A Dark and Sinful Death

by Alison Joseph

  A Dark and Sinful Death

  A Sister Agnes Mystery

  Alison Joseph

  © Alison Joseph 1997

  Alison Joseph has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1997 by Headline Book Publishing.

  This edition published in 2018 by Sharpe Books.

  For my mother,

  From whom I learned to be a mother

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  She was sitting in the middle of the room. The walls had been splashed with black paint, and there were fragments of paper where the girls’ work had been torn away. The windows were daubed with black too, thickening the darkness of the night outside. Paint dripped from the workbench. She watched it, staring vacantly as the splashes counted time in the silence of the room.

  Agnes still had her hand on the doorhandle. ‘Joanna?’ she whispered.

  Joanna continued to watch the black droplets scatter as they hit the floor.

  ‘Miss Baines?’ Sister Teresa said, at Agnes’s side.

  ‘Did you do this?’ Agnes asked.

  Joanna slowly lifted her head and gazed at Agnes and Teresa. Her hands and face were smeared with black. In front of her was an arrangement of objects: a vase of flowers, sickly winter carnations and dried roses drooping haphazardly; a bowl of apples, overripe and wrinkled. In front of the vase there was an animal skull. At the side a candle was burning, so low that its falling wax had engulfed the candlestick. The flickering light was reflected in the darkness of the windows, in the shadows of Joanna’s face as she stared at Agnes and Teresa.

  ‘I’ll get someone,’ Teresa said to Agnes. ‘You stay here.’ The door closed behind her.

  ‘Joanna ... ?’ Agnes wondered what to say. She realised she hardly knew her. Joanna Baines. Miss Baines, who taught art part-time at the school; who was considered to be a very private person; who was adored by the girls. She worked in the gardens of the school in her spare time, and never set foot in the staff room. She had a young, open face; probably not yet thirty, Agnes thought.

  Joanna stirred and seemed to focus on Agnes, then looked at the desecrated artwork in front of her. ‘Those poor girls,’ she murmured.

  ‘Why ... ?’ Agnes began, hearing footsteps hurrying up the stairs.

  Joanna turned anguished eyes to Agnes as if seeing her for the first time. ‘There is nothing ... First him — and now me ... there is nothing ... ’

  ‘I found the Head,’ Sister Teresa said, breathlessly, coming back into the room. Sister Philomena appeared behind her. She was short and slightly hunched, and now she peered at the scene before her through tiny glasses balanced on her nose.

  She turned to Agnes and spoke in her customary bark. ‘Mops?’

  ‘S-sorry?’

  ‘Buckets?’

  ‘Well,’ Agnes faltered, ‘I’m sure in the kitchens ... ’

  Sister Philomena made a sudden dismissive flapping gesture with both hands. ‘Staff,’ she barked. ‘In the morning. Leave it now. You, Baines — ’ Her voice softened, and she held out one hand to Joanna. ‘Come now, come with me.’

  Joanna stood up and allowed herself to be led from the room. Their footsteps faded away.

  Agnes looked at Teresa and screwed up her nose. ‘Mops,’ she barked. ‘Buckets ... ’

  Teresa flapped her hands. ‘Staff,’ she echoed. They left the room, shutting the door behind them.

  *

  ‘“ You turn us back to the dust and say, Go back O child of Earth ... For a thousand years in Your sight are like yesterday when it is past ... You sweep us away like a dream, we fade away suddenly like the grass ...”’

  The psalm murmured through the chapel, merging with the soft patter of the rain on the windows. Agnes had woken that morning with a sense of dull depression, echoed by the chill of the school’s stone corridors, the grey of the skies, the wintry presence of the moors whenever she’d glanced out of the window.

  ‘“ Our iniquities You have set before You, and our secret sins in the light of Your countenance ...”’ Agnes glanced up at Father Elias, the school chaplain. His dark brows met in a deep frown, and his eyes were closed. His voice rose and fell with his recitation, his head bowed, his thick black hair falling across his face.

