar and Petroc swimming in the pool. ‘A dirty house,’ Sister Margaret had said. It had been neat and tidy, if overheated. Evil crawling.
She jerked from a momentary doze as Sister Perpetua closed the book with a little bang.
They filed into the big recreation room, clutching their sewing and knitting. Mother Dorothy had joined them, keeping the conversation on a light note, not touching on the disappearance of the child. There was more to her prioress than she had yet appreciated, she decided, and found herself smiling.
‘Such an amusing little anecdote,’ Sister Martha was saying. ‘It was in the book about the child saints. I wish I could recall it properly.’
‘Shall I get the book for you from the library, Sister?’ Sister Joan offered.
It was not entirely a charitable gesture. Sitting still with a half-finished scarf dangling from the needles was not her notion of a wildly amusing occupation.
‘That would be kind, Sister. You know the book I mean.’ Sister Martha whose feet were hurting smiled her gratitude.
‘Reverend Mother, Sisters, please excuse me for one moment.’ Putting down the despised knitting she hurried out, down the stairs, across the hall into the chapel passage known officially as the cloister though it wasn’t one. The light had almost faded and the sanctuary lamp in the chapel glowed like a beacon.
She turned to the altar, genuflected, was frozen into the kneeling pose as if she had been turned to stone.
Petroc lay below the altar on the wide step, arms crossed and eyes closed, a slim young knight who had never ridden into battle. His jeans and sweater were dark in the glow of the sanctuary lamp. For an instant there flared the wild hope that he would jump up and shout, ‘Boo, Sister Joan! Did I give you a fright?’
He didn’t move. Rising unsteadily, moving with slow, reluctant steps towards the altar, she knew even before she touched his hand that he would never move again.
Eight
‘Reverend Mother, may I speak with you privately?’
She had waited a moment or two to compose herself before returning to the recreation room.
Mother Dorothy shot one keen glance at her face and rose at once, her voice brisk and ordinary.
‘Sister David, please go on with what you were saying. Excuse me, Sisters.’ Outside, the door closed, she asked in a lower voice, ‘What is it, Sister? You look exceedingly pale.’
‘Petroc Lee is lying below the altar, Mother. He’s — he’s dead.’
The Prioress wasted no time on further questioning. She turned and went swiftly down the stairs, Sister Joan at her heels.
The latter had the sudden thought that this incident might be like the brief disappearance of the crucifix again. Perhaps Petroc wouldn’t be there when they entered the chapel.
Petroc was still there, lying in exactly the same position. Mother Dorothy bent over him and straightened, her own face whitening.
‘You haven’t touched anything?’
‘No, Reverend Mother.’
‘Remain here. I will tell the others to stay in the recreation room, send Sister Margaret down to keep you company and then telephone the police. I fear the grand silence will have to be postponed tonight.’
She sketched the sign of the cross over the boy and went out. Sister Joan knelt, automatically beginning to whisper the prayers for the dead while her mind wrestled with shock and outrage. Someone had carried the boy here, left him for the sisters to find when they came into chapel for evening prayers and the blessing. Who?
‘Sister Joan, Reverend Mother just told me — oh, the poor child! Is this—?’
‘Petroc Lee,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Someone laid him here.’ Sister Margaret’s round face was distressed. ‘I hope it was not done in mockery. Shall we pray, Sister?’
For a quicksilver lad who had swum and splashed in a willow-fringed pool, for a child of twelve whom someone had killed and brought here.
‘Sister Margaret.’ The Prioress had returned. ‘The police are on their way. I have informed the other sisters that a great tragedy has occurred and instructed them to remain in the recreation room in case they are needed for questioning. The prayers and blessing and subsequently the grand silence will be accordingly delayed. Will you brew some very strong sweet tea? I feel it may be beneficial. Oh, I have sent Sister Hilaria over to the postulants’ house, to tell them to join the other sisters at recreation. I fear
