The Prioress stepped to the lectern and began to read a synopsis of the lives of various saints named Margaret — a happy touch, Sister Joan thought, and one that Sister Margaret would have approved. She ate the dish of lentils that the postulants had cooked and listened to the legend of Margaret of Cortona who had been swallowed and vomited up by a dragon, St Margaret of Hungary whose apron had been filled with roses and St Margaret of Scotland who had been a faithful wife and mother as well as a saint.
Sister Margaret would have enjoyed tonight’s reading.
Supper ended. The grace was intoned and the last glass of water drained.
‘Sister Joan’ Mother Dorothy beckoned her. ‘I telephoned Detective Sergeant Mill and was fortunate enough to get straight through to him just before Sister Margaret was brought home. He thanked me for the information about Kiki Svenson and said he would follow it up.’
‘Thank you, Reverend Mother.’
‘He also informed me that the weapon used was indeed the missing candlestick from the altar. Apparently it has yielded no clues. I will ask Father Malone to cleanse and bless it when it has been returned to us. That is all, Sister.’
‘No general confession,’ Sister Gabrielle whispered as they went out. ‘Well, there’ll be a double ration to remember next week.’
Sister Joan nodded, her heart sinking. General confession, she thought wryly, was becoming more and more of an ordeal.
Going down again into the chapel for Benediction she found the questions revolving in her mind again. Had Petroc’s death been an accident? If so then why bring him to the chapel? Why—?
The telephone rang in the Prioress’s parlour, shrilling through the corridor.
‘Sister Joan, be so good as to answer the telephone,’ Mother Dorothy turned to say.
‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’ For an instant she had almost expected Sister Margaret to bustle across the hall.
The voice at the other end said tentatively, ‘Is the convent, ya?’
‘Kiki Svenson? Yes, yes, this is the convent. Sister Joan speaking.’ The relief was so immense that her legs felt weak. ‘You got my message?’
‘From the lady, ya. I cannot return. I ring to tell you that. I ran away from that bad house and hide myself in the home of a friend for some time, in case they find me.’
‘Miss Svenson, can you telephone the police? Ask for a Detective Sergeant Mill. I can give you the number—’
‘No police. My family will be — in scandal if they know where I work—’
‘Miss Svenson, a child has been killed. Please telephone the Bodmin police. It really is—’
There was a sharp click on the other end as Kiki Svenson hung up. Sister Joan stared at the instrument in impotent fury for a moment, then whirled round and went in as near a run as made no difference into the chapel.
‘O salutaris hostia.’ The sweet, sexless voices of the community rose in unison. After Benediction came the grand silence, the vigil in the chapel — no time to say anything. The rule was heavy on her heart as she knelt and joined in the chant.
At the blessing she tried to signal with her eyes to the Prioress that she needed permission to speak, but Mother Dorothy sprinkled her with the cold drops of water without looking at her. The Prioress looked tired and worn, her shoulders more hunched than usual. From now on she would cling desperately to the routine of convent life, would regard the two deaths as an intrusion into the calm of the enclosure.
In her cell she took off her coif and veil and covered her shorn dark head with her white nightcap, and lay down on her bed in the attitude recommended for sleeping — flat on her back with clasped hands.
‘If you should die during your sleep you will leave your body in the appropriate position for burial‚’ her first novice mistress had instructed her.
Lying thus made her feel too much like Sister Margaret and Petroc, stretched before the altar. She twisted on to her side, her fingers automatically clasping her rosary as she began to tell her beads, the silent words dropping like the cool water of the blessing into the darkness. Her last thought as she drifted into an exhausted sleep was the guilty conviction that for praying one ought to make the effort to get down on one’s knees — on one’s knees — on one’s —
A hand shook her awake: Sister Perpetua’s large, capable hand. She nodded and sat up, rubbing her eyelids which felt gritty for lack of proper slumber. Dawn filtered through the blind at the window.
Replacing coif and veil, kneeling briefly to give silent thanks for the gift of another day, thrusting aside the sudden irritable notion that not every day was a gift to be accepted with gratitude, she rose finally and went into the corridor and down to the chapel.
Sister Hilaria was already on her knees by the coffin, her eyes dreaming into her private celestial worlds. Death held no terrors for people like Sister Hilaria, Sister Joan thought, dropping to her knees beside her, letting the solemn quiet wash over her.
The loud ringing of the rising bell made her jump violently. For one disorientated moment she looked at Sister Margaret and wondered how on earth she could manage to be in two places at once. Then her common sense reasserted itself. Obviously Mother Dorothy had instructed one of the others, probably Sister Teresa, to ring it.
‘Christ is risen,’ Sister Hilaria said.
‘Thanks be to God.’ Sister Joan made the customary rejoinder that