  ‘“ As from dust did you come, to dust ye shall return ...”’

  The words seemed wrapped in melancholy.

  Afterwards in the corridor, Sister Teresa took her arm. ‘Sister Philomena wants to see us at twelve.’

  ‘But it’s Ash Wednesday. We’re supposed to be reflecting on our sins.’

  ‘Nonsense, Agnes, it’ll take you more than a day for that.’

  ‘How well you know me after such a short time.’

  *

  ‘State of operations,’ Philomena announced as they walked into her room. She gestured to two chairs opposite her desk. Her office was generously proportioned, carpeted in warm green. Outside Agnes could see the wind shaking the bare branches of the chestnut trees along the drive.

  ‘Miss Baines — queer old show, eh?’ The Head peered at a button on her suit. She adjusted it, then looked at Teresa.

  ‘I happened to be passing, that’s all,’ Teresa said. ‘I heard an odd noise, and then I called Agnes because she was nearest and because — well, I wasn’t sure what I should find ... ’

  ‘Paint all over the shop. Still, all right as rain now.’

  ‘But — all those paintings ... ’ Agnes began.

  ‘Plenty more. Heaps of them in the cupboards. Dogs and cats and whatnot, fluffy things, you know.’

  ‘How’s Joanna?’ Agnes asked.

  ‘And a rabbit. Think it’s a rabbit. Although — ’ She turned to Teresa. ‘Anteater perhaps? Short ears for a rabbit. You lived in the tropics, what d’you think?’

  ‘Um, well ... ’ Teresa hesitated. Agnes didn’t dare look at her.

  ‘Capybara.’ Philomena picked up a mug from her desk and squinted into it. ‘Beyond me why any of the girls should want to paint a capybara.’

  ‘Perhaps it was a rabbit,’ Agnes said.

  Philomena peered at her. ‘D’you think so? I do hope you’re right.’ She stood up. ‘Ears rather short, that’s all.’

  Agnes and Teresa stood up too. ‘And Joanna?’ Agnes tried again.

  ‘Baines? Bolted. Set up a room for her here last night. No sign of her this morning. Her third years sitting there like lemons. Had to teach them myself. We all drew a vase.’ The door shut behind them, and they were alone in the corridor as the bell rang for lunch.

  *

  They took their trays of soup and bread and cheese to a table tucked away in the far corner of the dining room.

  ‘So what did Philomena mean?’ Teresa said as they
sat down.

  ‘Joanna’s vanished.’

  ‘Ah yes, the mystery of the disappearing art teacher,’ a voice said.

  ‘Colin Furse,’ Teresa said, looking up. ‘I might have known you’d have the gossip.’

  ‘History, you see,’ Colin replied, joining them. ‘And I have very little gossip. Only that she was upset about something and then went. Don’t suppose you know why?’

  ‘We saw her in the art room, last night. Yes, she was quite upset.’

  ‘Can’t think what it can be. She’s such a quiet old thing, isn’t she? The girls have started speculating. Elopement seems to be getting the keenest odds.’

  ‘How do they get to hear of everything?’ Agnes asked.

  Teresa buttered her bread roll. ‘It’s astonishing. Some kind of Jungian collective radar. And it always involves men. I’m amazed you survive in this atmosphere, Colin.’

  ‘I positively thrive in it, Sister. I see Charlotte Linnell’s back with us, at least.’

  Agnes glanced across at a noisy group of sixth formers. Karen Phelps was nursing an injured elbow from hockey. Zoe Webster was trying to grab her sling, and Claire Doylan was fighting her off and giggling. Charlotte Linnell was staring at her plate.

  ‘Depends what you mean by “with us”, I think,’ Agnes said.

  ‘What’s the story there?’ Colin asked.

