The Quick and the Dead (A Sister Agnes Mystery)

by Alison Joseph

  ‘Sleep OK?’ Jenn said.

  ‘I thought I heard people.’

  ‘Yeah. They’re out there.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘The usual form is detectives hired from a private agency. Though they don’t usually hang out for no reason like that. And nothing’s been nicked so far. Otherwise, it’s security people staking out the ground. Or the bailiffs.’ She shrugged and laughed. ‘They just can’t take it, you see. They haven’t the faintest idea what we’re about. Tea?’

  ‘Yes, please. And then I must go. I said I’d visit Sheila this morning.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Jenn — these lurking people — how long have they been around?’

  ‘We’ve only noticed them since the weekend really.’

  ‘So — when Becky —’

  Jenn bent down to put the kettle on the fire, then straightened up. ‘Who knows, eh?’ She rubbed her back. ‘The police are silent. The local view from those old Tories down in the village is that if you live as we do, you can expect to get bumped off by a passing nutcase.’

  ‘So you don’t expect the police to solve it, then, Jenn?’

  Jenn rearranged the kettle on the fire, then looked up at Agnes, blinking through the smoke. ‘I think these days, life is cheap. And according to the powers that be —’ she stood up again — ‘some lives are cheaper than others.’

  *

  Agnes followed Sheila down the narrow hallway of her cottage aware of a warm smell of coffee and toast. The hall gave way suddenly into a wide, sunlit kitchen, the far end of which was entirely glass. There was a huge abstract painting in red and purple taking up one wall, and a jumble of house plants, some hanging from the ceiling in curly baskets, some trailing haphazardly along the polished wood of the floor and skirting boards.

  Agnes sat on a stool at the table while Sheila poured coffee and buttered toast. Sheila was a thin, wiry woman, with untidy grey hair and high cheekbones. Her eyes were piercing blue and surrounded by laughter lines. She wore a large baggy jumper and a multi-coloured skirt that fell in floating layers.

  ‘So, are you really a nun?’ she asked, depositing various jars of home-made jam onto the table. ‘Oh, wait, you must try this,’ she added, rummaging through her cupboards and eventually producing a sticky, unlabelled jar. ‘I’ve started helping a neighbour with her bees, and this is my reward.’

  ‘Yes, I am a nun,’ Agnes replied, spreading her toast with honey, licking her fingers.

  ‘Smelt the coffee, did you?’ Sheila called suddenly towards the door. A slender young girl appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a huge white T-shirt and she peered out at Agnes from straight, jet-black hair which fell around her face. ‘This is Lily,’ Sheila was saying. ‘My daughter.’ Lily leaned against the doorframe and yawned.

  Half an hour later Sheila sat Agnes down at the computer and switched it on. ‘Do you know about these things, then?’ she said.

  ‘Only a bit.’

  ‘If you want to send an e-mail you just have to — I’ll show you when it’s done all this bit.’

  ‘I don’t really want to send anything. What I really wanted to do was find out what Col was doing when he — when he got all upset the other day.’

  ‘Right, well, let’s get into GreenNet and start from there.’ Sheila moved the mouse around and clicked it. ‘I got this for my business. Then I got involved in the campaign against that horrible old road, so I ended up on GreenNet and various other news group things. Here we are. What do you want to do now?’

  Agnes scanned the index. ‘What are these?’

  ‘Just messages received. We can go through them if you like, that’s probably what Col was doing.’

  ‘OK.’

  Sheila pulled up a chair next to Agnes and called up the first file. It said: ‘Update on Twyford Down.’

  ‘I’ll download this. Hang on. Right, next one. Oh, this is boring, we’ve already had that.’ Some clickings later, a new file filled the screen, just as the phone downstairs started to ring. ‘Mum, it’s for you,’ Agnes heard Lily call. ‘Some boring woman.’

  Sheila sighed, got up. ‘Back in a moment.’

  Agnes read the screen. It was something about a European-wide network of anti-road groups based in Amsterdam. Suddenly, all the letters began to move and jumble themselves up. Agnes blinked and stared as the words collapsed in a heap at the bottom of the screen. Then a message flashed up in huge letters.

