Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine - December 2016 by Various Authors

Author:Various Authors [Authors, Various]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Magazine, Mystery & Detective
Publisher: Penny Publications
Published: 2016-12-01T05:00:00+00:00

The next afternoon, I traveled discreetly. I rode the train across the city. As the carriage shook and bumped on its rails, I remembered the other story I had heard about the silent Sisters of Saint Raymond, about how they had in their earlier days cut out the tongue of any nun who could not keep her mouth shut. They would lace the talkative nun’s evening meal with a sleeping draft, and while she slept, they would snip out the offending organ with a pair of shears.

I walked the last two kilometers of the journey along a narrow dirt track through lonely woodlands. Little had changed from the days of my youth and my earlier excursion to the convent’s door. The house of nuns lay at the end of the track, isolated and ignored by the world, two floors tall, white walls baked by a hundred years of sun, with rows of tiny, narrow windows at each floor. The large, green, wooden door of my memory returned to my sight, and this time I walked up to it, and I knocked.

After some time, the door was answered by a young nun. I later learnt she was a novice, that her name was Teresa. She was no more than a child. She had a pale, round face, with two big, perfect eyes of sky blue. She did not speak.

I pretended to be Escobar’s brother.

“I am Bentinho Dias,” I said. “I am looking for my brother, Escobar Dias.”

I had taken a gamble. Escobar often used the name Dias in his adventures: As a young man, he had read fondly and repeatedly of the adventures of the Portuguese explorer Bartolomeu Dias. It had been a gamble with reward: There was recognition of the name in Sister Teresa’s face. She made a signal with her hand. Wait. She closed the door.

I waited.

After ten minutes, I smoked a cigarette.

After twenty, the door opened again. An older nun looked out at me. She had a thin face contained within her white coif and black veil. Her eyes were dark. Strong, lean fingers held the door. I placed her in her thirties.

“Senhor Dias,” she said. “Your brother is not here.”

I later learnt her name was Cristina, and that she was the head of the order and the only nun permitted to speak.

“Escobar has been missing for over a week,” I explained. “Our mother is concerned, as am I. I am following his footsteps.”

Sister Cristina nodded.

There was a hint of dark hair beneath her coif, in harmony with her eyes; where Sister Teresa’s eyes had spoken of innocence and youth, Sister Cristina’s spoke of maturity and allure.

“He came here, yes,” she said. “A week ago. He was here for the half of an hour, and then he left. Are you also from the government?”

“No. I understand my brother’s business at this place was to examine a crucifix?”

“Yes, our altar crucifix.”

“I am assuming he did.”

“Yes.”

“And then he left?”

She nodded. “I am sorry I can be of no assistance.” She was slowly closing the door.

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