  ‘She’s been absconding in the evenings, won’t tell anyone where she’s going. She was sent home last week for a few days. Now she’s back, but she won’t talk to anyone, and she’s clearly unhappy.’

  ‘Is she in your house?’ Colin asked.

  Teresa nodded. ‘We’ve tried to get her to talk to us. It’s hopeless. She’s carrying some secret burden.’

  Colin surveyed the room. ‘Like Joanna,’ he said. He turned to the two women. ‘Do you think this place is more neurotic than most, or does it just reflect the national average for nutcases?’

  ‘We were probably average until Agnes joined us,’ Teresa said. ‘Now we’re off the scale.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Agnes said, ‘I’ve brought a measure of sanity and reason which was sadly lacking before. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed.’

  *

  It was Wednesday afternoon. The rain had eased, and a light mist had settled on the higher slopes, clinging to the bare gorse. Agnes followed her familiar path across the moor, leaving behind her the fading shouts of the school playing fields. She wondered what had become of Joanna. On a couple of occasions in the past she’d met her during her walks, and they’d exchanged a few words, in the course of which she’d learned that Joanna lived across the moor from the school and sometimes walked all the way home rather than taking the bus.

  Agnes strode on, climbing higher, away from the town. The wind gusted suddenly, icily. She paused to catch her breath, and was aware of a figure emerging from the mist towards her.

  ‘Good afternoon, Father,’ she said, as Elias came into view.

  He looked up, startled. ‘Oh, Agnes.’ He halted next to her.

  ‘Admiring the nothingness again?’

  ‘I never said it was nothingness,’ he said.

  ‘Last time I met you up here, you said you liked the moors because they had a total disregard for anything human.’

  ‘I said I liked the fact they existed before us and they’ll exist after us.’

  ‘So does that make you a nihilist or just a misanthropist?’

  He smiled. ‘And what are you?’

  ‘Me? Just generally melancholic, I think.’

  ‘Still missing London?’

  She nodded.

  ‘The girls like you.’

  ‘I think they’re just mystified by me, actually.’

  ‘Perhaps. I think they find me pretty odd too.’

  ‘It was a good service this morning.’

  ‘No it wasn’t. The start of Lent — what sense does it make to them? I can’t convey any of it in a way that might inspire them.’

  ‘I’ve always liked Lent.’

  ‘Even when you were a kid?’

  ‘Yes.5 Agnes smiled. ‘Not the giving things up, although we didn’t have much of that anyway, being a household of excess. But I liked considering my failings.’

  ‘And do you still?’

  ‘Do I still what?’

  ‘Consider your failings?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve got loads now.’

  He laughed. Above them the clouds drew closer as the daylight began to fade. He glanced at her. ‘Do you think it makes any difference? Lent. Reflecting on one’s failings ... ’

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s about being reconciled to God — ’ ‘But what does that mean?’

  ‘Well, I suppose — ’

  ‘That’s what I can’t convey.’ A squirrel rippled across their path, and Elias gazed after it. ‘I feel like you,’ he said. ‘Out of place.’

  ‘What is your God, then?’

  Elias looked at her. ‘God is — ’ he began. ‘God is just Beingness. The charge between atomic particles, the distance between one galaxy and the next.’

  ‘And what about love?’ Agnes said.

  He considered her for a moment. The wind caught his hair, blowing it across his face.

  ‘If you really believe as you do ... ’ Agnes hesitated. ‘It must make your job very difficult.’

  ‘Maybe. But it’s a safe place, at least.’

  They stood in silence.

  ‘Well,’ Agnes began, after a few moments, ‘it’ll be getting dark soon, and I’d better — ’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He glanced at her, then set off away from her towards the school. The sweep of the moors was shaded indigo in the twilight. Agnes could see below her the lights of the town, the silhouette of Father Elias as he descended the hill; in front of him the school, its dainty turrets echoing the rougher outlines of the mill chimneys across the valley. Agnes turned away and continued her walk, unwilling to return, in spite of the darkening sky. She looked at the shadows of the trees on the slope beyond, and quickened her pace.

