The Family Way (Molly Murphy, #12)

Twenty-seven

Now that I realized it was possible that Maureen had never left the convent, I wondered what had become of her. Was she shut away somewhere—a prisoner in the nuns’ part of the building? Had she decided to join the order and now lived among the novices, or was it possible that she was no longer alive? If the latter, then who had killed her and where had they hidden her body? In an old building of locked doors like this it wouldn’t be hard to find a place to dispose of an unwanted body. I stopped my work as I watched Sister Jerome coming out of the building, her black veil and silk robes flying out in the evening breeze like an avenging angel.

I tried to tell myself that I was again being overdramatic and reading too much into this. Perhaps there was a perfectly logical explanation. After all, if I had come up with possible ways to escape couldn’t Maureen have done the same—she who had been here long enough to know the workings of the convent and the secret places of the building? Also she was no longer pregnant and encumbered, making it easier for her to slither through a window, climb along a ledge, or hoist herself over a wall. Perhaps she had climbed through that open window in the maternity room and managed to work her way around the outside of the building somehow. The stone was certainly rough enough for footholds and there were drainpipes and window ledges to hang onto. I’d have to check that out for myself if I could somehow get into that maternity room.

But there was one small thought that kept creeping back into my mind. If Maureen had managed to escape then what was Katy so worried about? And how could she have fallen to her death down those shallow, safe cellar steps?

I went back to harvesting crops with Elaine. It crossed my mind that Elaine might be the kind of person who was Sister Angelique’s informant. She wasn’t well liked by the others and Sister had certainly said some things to me that made me think she knew what had worried me. We filled the final basket of beans and carried it into the kitchen. New smells were now coming from the stove—onions frying and potatoes bubbling away. Dinner was being prepared. My next task was to write a letter to Sid and Gus and get it to Blanche without letting it fall into Sister’s hands. I could hardly ask her for paper and envelope since I had declared my intention of leaving in the morning.

“Is there anywhere we can find paper and envelopes to write a letter?” I asked Elaine.

“Sister Jerome has some in her office,” Elaine said.

“I don’t really want to ask her,” I said.

“I suppose I could let you have a sheet of mine. It’s in my cubby beside my bed—the one by the door,” she said.

“Thank you.” I beamed at her. “And do you happen to have a pencil or something to write with?”

“I’ve my fountain pen,” she said. “Only be careful with it.”

“A fountain pen! My word.” Fountain pens were a luxury I could never dream of affording.

“Given to me for my twenty-first birthday last year by my father,” she said.

“What a kind father you have.”

“Not really,” she said. “He always does the right thing—like giving generous presents for birthdays, but otherwise showed no interest in me whatsoever. I wasn’t a son, you see. He made it clear he was disappointed in me. That’s why a good marriage is so important.”

“Does he know about the baby?”

She gave a bitter laugh. “Of course not. None of them do. They think I’m off visiting friends out West. What’s more they will never know. I’m making my donation to the sisters out of a small legacy on my twenty-first.”

As I went up to find the writing paper it struck me how many secrets Sister Jerome knew and what a perfect opportunity she had for blackmail. I found Elaine’s cubby, stuffed with sundry little luxuries from eau de cologne to lace-trimmed handkerchiefs, and located the paper and the wonderful fountain pen. I sat on my own bed and wrote the note—short and to the point.

Trapped in convent. Come and get me out. Demand to see Sister Perpetua, not Sister Jerome. Tell her the truth—I’m not Molly, the deserted Irish girl.

I sealed the envelope, addressed it, and tucked it away into the pocket of my dress. Now I had to find a way to get it to Blanche. That way came just before dinner. I came downstairs in time to hear Sister Angelique saying, “Aggie, I suppose you’d better take some food through to Blanche. She’s spending the night in the nuns’ guest room. You’ve been the porter. You know where that is, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sister,” Aggie said.

“Could I go with Aggie?” I asked. “I’d really like to apologize to Blanche one more time about taking her bed and to wish her well.”

“Not necessary,” Sister said. “You were in no way to blame for turning her out of her bed. It was high time she left. She knew that as well as anybody.”