The Quick and the Dead (A Sister Agnes Mystery)

by Alison Joseph

  ‘For the road.’

  James Nicholson nodded again. ‘It’s been time for us to go for a long while now.’ A shadow passed across his face. He slowly unrolled his shirt-sleeves over his arms. ‘Sometimes I look across the land, early in the morning, when the sun touches the edges of the trees there … I loved this place once.’

  Agnes hesitated. ‘So — what went wrong?’

  He looked up from fastening his cuffs. ‘Are you with them, that lot up the hill, then?’

  ‘I knew Becky, the one who was murdered. That’s how I got involved.’

  He shook his head. ‘I know nothing about that. All I know is, this place is trouble. Them road-builders is welcome to it. Though them’ll find they’s tractors don’t work any better ’n mine.’

  ‘Has it been difficult to farm?’

  ‘Didn’t question the price, you see, Old Jim. What I reckon is, they were desperate. Desperate to get rid, they were.’

  ‘Why?’

  James Nicholson shrugged. ‘It’s just never gone right. And since my wife died, it’s got worse. Our kid there, you saw ’im — he needs a better life than this. I’m back to Suffolk come the spring, my brother’s there, nice little school nearby.’

  Agnes frowned. ‘Do you think — if something had gone wrong in the past, for example —’ She stopped.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Would it cause problems for the land? I mean, if something to do with the farm had gone awry?’

  ‘What kind of awry?’

  Agnes smiled at him, ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘What’ve you heard?’ he said.

  ‘Me? Nothing.’

  ‘There was some story, the old people used to talk of it from time to time — someone buried here or something. But I en’t seen nothing in all these years.’

  ‘What did they say, the old people?’

  ‘Oh, someone came back. Something like that.’

  ‘You mean, a ghost?’

  For the first time, James Nicholson smiled. ‘Ghost?’ He shook his head. ‘No, ma’am.’ He smiled again. ‘The only ghost you’ll see here is the ghost of my younger self. Wasted away in ploughing land that won’t give nothing back. That’s all. We farmed it good enough, don’t get me wrong, we made a living. But it’s been uphill, that’s all. And now with Mary gone, and them Brussels lot, and the money all haywire these days …’ He stood up to show her out. ‘Why, do you believe in ghosts?’ His eyes twinkled.

  Agnes thought of the horseshoe prints embedded in the mud. ‘No,’ she said, getting up to follow him. ‘No, I don’t.’

  In the hallway he said suddenly, ‘Harton. That’s who they were.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My family bought this place from them. Hartons. Brother and sister, I think they were.’

  ‘Harton? Do you know what became of them?’

  ‘They sold up. Went abroad, I think.’

  They shook hands. Agnes said, ‘Thank you so much, Mr Nicholson. I hope the camp isn’t bothering you.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not my fight any more,’ he said. ‘And them girls mended my fencing for me over by the east gate.’

  *

  On the drive back to London, Agnes thought about Athena, whom she had left artfully reclining in the quest to discover her former selves. It seemed like a long time ago. She wondered whether Athena’s vigorous strategies for catching her man had succeeded by now. Almost certainly, knowing Athena, thought Agnes, resolving to go and see her after Mass the next day and pass on her apologies for her peremptory exit to Nic, who, after all, was entirely well-meaning. Agnes thought about the crumbling Essex farm she’d just left, the farmer so weary of tilling the land that he now welcomed the chance to have it shrouded in concrete instead. Agnes had an image of the people of England all turning away from their land, deserting it generation by generation, abandoning their fields to the encroaching cities only to find themselves some years later lying on floor cushions in jasmine-scented rooms trying to remember who they used to be. It made her smile, and she felt like a foreigner once more, until she remembered that her own father had been English too. Once upon a time.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Don’t tell me, you’ve been at your prayers since dawn,’ Athena yawned, opening the door to Agnes.

  ‘It’s nearly eleven, it’s late,’ Agnes laughed. ‘Come on, I’ll fry you a huge breakfast — eggs, bacon, fried bread, tomatoes —’

  ‘Ugh, how revolting,’ Athena grimaced, loosely tying the belt on her white towelling dressing-gown and putting on the kettle. ‘And anyway, we’re very concerned about you.’

