‘I very much fear‚’ she said gravely, ‘that the person who killed Petroc has — well, Sister Margaret was found dead this morning in the little corridor between the chapel and the visitors’ parlour.’
‘I don’t believe it.’ He spoke almost angrily. ‘Not Sister Margaret, not — why, she was one of the nicest women you could hope to meet. Sensible and understood how folk ticked — not a bit like a — begging your pardon, Sister. What happened?’
‘We don’t know yet. Apparently she opened the side door and someone rushed in and killed her.’
‘How? She was a bonny woman and would’ve fought back.’
‘She received a blow to the temple hard enough to kill her instantly. There is a candlestick missing from the altar — what is it, Mr Lee?’
‘A big silver candlestick? Heavy? With a square base and bits of wax in the top where a candle had been?’
‘Yes. Have you seen it?’
‘Not more than a couple of hours ago. I was taking a look through the scrap — a big pile of stuff was collected recently and with all the grief over Petroc nobody’s sorted it out yet. There was a candlestick lying on top. My Tabitha said she’d seen it lying at the edge of the camp and put it on the pile.’
‘What did you do with it?’ she asked urgently.
‘I set Tabitha and Edith to polishing it,’ he said, looking anxious. ‘I was going to ask around because I’d have sworn it was good silver, but then the pick-up wouldn’t start, and it went clean out of my head. I’d better tell someone or perhaps you’d—?’
‘Mr Lee, this time you have to make your own report,’ she said firmly. ‘The police have been very decent — releasing your brother before time—’
‘As they should him being innocent and Petroc his only boy — all right, Sister, I’ll drive straight into Bodmin and let them know.’
‘If someone else had thrown it on the scrapheap,’ she detained him to ask, ‘wouldn’t the camp dogs have barked?’
‘Them animals is always barking. Nobody pays them heed.’
‘I see. Mr Lee, I was so sorry about Petroc.’
‘No sorrier than his killer’s going to be when I get my hands on him.’ The dark face was grim. ‘You think the same person did in — killed Sister Margaret too? You ought not to be wandering about by yourself, Sister.’
‘Oh, I’m perfectly safe,’ she assured him. ‘Do go and report that candlestick now.’
Unlocking the door, she stepped into the little hall with the cloakroom off at one side and the classroom ahead. With its chemical toilets which the Council emptied every other week, its wood-burning stove, its paraffin lamp to be lit only on the darkest winter morning it was a far cry from the technology of more modern schools but she had liked it the moment she had laid eyes on it the previous year. There was an air of cosiness about the long room with its two groups of desks, the swivel blackboard, the children’s drawings tacked up on the wall. The familiar scent of chalk and polish hung on the air.
She moved from desk to desk, lifting each lid. The children usually carried their books to and from school and the shelves at the side held the supply of textbooks — all, she reflected, slightly out of date but when she had suggested buying new ones Mother Dorothy had demurred.
‘We are not made of money, Sister. I am aware that Rhodesia is now Zimbabwe but the actual country is still in the same position on all the maps and you are at liberty to ink in corrections.’
All the children had scratched their names on the inside lids of their desks. It was, she pondered, tracing the spindly capitals of Petroc with a sad finger, their way of staking out their territory. Even the Penglows had put their names. The great mystery was that no teacher ever caught them in the act of doing it. No, Samantha Olive hadn’t inscribed her desk lid. No need to establish herself or no sense of identity? Whatever the reason only the names of previous pupils marked the smooth inner surface of the wood.
She went to the main desk from which she surveyed her class every morning and took out paper and pen. The list of questions unravelled from her hand.
(i) Who has been sneaking into the chapel to take candles, flowers and holy water and why?
(ii) Why have the children been so unnaturally good all term?
(iii) Where did Sister Margaret lose her rosary and what made her remember?
(iv) What ‘evil’ did both old Hagar and Mr Holt sense?
She crumpled up the paper and aimed it neatly into the wastepaper basket as the outer door opened and Detective Sergeant Mill walked in.
‘I saw that old wreck your community laughingly refers to as a car,’ he said without greeting. ‘What the devil are you doing here, Sister Joan?’
‘I’ve a perfect right to be here. I do teach here, you know? Anyway I thought it possible there might be something in one of the children’s desks that might help—’
‘We already looked,’ he said.
‘When?’
‘When Sister — the little nun who looks like a rabbit was deputizing for you.’
‘Sister David and she’s very efficient. She’s also a Latin scholar.’
‘Thanks for the reference.’ He let amusement creep into his smile. ‘Seriously, did you fancy that we wouldn’t look here?’
‘I didn’t think — and Sister David never mentioned it.’
‘Does Sister David have to report to you?’ he enquired.
‘No, of course not.’ She frowned, thinking that Mother Dorothy might have mentioned the fact that the desks had already been searched, or had she thought that Sister Joan might find something the police had overlooked? More probably she