  ‘Put your hands in the air. Go on, do it.’

  Agnes hesitated, common sense telling her that no one could see her. Another message appeared.

  ‘Or as they say, Stand and Deliver. You have just been cyberzapped by the SUPERHIGHWAYMAN!!!!’

  The screen went blank. Agnes heard Sheila come up the stairs and open the door.

  ‘What happened?’ Sheila asked, seeing the blank screen.

  ‘I — I’ve no idea. Someone calling themselves the Superhighwayman —’

  ‘What? Did it clear the screen?’

  ‘It seems so.’

  Sheila clicked the mouse. Nothing happened. ‘I don’t understand it.’

  ‘All the words sort of fell down the screen.’

  ‘A virus? But that couldn’t happen on the Net. How weird.’ She reset the computer, and after a moment the screen showed the file index again. ‘Phew.’ She clicked on a file, which came up as normal.

  ‘Would this Highwayman have left an address?’ Agnes asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Let’s see — where were you?’ Sheila scrolled through the messages again. ‘No. Nothing. That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen — to leave no trace like that …’ She sighed. ‘Well, I guess that’s what scared Col.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Agnes said.

  ‘And it explains the break-in too. Someone must have left the infected disk with the others. I bet it’s just bloody harassment again, just because of the road campaign —’

  ‘Did you report it?’

  Sheila sat down next to Agnes, her eyes still on the screen.

  ‘Actually, I didn’t. For reasons of my own.’ Agnes waited. Sheila looked at her, and said, ‘My brother’s a detective sergeant. A copper. In the local force. Charlie.’

  ‘Charlie Woods? I met him. He’s nice.’

  Sheila smiled. ‘Yeah, he’s OK. We’re quite close in a way. The thing is, with all this harassment — I couldn’t face finding out —’ She twisted a lock of hair around her finger. ‘They must know, you see. The local police station. And I just can’t be bothered to find out that my own brother is part of all that.’

  ‘It may not be them. It might be some other —’ Agnes’s eye was caught by a name on the list of files. She blinked. ‘What’s that?’ she asked Sheila. ‘There. Where it says, “Emily Quislan”?’

  ‘That — just a message. I’ll call it up for you if you want.’ Sheila clicked the mouse, and a moment later the screen said, ‘Emily Quislan rides again.’

  ‘Don’t know what that is,’ Sheila laughed.

  ‘No,’ Agnes said, knowing that she was looking at the words that had caused Col nearly to die of asthma. She checked the sender’s address. ‘JEL@Bosh.co.uk’, it said.

  ‘Oh well,’ Agnes said, lightly. ‘Who knows? What with security guards everywhere and Becky’s death —’

  ‘That hasn’t helped the atmosphere in this house, either.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Lily knew her, Becky.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘They used to ride together. There’s a lovely woman the other side of the village, runs a small stables, and Lily and Becky used to ride there. And then they met up again when Lily got involved in this church thing.’

  ‘Hang on — Lily?’

  ‘Some ghastly evangelical thing.’

  ‘Lily goes to Ross Turner’s set-up?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Only by name.’

  ‘I don’t trust them. Cults. When I was her age I was into free thinking and
having fun, not all this right-wing claptrap about family values.’

  ‘Surely that’s just the point. She’s not you.’

  Sheila looked at Agnes. ‘I know. If I say anything against it, it just makes it worse. But I’m worried. I hope next term when she starts at college she’ll find other interests and move on.’

  ‘I’m sure she will. And anyway, it might be perfectly wholesome, most of them are.’

  ‘Mmm. Maybe.’

  ‘Your friend with the stables,’ Agnes began, feeling a sudden surge of yearning.

  ‘Diane — what about her?’

  ‘Does she still hire her horses out?’

  ‘Sure, yeah. Why, do you ride?’

  ‘I used to,’ Agnes sighed, remembering long days in France hurtling across fields and fences.

  ‘I’m sure she’d find you something,’ Sheila said.

  Agnes shrugged, smiled. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s ages since I’ve been in the saddle. I’d probably be hopeless now. And anyway, I’m not sure I’ve got time at the moment.’