  ‘Oh, we are, are we?’

  ‘Walking out like that, just when we were all getting into it.’

  Agnes sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Athena, I couldn’t — there was something … oh, I don’t know. It’s just not me.’

  Athena spooned coffee grounds into a jug. ‘I told Nic you always run away.’

  ‘How loyal of you.’

  ‘He said that you were really upset by something, and he felt really bad, but I said not to worry, you’d only have bitten off his head.’

  ‘What a friend you are.’

  ‘And it was only research, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Wha — oh, yes, Becky. Didn’t help me there.’ Agnes got up and opened cupboard doors. ‘And how was it for you?’

  ‘For me, poppet, it was wonderful.’

  ‘I can imagine. Do you have any bread?’

  Athena smiled radiantly. ‘Nic says that I did really well and apparently I experienced an altered state of consciousness.’

  ‘And when was this altered state of consciousness exactly?’ Agnes smiled, putting sliced bread into Athena’s toaster. ‘During the workshop — or most of last night?’

  ‘Well, now you come to mention it …’ Athena giggled, sitting down at the table.

  ‘You never fail, do you,’ Agnes laughed.

  ‘He’s lovely. Mmmm.’ Athena stretched, revealing tanned skin under white towelling. ‘I only got home at five, no wonder I’m knackered.’

  Agnes got up and poured the coffee. ‘What’s his flat like?’

  ‘You mean, is he completely wonderful in bed?’

  ‘No, I mean, what’s his flat like?’

  ‘You really want to know? Tidy. Smart. Masculine. And he is. Wonderful, I mean. Mmm.’

  ‘Oh, shut up. Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘Just milk. I suppose as your sex life’s on hold, you don’t want to hear about anyone else’s.’

  ‘On hold? Don’t be so silly, I don’t have a sex life.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Alexander?’ Agnes brought two mugs of coffee to the table. ‘You’ve never understood that.’

  ‘I understand it better than you think.’

  ‘Alexander and I met at a peculiar point in both our lives. He was in crisis, and I was — I was — well, for some reason, it was necessary. Perhaps. That’s all.’

  ‘Of course. You’re completely over him, and he’s forgotten you. End of story.’

  ‘I’m not denying it was important. It exists as part of my life. But since then I’ve done a lot of spiritual work. Things are different now. And anyway, he’ll have met someone else by now, probably loads of other women.’

  ‘He sent you a Christmas card.’

  ‘Yes. You saw it.’

  ‘It said, “All my love, Alexander”.’

  Agnes sipped her coffee.

  ‘And you wrote one back to him,’ Athena went on. ‘I saw that too.’

  ‘I showed you, since you asked.’

  ‘An engraving of the Madonna and Child, and all you wrote inside was the letter “A”.’

  ‘I couldn’t think of anything else to say.’

  ‘Poppet, if I could play it as cool as that I would have them at my feet.’

  ‘I am not playing a game.’

  ‘No. You’re not. But you really think he’s likely to have found someone else?’ Athena shook her head and si
ghed. The doorbell suddenly chimed, loudly. ‘Oh God, it’s him. He said he’d come round this morning. Oh no.’ Athena jumped up and ran to the mirror in the hallway, pulling at her cheeks, prodding the skin under her eyes. ‘Oh God, I look terrible. I’m too old for this lark. Look, keep him talking while I try and lose twenty years off this face.’ Agnes sighed, and opened the door.

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ she said to a startled Nic. ‘I’m sorry, firstly, for not being Athena, and secondly, for walking out of your workshop so inconsiderately. Would you like some coffee? Athena’s in the shower.’

  Nic smiled, hung his leather jacket on the bannister post and followed Agnes into the kitchen. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I just felt bad that you were upset.’ He took the coffee that Agnes handed to him, and sat down.

  ‘No, it wasn’t your fault. It was some kind of memory. It’s gone now,’ Agnes said, buttering toast.

  Nic watched her, then said, ‘Athena says you know some people who got into trouble with regression stuff?’

  ‘Sort of. They’re quite young. I don’t know much about it, but it might be that they think someone has come back to take revenge.’

