humour in his eyes.
‘Don’t go starving yourself while you’re here, Sister Joan,’ he said. ‘I know that even girls in convents these days cannot resist this foolish slimming craze.’
He really was rather an old duck, she decided, as she withdrew. Not many people referred to her as a girl these days though she wasn’t yet thirty-seven. She suspected that in his youth he must have been quite a charmer.
He had held the door open politely for her and she crossed the antechamber to the outside without remembering the peep-hole. The good food had restored her usually commonsense attitude. Now she was apt to think that she had imagined that someone was watching her in the church, spying on her as she waited for the abbot. The trouble with being a nun was that one grew accustomed to living in a community with someone constantly at hand in times of trouble. Probably a little loneliness would do her a great deal of good.
She followed the lines of the covered passage to the front of the church again and went in. The candles were still burning and the sweet, sharp perfume from the copper censor hung on the air. She walked slowly to the altar and stood looking up at the crucifixion window behind, its delicate yellow tones like dying sunlight in the gloom. So many generations had worshipped here; so many prayers were folded into the crevices of stone. It would be almost impossible to paint the interior unless one was a Rembrandt, but she reckoned she could do justice to the exterior.
A faint shuffling sound caused her to turn her head sharply in time to see the sacristy door at the left of the altarsoftly closing. This was certainly no flight of the imagination. The idea of someone spying on her while she contemplated the sacred symbols struck her as peculiarly unpleasant. Before she had given herself time to think she had stepped over the altar rail and pulled open the side door.
A room with wall cupboards which held, she knew, the various vestments required for the feasts and services of the church met her gaze. There was a tiny modern window fitted at a slight angle into the wall, and a further door at her right. Sister Joan stepped across and opened it, frowning as her eyes fell on stone steps curving down steeply. There was an electric light bulb burning which surprised her for a moment until she saw the battery fixed on the wall.
Second thoughts might have caused her to hesitate. Sister Joan, who nearly always acted on her first thoughts, went swiftly down the steps with her hand sliding down the curving iron rail fixed as banister.
The steps curved round into a tunnel with a rough, concave roof and a floor formed from packed earth and stones melded by the centuries into a rough surface. By contrast the walls looked smooth, the blocks of stone gleaming faintly in the light from a second light bulb set high and jutting out at an angle.
‘Is someone there?’ She raised her voice as she strode forward and her words echoed back to her in a series of diminishing ‘here – here – here’. The air was dry and cold and the tiny stones under her feet crunched as she moved forward.
Within a few yards the tunnel curved to the left. She reached the corner, turned it and was plunged suddenly into darkness.
Some kind of time switch had evidently been rigged up. She paused abruptly, trying to work out where the nearest switch would be. Presumably there was one to enable the light to be switched on from both ends of the tunnel. She took a cautious step sideways and felt along the wall. Her fingers trailed smooth stone and then met empty space. She stumbled slightly to regain her balance and her outstretched hand touched flesh with the unyielding hardness of bone beneath. For an instant fright locked her tongue. Then she snatchedher hand away and backed down the tunnel again, feeling along the wall where she had just walked while her voice released itself into a jumble of words.
‘Stop playing stupid games. Who are you?
‘Don’t go starving yourself while you’re here, Sister Joan,’ he said. ‘I know that even girls in convents these days cannot resist this foolish slimming craze.’
He really was rather an old duck, she decided, as she withdrew. Not many people referred to her as a girl these days though she wasn’t yet thirty-seven. She suspected that in his youth he must have been quite a charmer.
He had held the door open politely for her and she crossed the antechamber to the outside without remembering the peep-hole. The good food had restored her usually commonsense attitude. Now she was apt to think that she had imagined that someone was watching her in the church, spying on her as she waited for the abbot. The trouble with being a nun was that one grew accustomed to living in a community with someone constantly at hand in times of trouble. Probably a little loneliness would do her a great deal of good.
She followed the lines of the covered passage to the front of the church again and went in. The candles were still burning and the sweet, sharp perfume from the copper censor hung on the air. She walked slowly to the altar and stood looking up at the crucifixion window behind, its delicate yellow tones like dying sunlight in the gloom. So many generations had worshipped here; so many prayers were folded into the crevices of stone. It would be almost impossible to paint the interior unless one was a Rembrandt, but she reckoned she could do justice to the exterior.
A faint shuffling sound caused her to turn her head sharply in time to see the sacristy door at the left of the altarsoftly closing. This was certainly no flight of the imagination. The idea of someone spying on her while she contemplated the sacred symbols struck her as peculiarly unpleasant. Before she had given herself time to think she had stepped over the altar rail and pulled open the side door.
A room with wall cupboards which held, she knew, the various vestments required for the feasts and services of the church met her gaze. There was a tiny modern window fitted at a slight angle into the wall, and a further door at her right. Sister Joan stepped across and opened it, frowning as her eyes fell on stone steps curving down steeply. There was an electric light bulb burning which surprised her for a moment until she saw the battery fixed on the wall.
Second thoughts might have caused her to hesitate. Sister Joan, who nearly always acted on her first thoughts, went swiftly down the steps with her hand sliding down the curving iron rail fixed as banister.
The steps curved round into a tunnel with a rough, concave roof and a floor formed from packed earth and stones melded by the centuries into a rough surface. By contrast the walls looked smooth, the blocks of stone gleaming faintly in the light from a second light bulb set high and jutting out at an angle.
‘Is someone there?’ She raised her voice as she strode forward and her words echoed back to her in a series of diminishing ‘here – here – here’. The air was dry and cold and the tiny stones under her feet crunched as she moved forward.
Within a few yards the tunnel curved to the left. She reached the corner, turned it and was plunged suddenly into darkness.
Some kind of time switch had evidently been rigged up. She paused abruptly, trying to work out where the nearest switch would be. Presumably there was one to enable the light to be switched on from both ends of the tunnel. She took a cautious step sideways and felt along the wall. Her fingers trailed smooth stone and then met empty space. She stumbled slightly to regain her balance and her outstretched hand touched flesh with the unyielding hardness of bone beneath. For an instant fright locked her tongue. Then she snatchedher hand away and backed down the tunnel again, feeling along the wall where she had just walked while her voice released itself into a jumble of words.
‘Stop playing stupid games. Who are you?
Similar Books
