He overtook me again.
“You’re so light, Francesca. Just like Mother Ignatius. Some mornings it’s harder to lift the chalice above my head than it was to get her onto that bed.”
He put his body between me and the door, leaning his arm on the altar rail. His laugh sent a chill through me. He pressed against me until I was bent over backwards on the altar rail.
“What shall I do with you, Sister Francesca?” he asked again. His voice was sing-song, like a child reciting his nighttime prayers.
It was my question also. What did he intend to do with me? There were forty other people in the house, one of them, Sister Felix, not too far down the hall from the chapel. Surely he couldn’t kill me here. I had a frightening image of Father Malbert hiding my dead body in his office until he could remove it to some remote location. Another roadside attack on a nun, the police would say. His friend Officer Charlie Ahern would never suspect St. Alban’s new dean.
Father Malbert had another idea. “Maybe they’ll find you in the morning. A despondent nun who couldn’t live with the burden of causing her friend to lie in a coma.”
“Poison?” I could hardly get the word out.
“It worked before.”
Too much talk. Not enough action.
For leverage, I braced my foot on the marble step leading to the altar, and thrust myself from his grip. In the next motion, I grabbed lit votive candles from the metal rack by my side and hurled them, one by one, at Father Malbert’s face. I thought of snowballs in the winter fields of Potterstown, of pitch-till-you-win at the county fair booth, of volleyball practice in my high school gym.
Anything but throwing burning candles at another human being.
Father Malbert’s stole caught fire first. He whipped it off, but couldn’t contain the blaze that had shot up his neck. The smells mixed together. Singed hair. Burning flesh and plastic from his Roman collar. Vanilla wax from the candles.
As I ran to the safety of the hallway and Sister Felix’s bedroom, I had a final glimpse of a fallen priest, flailing about in flames, as if he’d been caught unexpectedly in the fires of Hell.
CHAPTER 33
Just as well I’d been naïve about the real challenges awaiting me in the Bronx. I’d never have thought I’d be able to cope with friendships, reformed convent life, unorthodox professors, barely recognizable liturgy—let alone murder. And my sorrow at the death of my father had only intensified every experience.
A few days after Father Malbert had been taken into custody, Sister Ann William regained consciousness and I had renewed faith in the God of justice and mercy.
Unwilling to rehash my role in the incidents leading up to Father Malbert’s desperate assault, I kept my distance from Sister Ann William’s visitors from Texas. I did overhear the Sisters in the parlor with Sister Felix, however.
“We’re simply not used to this sort of thing in Houston,” Mother Clarisse said.
“Neither are we, believe me, Mother,” Sister Felix had answered.
Sister Felix had softened her approach around me. I guessed she felt badly about not responding to my concern when Sister Ann William was first missing. When her order appointed her officially Mother Superior at St. Lucy’s, I wrote a note offering my prayers for the new assignment.
“Sister Francesca, thank you,” she’d written back. “I look forward to a new start.”
I thought I knew what she meant and I resolved to give her no more trouble. No more extra pillows, and no more impertinence.
<><><>
I reformed my truant ways somewhat, and asked Mother Julia’s permission before visiting Sister Ann William in the hospital.
“I consider that a corporal work of mercy, Sister Francesca,” she’d told me by telephone from Potterstown.
“Yes, Mother. Thank you, Mother.”
I’d spared Mother Julia the details of what brought about Sister Ann William’s encounter with violence. I guessed an incident in the Bronx wouldn’t reach the four-page Potterstown weekly newspaper. At least not the front page, which was all Mother Julia scanned for us.
Sitting up in the hospital bed, Sister Ann William was in good spirits, in spite of her weak and vulnerable appearance. The first few times I’d seen her, she seemed shaky and easily startled, jumping each time a new person entered her room.
Sister Ann William’s Superior and another Sister of her order had come to the Bronx to satisfy themselves she was no longer in danger. They’d brought her a cotton robe, the same shade of blue as her regular dress, and a special cap to cover her head and neck. A strangely modified habit.
