‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’ Sister Margaret hurried out, with a last shocked and sorrowing glance towards the altar.
‘Is there anything you want me to do, Mother Dorothy?’ Sister Joan felt herself taut as an arrow, ready for flight.
‘I think that you had better remain here until the police arrive. Then come to the parlour. I shall place it at their disposal. As you made the report your presence will doubtless be required.’
Sister Joan nodded and sank again to her knees, bowing her head, waiting for shock to be transmuted into anger and grief. Grief for a young life cut short, anger against whoever had done this deed.
Outside, cars disturbed the quiet of the evening. She rose, turning to face the Prioress who entered with two policemen. They passed her and bent over the still figure.
‘We shall require photographs,’ the taller of the two said, lowering his voice slightly as if he paid tribute to the fact he was in a chapel. ‘I would like this section closed off until it has been thoroughly searched.’
‘The library and store rooms are above.’ Mother Dorothy indicated the spiral stairs by the Lady Altar. ‘The door that leads into the visitors’ parlour is kept unlocked. It communicates with the garden and with the chapel. That door there by the confessional.’
‘Is it always kept unlocked?’ There was a tinge of criticism in his tone.
‘It has always been the custom, officer. This convent is remote and we have nothing of material value here. If anyone should seek the consolation of private devotion it is not for me to bar the doors against them.’
‘Maybe so, Sister, but not locking the door in this day and age is asking for trouble,’ he retorted.
‘I am Mother Dorothy, not Sister. This is Sister Joan.’
‘You were down at the station earlier today. Making a report about the missing lad and having your fingerprints taken.’
‘Yes,’ Sister Joan said.
‘And you found the body? Sis — Mother Dorothy, the quicker we start the quicker we can be finished. If you have a room you can make available—?’
‘The parlour will suit your purpose, officer.’
‘Detective Sergeant Mill, Mother Dorothy.’ He pointed the correction delicately, gave the body a long, considering look and went out.
The two nuns followed, one small and upright in her grey habit, the other small and bent in the purple habit that denoted her position as prioress. She would remain as superior for another four years, possible nine years since it was permissible to serve two consecutive terms. After that she would be Sister Dorothy again, with only a purple ribbon to remind her of past authority. It was better to think of that rather than of the camera and fingerprinting equipment being carried through from the main hall as they went through to the parlour.
‘This will do very nicely, Mother Dorothy.’ Detective Sergeant Mill gave the large room a glance of approval.
‘I have asked our lay sister, Sister Margaret, to brew tea for everybody. The other sisters are in the recreation room with our two postulants in case you wish to call any of them.’
‘I’ll probably have a word with them en masse‚’ he said, settling at the Prioress’s desk.
‘About the chapel—?’ Mother Dorothy looked enquiring.
‘We’ll be finished there in about an hour. The body will be removed for examination. After that you can hold your prayers, whatever.’
How quickly a living boy became a body. Sister Joan, catching a wincing look on the Prioress’s face, knew they shared the same thought.
Sister Margaret came in with a tray of tea, put it on the desk, and withdrew. Her eyelids were reddened as if she had shed a few tears. Sister Joan wished she could burst into tears, but her eyes were dry, her throat tight.
‘I think it will be useful to begin at the beginning,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said, unscrewing a ballpoint pen and nodding to his fellow officer who did the same. Both men had taken out their notebooks. ‘I’d like the two of you to stay.’
‘Be so kind as to pour the tea, Sister Joan and then sit down.’ Mother Dorothy seated herself.
Doing as she had been bade, she concentrated on keeping her hands steady.
‘This is the Order of the Daughters of Compassion?’
‘Founded in 1942 by a laywoman called Marie Van Lowen, a Dutchwoman who was martyred at Dachau — the concentration camp,’ Mother Dorothy added.
‘I’ve heard of it. How many convents are there?’
‘Of this order? Two in Holland and three in England and two in the mission field. We are not a large order.’
‘Well, let’s get a list of everybody in this convent. You’re the Prioress?’
‘I am Reverend Mother Dorothy. I have been prioress for a year and have four more years to serve.’
The other officer moved from his place at the end of the desk to murmur a few words in his senior officer’s ear.
‘I wasn’t here then.’ Detective Sergeant Mill looked up again. ‘There was an — incident at this convent last year. My predecessor dealt with it. This isn’t connected?’
‘I am certain that it isn’t, but you will be able to check the notes your predecessor made.’
‘Thank you, Mother.’ His tone was as dry as her own. ‘I shall require ages and surnames.’
‘We relinquish our surnames when we enter the order,’ she said repressively. ‘We keep our baptised names unless they are wildly unsuitable. Age is surely a private matter.’
‘The boy was carried into the chapel.’ He tapped the end of his pen on the desk.
‘Not by one of my community, Sergeant!’
‘I hope not, Mother Dorothy.’
‘I am fifty-seven,’ she said. ‘As you may have noticed I have a bad back — disc trouble. I doubt if I could have carried him. The surnames