  Driving back to the camp, Agnes was aware of an idea forming in her mind, a kind of hunch. She caught up with Sam and Col as they strapped on abseil harnesses ready to join Jeff up in the trees.

  ‘I’ll be going back to London soon,’ she said. ‘Will you be OK?’

  They nodded, sullenly.

  ‘You must phone me if anything happens to frighten you,’ Agnes went on. They exchanged glances, nodded again. ‘I just wish you could tell me more about what’s going on,’ Agnes added, exasperated. ‘No, I know,’ she said, as they looked at each other again, ‘it’ll just make things worse. But don’t think I’m going to leave you alone in this — this situation, whatever it is.’

  As she set off to the woods, she glanced back to see them shinning up the trees in their bright jumpers like two creatures of the rainforest. Once more she followed the column of smoke, once more she caught sight of the blanket-draped figure sitting over his fire, despite the growing heat of the August day. He looked up and smiled.

  ‘Little Sister,’ Bill said. She sat down next to him. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

  She took a deep breath. ‘It would go better,’ she said, ‘if people told me everything they knew instead of just selected highlights.’

  ‘Human nature, kid,’ he said.

  ‘For example,’ she said, ‘there’s a Superhighwayman out there — but who’s going to tell me where?’ She watched him closely. Bill’s eyes seemed to smile, but his face was composed. ‘Or,’ she went on, ‘does virtual reality bear no relation to this one? Perhaps virtual morality is entirely topsy-turvy; perhaps it really is however you want it to be.’

  ‘Brave new world, man, the virtual world,’ Bill said, eyeing her. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t. Well,’ she said, getting up, ‘I must be going now. It’s been nice talking to you.’

  She walked away from his patch without looking back. I know I’m right, she thought, as her feet crunched through the leaves of the forest floor. He knew what I meant.

  On the drive back to London, she imagined Bill breaking into Sheila’s office, deliberately sabotaging the campaign with a computer disk — yet playfully, harmlessly even. It made no sense at all.

  At home, she played back her phone messages. The first was from Athena.

  ‘Sweetie. Nic’s away this weekend, and I thought we could catch up with each other. There’s a new French brasserie sort of thing on the Old Crompton Road — fancy trying it? We could meet there tomorrow night, eight-ish? Let me know.’

  The next message started as a series of clicks, and then there was the sound of someone breathing for a couple of seconds. Then it cut off. Agnes stared at the receiver. Did word spread so fast? Was she now subject to the same interference as the road protesters? Or was it from some other source? Agnes shivered, despite the warmth of the evening.

  The next morning she hesitated over her wardrobe. Should she dress up for this Pastor? Or should she deliberately dress down, she thought, considering the pale blue jeans that she’d been living in all summer. Maybe she should even dust off her habit? In the end she dug out her grey pleated skirt and a cream silk shirt.

  *

  At five to eleven Agnes rang the doorbell of 39 Fairfax Place. It was answered by a man with a smooth pink face and a shock of short grey hair. He smiled warmly.

  ‘Sister Agnes? I’m Roger Murphy. Come in, Pastor Turner’s already here.’

  He led her into the front room. There was a spotless brick-look fireplace against a background of beige woodchip. Ross Turner rose from the sofa, his arm outstretched. The room seemed suddenly small. He was about forty, and had neat brown hair, greying at the temples. Agnes noticed his well-cut suit, his even features, his warm hazel eyes, as she shook his hand. His voice was deep and warm.

  ‘It was good of you to come,’ he said. A bustle of noise came from the kitchen. ‘They go to so much trouble,’ he shrugged, still smiling, ‘there’s really no need.’

  Agnes was glad she’d chosen to dress with a sense of occasion. She took the chair opposite his, as a plump woman appeared from the kitchen with a tray of four cups and a plate of biscuits. Agnes smelled instant coffee. The woman handed the Pastor his cup, and he gave her the same warm smile as he said, ‘Thank you, Elizabeth,’ then turned to Agnes again.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to see me,’ Agnes began.

  ‘No, no, it’s we who should be grateful,’ he said. ‘This community is grieving the loss of a lovely young woman, and we need to take every opportunity to speak of her.’

