you now?’
‘Much better thank you. Do you have any news for me yet?’
‘I hope to have, soon. If my hunch is right, I could find the woman we need to speak to by tomorrow.’
When I knocked on her door at quarter past five the next morning, Miss Merton was already spooning chutney into jars. She showed no surprise at seeing me, but explained that these were windfall apples and we must waste not want not.
She listened as I describe the nun, and how I had seen her at the cemetery, alone and apart from the Little Sisters.
‘And she wore sandals?’
‘Yes.’
‘They’re called the sandalled sisters. Their full title is Sisters of the Sacred Candle of St Genevieve. They gather used up candle wax from all the churches across Yorkshire. They melt it down and make new.’
‘Where is their convent?’
‘It’s in York. I forget the name of the little lane, but it’s off Bishopsgate.’
I thanked her but she did not straightaway let me go. ‘Wait.’ She screwed a lid on a jar. ‘You might as well take this across with you. I promised Mrs Sugden a jar of chutney.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And take one for the sandalled sisters while you’re at it.’ She reached for another lid. ‘You say this nun was alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well that’s not right. They never travel singly. It’s not allowed. They’re always in pairs.’
From York railway station, I turned right into Queen Street, along Nunnery Lane and into Bishopsgate. It was with some misgivings that I wended my way through the narrow lane that led to the convent of the sandalled sisters. As a visitor, I should clang the bell on the iron gate, and wait for someone to come, but the bell, with its chain pull, looked powerful enough to wake the Roman and the Viking dead who lay beneath my feet. The gate opened noiselessly. I stepped into a meticulously kept walled garden blooming with flowers, herbs and vegetables.
At the end of the garden, the path led into a courtyard. An atmosphere of perfect tranquillity and joy made me slow my steps. How exquisite it would be sometime to sit here, and forget about the world.
No one appeared by the time I reached the heavy oak door, though I could see along the path into another plot beyond the building, where nuns in brown habits stooped, absorbed in their gardening. I knocked on the door.
Presently, a small, wimple-squeezed face appeared on the other side of the inset iron grille.
‘My name is Mrs Shackleton. I wish to speak with the mother superior, please.’ The nun hesitated. I took the impression that nothing here happened in haste. ‘It is on a matter of some importance.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Real importance,’ I added.
She nodded, and then turned away. I heard her soft footsteps slap the stone floor as she retreated, and I looked through the grille into a dim corridor.
She was not long in returning, and opened the door. ‘Come in.’ She looked at my feet as I stepped inside, and I cursed my lack of forward planning. Brown sandals may have furthered my cause.
At the end of the corridor, she led me into a dimly lit whitewashed room that smelled of rosemary, lavender and, overpoweringly, of melting wax. High narrow windows, heavily leaded, let in very little light. Bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling beams.
The nun gave a most economical gesture. ‘Be seated.’
On either side of the scrubbed deal table stood a bench. I sat down and placed Miss Merton’s offering of chutney on the table.
Presently, a quiet footfall announced that I must gather my wits.
Something about the tall, angular woman in the brown habit was familiar. Perhaps it was the way she moved, the thickness of her straight eyebrows, or the pale blue-grey eyes. ‘You asked to see me.’
‘Mother Superior, my name is Mrs Catherine Shackleton. Excuse my intrusion. I am here on an errand, and have also brought some chutney from a Catholic neighbour.’
That information told her that I was not of her persuasion.
‘Would you care for some refreshment?’
‘Thank you.’
A hovering figure emerged from the shadows. The nun who had answered the door went to a cold press by the wall. She had an odd way of slapping her feet on the floor, soles first. She poured something from a jug and placed it on the table in front of me. I took a sip. It was lemonade, bitter, but refreshing.
When she had gone, I said, ‘I believe you have someone staying here, someone I am