  Nic frowned. ‘Where did they get ideas like that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I get the impression it was all a bit ad hoc …’

  ‘I certainly don’t believe it works that way. People coming back for revenge? Sounds phoney to me.’ He sipped at his coffee. ‘But the problem is, in the wrong hands people can convince themselves of anything. Then you’re in trouble.’

  Agnes heard the bathroom door open, and Athena wafted into the kitchen on a cloud of soapy peach fragrance. ‘Darling.’ She bent and kissed Nic, extravagantly.

  He grinned up at her. ‘I thought we might have lunch,’ he said. ‘All three of us, if you like.’

  Agnes looked at her watch. ‘I’m due at my community in half an hour. I’d better be going,’ she said.

  ‘So you really are a nun?’ Nic said. ‘Amazing, in this day and age.’

  At the door Athena gave Agnes a huge wink as she showed her out.

  Lunch at the community was busy and cheerful. Afterwards, the washing-up all done and the Sisters dispersed, Agnes went into the lounge. Madeleine was alone, reading. She looked up from her book, studied Agnes a moment, then closed the book.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Agnes smiled and came to sit next to her. ‘Just life, I think.’

  ‘How’s the spiritual crisis? Is God still male?’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘I was going to ask you if you’d do a day shift this week at the hostel. We’ve got a gap with people being away.’

  Agnes nodded. ‘Yes. That’s fine.’

  Madeleine looked at her again. ‘Is it that you’re upset about Becky?’

  ‘It’s a terrible thing to have happened — although that wasn’t —’

  ‘What do the police say?’

  ‘The police? Very little. They’ve questioned a fellow. They seem to be treating it as a random killing.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘Well, they could be right. Or, it could be what the kids at the camp think, which is that it was a security person or a heavy from the DoT or someone.’

  ‘Is that likely? From what I know those people only get murderous in a crowd.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. But I suppose it might have been some kind of warning that went wrong. And if it’s not that, then —’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Well, her family life was quite unhappy, I think. Although, if family tensions always ended in murder, none of us would survive.’ Madeleine very carefully placed a bookmark in her book.

  ‘Are you reading Pascal?’

  ‘Yes,’ Madeleine replied, ‘I am actually. So — what was making you so quiet over lunch?’

  ‘Was it that obvious?’

  ‘No, I just wondered.’

  Agnes sighed. ‘My past seems to be bearing heavily upon me at the moment. And Athena was talking nonsense this morning. About Alexander. That’s all.’

  On Monday morning Sam’s social worker phoned Agnes at the hostel and said that they’d like to arrange the meeting between Sam and Mike for Wednesday evening. Mike had agreed, and could Agnes check with Sam. Also, Agnes was welcome to attend. Agnes immediately phoned the camp. ‘Hi, the Ark.’

  ‘Rona? It’s Agnes.’

  ‘Oh, Agnes —’

  ‘Since when have you lot been the Ark?’

  Rona laughed. ‘Since yesterday. We’ve had all these journalists sniffing around, and one of them said to Jenn, “What tribe are you, then?” You know, like the Dongas or something? And she said, completely straight-faced, “Oh, we call ourselves the Ark.”’ Rona giggled. ‘Anyway, everyone’s adopted it now. Listen, I’m glad you phoned. We’ve been trying to get hold of you. Col’s in a bit of a state.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘You’d better talk to Sam.’

  ‘Hi.’ Sam came on the line. ‘It’s Col, he’s in a bad way, it’s really scary. And with his asthma and everything …’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I can’t tell you over the phone. What with them all listening.’

  ‘Who all listening?’

  ‘You know, them MI5 lot.’

  ‘For God’s sake, what’s happening?’

  ‘He’s saying he’s next, that’s all.’

  ‘Next?’

  ‘And he can’t breathe.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s asthmatic. Has he got an inhaler there?’

  ‘It’s not just that. He’s seen someone or something, he won’t tell me. He went to the office in town, and he came back in a bloody awful state.’

  ‘If he won’t tell you. I’m not sure that I’m —’

  ‘He’s lost the plot, Agnes. He’s gasping for fucking breath. I’m really scared.’