“Think of all the effort we went through to learn about poisons, and in the end we didn’t need the information at all,” I said.
“And I never did get the pharmacy log.” She sounded disappointed, as if she’d failed a test, instead of avoiding a transgression. “We can only assume Father Malbert’s name was on it. I hope eventually we’ll find out exactly what he used to . . . subdue Mother Ignatius.”
“Mr. Driscoll promised to let us know what the police labs turn up.”
“I hope they tell us more than lab results,” she said.
I nodded. “Like how did Mother Ignatius find out about his evil ways . . . “
Sister Ann William brightened. “I do know one loose end. Did I tell you how Father Malbert found out I’d asked to see the log?”
Something I’d been wondering about, since very little time elapsed between Sister Ann William’s call to me about her success with the pharmacy clerk and the assault on her life. I shook my head.
“Grace—the clerk I talked to?” Sister Ann William’s accent had reverted to its original intensity in the days after her hometown Sisters’ visit. “Grace came by here to see me? She told me she couldn’t locate her supervisor for permission to give me the log, but she ran into Father Malbert right after I left, and since he was Dean . . . “
“She thought she could trust him.”
She nodded. A sad look came over her and I guessed she’d already forgiven Father Malbert and was more concerned for his soul than for her body.
I tried a distraction, in case she was reliving an ugly moment in her life. She hadn’t talked much about the experience except she thought she fainted early on and was mercifully unaware of what happened to her.
“Your poison tutorials weren’t wasted, by the way. I learned a great deal. For example, I never knew the median strip on New York’s highways were lined with hemlock.”
She chuckled, then grimaced as if the movement of the laughter muscles caused her pain.
I sprang up to help. “Shall I get you an aspirin?” I paused mid-step, remembering one of her explications on the way to campus. “Uh oh, aspirin is toxic, isn’t it?”
“Only if you take it in huge amounts.”
“Right. I suppose even ice cream can kill you if you eat too much.”
We both laughed and Sister Ann William grimaced again.
<><><>
It seemed Father Malbert wasn’t the only one who had connections in the precinct. Jake Driscoll came through with a full report from the police. He’d volunteered to share what he’d learned with all the Sisters in the house, but offered to tell the story to Sister Ann William and me in a private session.
“Since you’re among the principals,” he’d said, with a grin.
The day after she returned to St. Lucy’s, Sister Ann William and I sat in the parlor with him, taking the same seats we had when he’d brought us Mother Ignatius’ autopsy report. I thought back to our breaking into the Driscoll & Sons construction trailer and accusing him of murder, for all practical purposes. I also recalled, with some embarrassment, my own rude behavior to him on several occasions.
All in all, Jake Driscoll had been pretty patient with
us, I decided.
“The police found your habit in a duffel bag in Father Malbert’s office. The one off the sacristy here,” he told Sister Ann William. He pointed in the direction of St. Lucy’s chapel. “They were all tangled up with his sweaty gym clothes.”
“Why do you think he . . . removed . . .?” she asked. Her voice was so shaky I was afraid of relapse, if there were such a thing for comas.
Jake Driscoll came to her rescue. “The cops figure he removed your clothes to delay an investigation. He probably intended to burn the whole bag eventually. Everything was pretty torn up and bloody and . . . “ He paused. “Well, it’s over now. He knew it would have been too easy to ID you with your habit on, and it’s always better for the criminal when the trail is cold.”
“But he was the one who located me at St. Anselmo’s,” Sister Ann William said, expressing my own thoughts. Apparently we had a lot to learn about the criminal mind.
Jake Driscoll nodded in my direction. “Because Sister Francesca was so . . . persistent.” He looked at me and smiled, as if to remind me there were harsher terms he might use. “Evidently, he thought it would remove all suspicion if he showed sympathy and helped her out. He never expected her to put all the pieces together.”
He gave me a smile meant to show pride, I sensed, but I wasn’t in the mood for praise. Instead, I thought how I’d sat in Father Malbert’s office for more than an hour, how close I was to his evidence-laden closet while he’d called the emergency rooms. And all during the time I waited for him and Sister Felix to phone me from St. Anselmo’s Hospital, Sister Ann William’s bloody habit had been a few feet away.
