Sister Julienne said, “I knew our prayers would be answered. I do so believe in the power of prayer. No need for a lawyer now, eh?” and she giggled, happily. I squirmed – if only she knew – and my resolve to find the wretched jewels and dispose of them grew firmer.
Tea was being cleared away, the sewing brought out again, and we all settled down to work.
The door opened. Sister Monica Joan stood at the threshold. She did not enter the room immediately but stood quite still, one hand resting on the door. She was wearing her full outdoor habit, with the long black veil, perfectly adjusted over the white wimple. She looked magnificent. Everyone stopped talking, laid down their sewing and looked up at her. Yet she did not move, her hand remained motionless on the door handle, her hooded eyes were half-closed, her eyebrows raised, and a slightly supercilious smile played around the corners of her mouth. She had a magnetic quality about her that forbade speech.
Then she moved for the first time; slowly and deliberately she turned her head, beautifully poised on its long neck, and scrutinised each person in the room with a level and unfaltering gaze. She looked each of us straight in the eye for a few seconds, then turned her head very slightly and looked at the next person. No one dared to speak or move. I have never seen a more riveting performance in my life.
It was Sister Monica Joan herself who broke the silence. She tilted her head slightly to one side and raised an eyebrow. A naughty little grin lit her features. “Greetings all. Did I ever tell you about the Thief of Baghdad? They boiled him in oil, don’t you know; or perhaps they drowned him in a butt of Malmsey wine. One or the other, I’m not sure which; but they did him in, I’m sure of that.”
Sister Julienne rose, both arms outstretched. “Oh my dear, say no more about that dreadful business. Not another word. It was all a misunderstanding and we have put it behind us. But come in and join our happy circle. I see you have your knitting bag with you.”
Sister Monica Joan graciously consented to be led into the room. Sister Evangelina rose from her seat. “Have this chair, my dear; it is the most comfortable.” Sister Monica Joan sat down.
The jewels! They flashed and glistened into my mind. They had to be disposed of and now was the perfect time. Sister Monica Joan was knitting quietly and everyone else was sewing and chatting. There might never be such an opportunity again.
I excused myself and left the room. At the bottom of the stairs I removed my shoes, so that no one would hear footsteps. It was the work of a moment to reach Sister Monica Joan’s room. Quietly I entered and wedged a chair under the handle, in case anyone tried to enter. The search started. I scrutinised every inch of that room, every drawer, every shelf, every cupboard; I felt all over the mattress, the pillows, the cushions; the tops and the hems of the curtains. I rummaged through her underwear and her habits – it wasn’t seemly to pry into a nun’s private things, but it had to be done. Nothing! Nowhere! My earlier thought about the lavatory cistern returned, and I raced along the corridor to the bathroom. Still nothing. I began to feel panic grip me; recreation hour must surely be drawing to a close. If one of the Sisters found me on their private landing or in their bathroom, there would be a lot of explaining to do. Running downstairs and replacing my shoes took only a few seconds, and I was back in the sitting room just as the ladies began to fold up their sewing and talk about the evening visits.
I muttered my excuses: “I’m sorry, Sister, I don’t seem to have got on very well with the tea cosy. I don’t think I’m much good at sewing.”
Sister Julienne smiled. “That’s perfectly all right, we can’t all be good at the same things.”
She turned to Sister Monica Joan. “Can I help you, dear? That is a lovely baby’s shawl you are knitting. Can I help you put it away?”
She took the handle of the knitting bag. Sister Monica Joan grabbed the bag back. “Don’t touch it, leave it to me.” She pulled the side nearest to her, but the handle on the other side was caught over Sister Julienne’s wrist. The seam burst and a shower of rings, watches, gold chains and bracelets was flung across the floor.
THE TRIAL
Total silence followed. The two halves of the torn knitting bag were held by Sister Julienne and Sister Monica Joan, who looked at each other for what seemed an eternity.
Sister Monica Joan was the first to speak. “Inanimate objects have a life of their own, independent of the creature, have you not noticed?” She glanced at each of us in turn. “And whenever an atom gets excited it creates magnetic fields.”
“Are you suggesting, Sister, that these inanimate objects were somehow magnetised into your knitting bag, independent of human activity?” Sister Julienne’s voice was sarcastic.
“Most certainly. ‘There are stranger things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio.’”
“Don’t call me Horatio.”
“Poof, hoity-toity.” Sister Monica Joan was aloof. “The difficulty of comparative study is the incomprehension of lesser minds. But keep the trinkets. Use them well. In the latter days they will be interpreted in a mystery play, a drama, an allegory. Use them well, I say; they have their own life, their own force, their own destiny.” And with that she floated out of the room.
Trixie’s suppressed giggles exploded. She turned to me. “I believe you now. I thought your fevered imagination was working overtime. The cunning old . . . Sorry, Sister.”
Sister Julienne looked at me. “How long have you known about this?”
“About two weeks.” I was feeling very uncomfortable.
“And you said nothing to me?”
I could only mutter a feeble: “I’m sorry, Sister.”
“Come to my office after supper and before Compline. We must gather up these things.” She bent down and started picking up the jewels. We all helped in silence.
It was difficult to concentrate on my evening round, and babies that would not feed seemed perverse and irritating. Part of me was glad that the secret, which had oppressed me for days, was at last out in the open. On the other hand I was furious with myself for not having managed to dispose of the jewels before Sister Julienne found them. The knowledge that she required me in her office later gave me an uneasy feeling, and my legs turned the pedals reluctantly as I cycled back to Nonnatus House.
As soon as I entered the clinical room I knew, from the atmosphere, that the police were in the house. Usually, after a day’s work, a group of young girls would make quite a lot of noise, chattering and giggling as they packed their bags and cleared up; but not on this occasion.
Novice Ruth looked up. Her eyes were red and her voice seemed subdued. “You are to go to Sister Julienne’s office at once,” she said.
A sick feeling grabbed at my stomach. Cynthia said: “I’ll do your bag. Leave it here, and don’t worry.”