  Elizabeth finished handing out the cups and settled down on the sofa next to Roger

  ‘Yes, it must be awful for you all,’ Agnes said.

  Ross Turner nodded. ‘The family have been part of our little community for some years. Both Morris and Shirley have contributed enormously.’ Roger and Elizabeth nodded at this.

  ‘How long has your group been going?’

  ‘As we are now, about two and a half years. Before that we were part of another group, based out towards Sevenoaks, but we — we split from them.’

  ‘Why — if you don’t mind me asking?’

  Ross Turner smiled. ‘Partly on matters of doctrine. Also, mainly, that we wanted to concentrate on outreach here in our local community.’

  ‘Do you have many young people?’

  ‘We consider it the mainstay of our work,’ Ross replied. ‘They are, after all, the future. If the new generation can go forward with Christ in their hearts, then there is hope for the world.’

  Roger and Elizabeth both nodded, and Elizabeth said, shyly, ‘Our son Steven is one of the youth group leaders.’

  ‘A gifted boy,’ Ross said, and Elizabeth blushed and pulled at her skirt.

  ‘And Becky?’

  Agnes noticed Roger and his wife glance at each other, then both looked across to Ross. ‘Well, you must know, from your work with young people —’ he paused, and smiled at Agnes, and she felt caught up in that clear, frank gaze. ‘You see, Agnes, not everyone does what’s best for them, do they? Becky had so much going for her, her caring parents, her young brother — she was doing well at school. When she began to be — difficult — we all prayed for her, and waited for the Lord to move her to come back to us. And we knew she would. She would have come back, if Satan had not intervened.’

  There was a flurry of noise from the hall, and then two young men came into the room.

  ‘I heard you were here,’ one said, a tall, muscular boy of about eighteen with thick, untidy brown hair.

  ‘Steven,’ Ross smiled, ‘how nice to see you. And Jerry too, bless you.’ Jerry stood awkwardly behind Steven. He looked about the same age as him, but seemed slight and pale next to Steven’s jolly solidity. He wore square spectacles that were wrong for his thin, angular face. They both sat on the floor by Ross’s chair. Steven exchanged a quick grin with Elizabeth.

  ‘We were talking about B
ecky,’ Ross said, gently. Steven stared at the carpet and began to pick at a loose thread. ‘Sister Agnes here knew her out at that Epping place. It’s particularly difficult for the young people, who counted her as a friend,’ he said to Agnes.

  ‘And with the awful circumstances of her death —’ Agnes began.

  ‘That’s the worst thing,’ Elizabeth blurted out, emboldened by the presence of her son. ‘You just keep thinking about her last moments, over and over again. Shirley’s half-mad with it all, and not only that but not having a funeral. I mean if the police could catch the person then at least we could bury her properly, but thinking of her lying in that — that place — and sometimes I have to physically hold on to Shirley to stop her driving up to the mortuary just to hold her daughter — “Let me hold her once more,” she keeps saying, but Morris thinks she shouldn’t see her …’ She stopped, breathlessly, red-faced, staring across at Steven. Roger took her hand and patted it. Jerry shifted his long limbs into a different position.

  ‘It’s terrible for the parents,’ Ross said. ‘Terrible.’

  ‘I met them,’ Agnes said.

  ‘I know,’ Ross replied. ‘You mustn’t judge them by their present state.’

  ‘I do think —’ Agnes hesitated. ‘I think Shirley ought to see the body. She can’t even begin to grieve — I know it’s none of my business, but — ’

  Ross was staring at her intently. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘Elizabeth, would you be able to take her?’

  ‘We’ve asked, Pastor, we’ve both asked time and time again. But Morris is adamant.’

  ‘I shall speak with him.’

  Agnes broke the silence that followed. ‘Does anyone in your church — does anyone have any idea who might have done it?’

  Roger and Elizabeth shook their heads. Steven pulled at the carpet thread which was now quite long. Jerry changed position again. Ross held Agnes’s gaze in his own. ‘Do you consider it to be the will of God?’ he asked her.

  Agnes blinked. ‘Um — what do you mean …?’

  ‘I mean what I say. If we meet our end, like that — a young, innocent person, a Christian girl — do we say that God has welcomed her to be with Him?’