  She thought about Father Elias. She thought about his bleak vision. He was only in his thirties or so, she thought. She wondered how he’d come to be a school chaplain. She wondered what he meant by ‘a safe place’. She wondered what had happened to upset Joanna. She wondered what topic to choose for this week’s French conversation classes. She wondered, again, how to approach Charlotte to find out what it was outside the school that was exerting such a powerful attraction.

  *

  It was dark when she at last returned to the school. She’d missed supper. The hallway was unlit. The girls were all tucked away in their houses. Agnes could hear a phone ringing in the office. She opened the door and in darkness picked up the receiver.

  ‘Um — hello ... ’ It was an uncertain male voice.

  ‘St Catherine’s School,’ Agnes said.

  ‘I wondered if you could get a message to someone. One of the girls.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Charlotte Linnell.’

  ‘Oh — yes. Certainly.’

  ‘Just say that Mark phoned. Mark Snaith. Um — the message is — it’s difficult really. Could you tell her that I can’t do — oh, I dunno. Just ask her to ring me, could you? That’s all.’ The line went dead.

  Agnes walked through the main building and out into a courtyard to Milton House, of which she was the Assistant Housemistress, an idea which still made her want to laugh. She unlocked the door to her tiny room, switched on lights, put the kettle on to boil, then changed her mind and opened a miniature fridge, in which there was a half bottle of Petit-Chablis. She pulled the cork, and poured a glass, which misted with condensation. She poured water into a saucepan and set it on one of two tiny electric rings, then opened a cupboard and searched for pasta and sauce.

  When she’d first been shown her room at the school, she’d been horrified to find it had no fridge or cooker. In two days she’d installed both, and a toaster. She’d wanted to in
stall a telephone line too, but she’d sensed a certain frostiness from Sister Philomena at the idea that she might wish at times to escape from the communal life of the school. No one else, it was made plain to her, needed a private telephone line. But then, as Agnes had explained to Teresa at the time, she hadn’t asked to be sent away from London, away from the work she enjoyed at the hostel for homeless kids, away from her friends, exiled to a chilly Yorkshire convent school to do a job for which she was singularly ill suited.

  She waited for the water to come to the boil, gazing absently at her brand new mobile phone, which was sitting on her desk and which now rang suddenly.

  ‘Agnes?’

  ‘Julius — I was just thinking of you.’

  ‘You always say that.’

  ‘Maybe it’s always true.’

  ‘How alarming.’

  ‘No, I was just thinking about London and wondering how I came to be here.’

  ‘Through your exemplary obedience to the wishes of your order, wasn’t it?’

  ‘There’s no need to laugh.’

  ‘Agnes, would I laugh at you?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Julius laughed. ‘And this is your mobile number, eh? So I could be talking to you anywhere?’

  ‘Anywhere. I might be in the bath for all you know.’

  ‘Isn’t science wonderful?’

  ‘Expensive, too. I’m always recharging the batteries, it costs a fortune.’

  ‘Lucky you have one, then.’

  ‘Hardly a fortune. And now Sister Philomena knows it’s there, it won’t last long.’

  ‘I thought your French lawyers made sure it was watertight.’

  ‘They hadn’t met Sister Philomena.’

  ‘What’s that beeping?’

  ‘The batteries, again. It’s such a bore.’

  ‘Why don’t you get a proper phone?’

  ‘Because it didn’t seem worth it. It’s not as if I’m here for long.’

  ‘Agnes — ’

  ‘They can’t make me stay, Julius.’

  ‘Is it still that bad?’

  ‘Julius, I can’t bear it, I’m supposed to eat communally, I can’t wear jeans, there are offices for the nuns at least three times a day, chapel for the girls every day — ’ ‘What’s wrong with daily offices?’