Vow of Obedience by Veronica Black Read Free Book Online Page B

are improved out of all recognition every criminal wears gloves.’
    ‘I hope you catch him,’ Sister Joan said.
    ‘We intend to catch him.’ He sounded quietly determined, shaking hands as they rose. ‘Thank you for coming in, Sisters. If you do hear anything of importance you will let me know?’
    ‘Yes, of course.’ Going out she glanced back and saw him frowning after them, his mind already returned to the solving of a murder.
    ‘Shall we visit the Pendons now and leave our flowers?’ She slid behind the wheel and glanced at her companion.
    ‘Yes, we must.’ Sister David looked unhappy. ‘This is the first time I’ve ever been on such a visit of condolence, Sister. May I leave you to do the talking?’
    ‘Yes, of course. We’ll only stay a few minutes.’
    The street of terraced houses where the scribbled address led them was only five minutes walk. They reached it by car in a couple of minutes, parked as near to the house as possible and made their way with some difficulty through a crowd of people who had apparently nothing better to do than stand and stare at curtained windows and a closed front door. There were cars parked along the road, and a police constable at the gate by the pocket handkerchief garden.
    ‘Is it all right to take the flowers in?’ Sister Joan began.
    She was interrupted by Father Malone who opened thefront door at that moment and greeted them.
    ‘Good morning, Sisters. Come along in, won’t you? The family will be pleased to see you and to have the flowers. I have a sick visit to make so if you can stay until I can get back here it’ll be a great help.’
    Going into the narrow hall Sister Joan smelt the unmistakable scent of grief. Impossible to analyse it but, if pressed, she might have said it was compounded of over-stewed tea, human perspiration and salt tears.
    The front room, curtains drawn against curious sightseers and lamps switched on, was crammed with people drinking tea and conversing in low voices. As they hesitated a youngish woman, her eyes swollen with crying, her expression a strange mixture of grief and importance, confronted them, words spilling over.
    ‘From the convent? Oh, how very kind. Val would have loved these. She was ever so fond of flowers and these are just – people are really being very kind.’
    ‘Mrs Pendon? This is Sister David and I’m Sister Joan. We came to express our very deep sympathy on behalf of our community, and to ask if there is anything at all we can do?’
    ‘Father Malone has been here, arranging for the requiem and all that,’ Mrs Pendon said breathlessly. ‘You will stop for a cup of tea? Someone made cake.’ She looked around vaguely.
    Tragedy, Sister Joan thought, could be covered up with little things – the cup of tea, the kind neighbour, the sense that, for a short while, one was somehow at the centre of a drama. Mrs Pendon’s mourning for her murdered child was undoubtedly deep and painful, but for the moment she laid social ritual round the wound like a bandage.
    Someone thrust a cup of tea into her hand and someone else took the dahlias from Sister David. A man with a red face pumped her hand, raising his voice to inform her that he was Valerie’s uncle and that he didn’t know what the country was coming to. Sister David had been manoeuvred into an armchair and was being assured that she was the poorer for not having known Valerie. Sister Joan left her to cope and headed for the comparative peace of the upstairs landing at the top of the open-plan stairs.
    The inside of this late Victorian house had been ripped out to please modern convenience. The wood of the staircase wasshiny with varnish and some kind of stick figure made out of steel decorated a small table on the landing where she stood.
    She put down the barely tasted cup of tea and prepared to descend again whenever she could see a gap in the milling heads below. A door on the landing opened and a tall, tired looking man stood on the