The Torch....

"This nun needs some fun!" Sister Heloise declared, as Sister Ciara shuffled the holy playing cards again. It had been a peaceful, uneventful Sunday in the retired teachers' convent. It was nearing that spooky time of the year. The seasons had turned, but the evening was hot, blustery, full of windy blasts. The township of Old Blithering was sweltering.

"We need to stock up on our wine rack."

"Not to mention our communion sherry. I'll stockpile tomorrow from the bottle shop," Sister Heloise agreed. After the nuns' excellent supper, she thought she could do with the exercise necessary to cycle to the town centre. She always stashed the liquor bottles in her basket at the front of the convent's antique bicycle.

"Shame the diocese won't fund us a car," Sister Ciara uttered the same remarks, had been doing so for years.

"Let alone an E-bicycle.."

Sister Ciara looked puzzled, if not mostly deaf.

"You're mumbling on my deaf side."

Sister Heloise merely disregarded her, which was not very totally Christian. But living there with her elders meant she had to avoid self-limiting conversations, going round in circles, like a negative rabbit of nonsense discussions.

The Bishop of the Diocese was what and who he was. Very male oriented, leaning towards discretion favouring the dwindling numbers of clergy and novice recruits. The convent was also too short of young nuns, keen to live a modest style of life. What was left of the clergy in the Diocese and Old Blithering was very devout, but aging.

Sister Heloise retired to her single room, ready to march forward to a brand new week the next day. She prayed to be full of better intentions. There was nothing on television, it was awash with bad news. The nuns believed they were still holding their own, as living archives, if anyone ever listened.

But by midnight, Sister Heloise was wide awake, startled by the fire brigade's sirens. She did a quick double check round the convent, but all was safe there. The night air was stifling hot, the strong wind was tossing the branches, fueling some disaster. She supposed she would learn the drama in the morning. The nun quickly offered a prayer for safety of all concerned, wherever the blaze was.

By 9 am the next morning, everyone's most popular theologian was knocking on the convent front door. He was up and about bright and early, ready to share the town gossip with Sister Heloise, and his gaggle of older devouts.

"Where was the fire?" the nuns eagerly sat down in the parlour to hear the latest.

"This is a disaster. The entire hotel complex was destroyed last night. There is no grog in town!"

Sister Ciara asked, "What does he mean?"

"No more sherry..." Sister Heloise said as loud as she could.

The nuns clutched at each other.

"And I have no post-communion whisky in my jar."

"What can we do?" the nuns wondered.

Monsignor John looked at Sister Heloise, and suggested, "We could form the Detective Club of the Diocese. Solve this mystery, "Who burnt down the pub?"

Sister Heloise heard that for once. "I'm in. Let's leave right now, and find the bounder. No sherry! This is dreadful."

Sister Heloise agreed. "We'll need to investigate. Are the police on the scene?"

Monsignor John nodded, "Come on, I'll drive us to the site. It was the lifeblood of our little township."

"Many a sherry, many a sherry," Sister Ciara was being nostalgic, gazing across the room at the empty wine rack.

So the three brave investigators of the newly formed Detective Club approached the local Senior-Constable of the undermanned local squad.

"Young Giordano!" In a town where everyone was distantly related, the only cop was a great-nephew of Sister Ciara. He pecked her on both cheeks, and she merely asked him, "What did you say? Who burnt down this den of iniquity?"

"Officially, we are seeking further information. Investigations are ongoing."

The publican, looking shell shocked, approached.

"Find who started the inferno."

Sister Heloise had also taught him in Secondary School

"It's more of a conflagration. Use your vocabulary properly, young man."

Giordano hid a small grin. Sister Heloise must have been born correcting everyone's English. She still could not help herself.

"Style and form is everything in Grammar!"

Monsignor John spoke up.

"Mind if we look around?"

"Mind your step," Sister Heloise led the intrepid trio down the stairs to their favourite section of the wrecked hotel. The air was smoky, all the fittings were charred, nothing much seemed suitable for salvage. Most of the bottles on the shelves had burst from the searing temperatures.

Sister Heloise had long been regarded as the latter day Sherlock Holmes of Old Blithering, if not the whole region. She peered through the dim light of the old-fashioned oil lamp the publican had supplied. She peered, somewhat myopically, at something interesting on one of the melted liquor cabinets.

"What's this?" Sister Ciara was appearing to enjoy her new role as part of a Detective Club."

"It's a wax seal, imported only by the Bishop, and by that wealthy sheep station owner."

Monsignor John looked astounded, and said the Hail Mary. Sister Ciara blessed herself, as he intoned, "Dear Father in Heaven, let us pray together that this case will be resolved. Look, Heloise, a stash of hidden bottles."

Monsignor John did not resist. "It is only sherry, but I might have to drink that as a last resort. Take one each."

So into their volumes of robes, full bottles were stashed.

Sister Ciara was speaking up now. "It's that dastardly property owner. He must be the arsonist, he has shifty eyes. Let's tell the police."

Just then, as Monsignor John was reaching to see if there were any more bottles, he brushed the oil lamp there, and tipped it over. Fortunately, Sister Heloise noticed, and sorted the whole incident.

"We are not telling the police anything. This is our God-given secret. One of our church was here yesterday and knocked over the lamp. How much whisky have you have been drinking, John?"

Monsignor John confessed to being at the cellar the day before. Sister Heloise led the Detective Club of the Diocese back upstairs, and told the only policeman in town, that the fire had been accidental, not a fire bomb. The publican vowed to rebuild. The hotel was to be renamed The Phoenix. The insurance money would be worth zillions.

Case resolved. The three clergy drove back home to the convent, where they split up their stash of their grog, and sat down to enjoy. Monsignor John was thanking his lucky stars, and his Maker for his absolution.

"Jesus saves. We must keep believing," Sister Heloise enjoyed her tipple, after all, nuns need fun.