  ‘Look, I’ll finish my shift at four and come straight over.’

  At five o’clock the M25 was at a standstill. Cars inched along in uneven ranks under a metallic, drizzly sky. Agnes stared at the rhythmic swishing of the windscreen wipers and wondered if she was ever going to get out of first gear.

  By the time she reached the camp the drizzle had turned to a steady rain. The campfire puffed and sputtered as Rona and Jeff struggled to fix a tarpaulin over it. Sam led Agnes to see Col where he was lying in his bender. His eyes were open and staring and seemed unnaturally huge against the pallor of his face. Agnes knelt beside him listening to the laboured, rasping breaths. She spoke to him urgently.

  ‘Col, is this just the asthma?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Have you taken anything — drugs, anything?’

  He shook his head. Sam picked up a Ventolin inhaler. ‘We’ve tried to get him to take this,’ she said.

  Agnes offered it to him, and he shook his head. ‘Why ever not?’ she said.

  He closed his eyes.

  ‘Right,’ Agnes said, and he opened them again. ‘You’re coming with me. You and Sam.’ Col began to wheeze in protest but Agnes interrupted, ‘You need to feel safe, right? So you’re staying at the hostel. There’s people there all the time. No one can harm you there, OK?’ She noticed the greeny-grey flecks of his eyes, the shadows around them. He blinked slowly, then nodded.

  On the drive to London he lay across the back seat, swathed in his sleeping bag, still fighting for breath. Sam sat next to Agnes, and Agnes remembered to tell her as they drove about the meeting with Mike on Wednesday, and how they’d be going to the local Social Services offices so that it would be on neutral territory. Also, she thought, it’s time you told me what you know, young lady.

  *

  ‘Agnes, how lovely to see you,’ Julius said as she opened the hostel door and found him in the hallway. ‘I was just going.’

  ‘Julius, um — I wondered if I could — um — help Daniel with the night shift.’

  Julius’s gaze went from Agnes to Sam, who was just behind her, to the whey-faced boy
standing on the front steps clutching a sleeping bag around him. ‘Agnes,’ he said, ‘if you think we can afford to give priority to your friends just whenever it suits you —’

  ‘Col can sleep on my floor in the teamworker’s room and Sam can be in the lounge. And I need to borrow a sleeping bag as that one there needs fumigating, preferably with a small hydrogen bomb.’

  ‘When people say you won’t take no for an answer —’

  ‘Dear, dear Julius,’ Agnes said, kissing his cheek as she brushed past him.

  Col’s wheezing was already beginning to ease as she settled him on a makeshift bed in her room. When much later she came to bed herself he was sleeping peacefully, his breath a gentle whisper in the quiet of the room.

  Agnes woke early the next morning. In the dim grey light she saw that Col’s bed was empty. The digital alarm clock flashed six fifty-four. She pushed open her door and went downstairs. The kitchen door was ajar and Col was sitting at the table, staring into space.

  ‘Col?’ He looked up. ‘Are you feeling better?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘What are you doing here? You’ll get chilled.’

  ‘I always wake up early.’

  Agnes put on the kettle. ‘Oh well, we can have a quiet cup of tea before the hordes descend.’

  They sat over their tea in silence. Outside it was raining, a determined, steady drizzle. Agnes said, ‘You can stay here if you like, for a while anyway.’

  He looked at her through the steam rising from his mug. ‘Thanks. But — you can’t protect me for ever. No one can.’

  ‘Col — who have you seen?’ He shook his head. ‘If you’d only tell someone, we could begin to —’

  ‘It’s impossible.’

  Agnes heard the wheezing at the edge of his voice again. She stood up, touching his shoulder briefly as she did so, and began to open cupboards, getting out cornflakes, sliced white bread and cheap margarine for the hostel residents.

  In the relative quiet of the afternoon, Agnes left Sam and Col giggling over tattered old copies of Hello magazine and slipped into the empty office. She got out her notebook, and then dialled the number she’d copied down from Becky’s file. ‘Is that Roger Murphy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hello, my name’s Sister Agnes. I believe you host a church group.’