I’d snooped in two offices—Mother Ignatius’ and Jake Driscoll’s—and minded my own business in the one that mattered. Nothing to be proud of.
“Chloroform,” Sister Ann William said, as if she’d just processed the information Jake Driscoll had given us at the beginning of our meeting. “Such a simple method. As old as she was, Mother Ignatius would have only a few moments before her heart would stop.”
“And there was no way to tell from the autopsy?” I asked Sister Ann William, who was a medical expert compared to me.
She shook her head. “There might have been a slight rash on her face, or irritation in her nose and throat. But everyone was focused on poisoning and looking for a disruption of her internal functions.”
I was still puzzled. “What possible reason would Father Malbert give for checking chloroform out of the pharmacy?”
“He didn’t,” Jake Driscoll said. “He slipped it into his pocket on what he called a routine visit as a faculty member in line for an administrative position. Wanted to familiarize himself with all parts of the campus, he told the clerk. He signed in and out, but didn’t indicate he was removing any controlled substance.”
“If anyone noticed and asked, he could always say he had some heavy-duty cleaning agent for a project,” Sister Ann William added.
Like no household chores I’d ever done, I thought.
Jake Driscoll gazed over my shoulder as if he were watching a scene play out on the parlor wall, next to the painting of the Sacred Heart. “Poor old nun. In the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess.”
“What do you mean?” Sister Ann William asked.
He lowered his eyes to our level. “That’s right. You wouldn’t know. Father Malbert is cleansing his soul by talking to anyone who’ll listen. I guess the Church doesn’t provide very good attorneys for murderers.”
Sister Ann William and I were perched on the edges of our chairs. Jake Driscoll, on the other hand, looked relaxed, lounging back on the sofa, apparently enjoying his role as our source of news.
What’s Father Malbert saying? we wanted to know.
“For one thing he’s remorseful. He’s sorry he knocked you down, Sister Francesca.” So it was connected. I reached for my thigh surreptitiously, as if to apologize to my body for getting into trouble. “He says he’s almost glad some young lovers crawled into the bushes where he’d dragged Sister Ann William.”
I gasped. “I never thought of that. His real aim was to kill her . . . “
Jake Driscoll nodded. “He had to run off before . . . “ He paused. “I’m sorry, Sisters. Maybe we should stop here.”
Sister Ann William swallowed hard enough for me to hear. I reached out and put my hand on hers.
For a moment we were all silent.
<><><>
I’d seen Sister Veronique’s white habit flutter by several times during our conference. Finally, she appeared in the doorway, carrying a plate of cookies.
She cleared her throat. “I thought you might like a snack. I brought a little something from the kitchen.”
Or from the supply in your room, I mused. To cover up my uncharitable thought, I gave her what I assumed she wanted.
“Come in, Sister. Mr. Driscoll was about to tell us some of the details Father Malbert has given to the police.”
“Thanks, Fran. I don’t mind if I do.”
I smiled at her, but grimaced inwardly. Now we were down to nicknames.
Jake Driscoll stood when she entered and sat again after Sister Veronique—Ronnie?—had taken a seat next to him on the sofa. Ever the Catholic gentleman. He continued with his story.
“Mother Ignatius was in his office one afternoon, about a week before she died—the girl who was supposed to clean in there didn’t show up one day and Mother Ignatius decided to substitute so the good Father would have a spick and span place to work.” He shook his head as if to indicate the futility of it all. “She overheard a telephone conversation or found some documents . . . or both . . . the story changes.”
“About the Edson contract?”
He nodded. “And the Dean’s position. It was all connected—he got inside information from Father O’Neill, for his brother-in-law. That way Edson could bid lower than anyone else. Then, he held that over Father O’Neill’s head. Make me Dean or I’ll tell all.”
“But that would have exposed him and his brother-in-law also,” I said, stretching my brain to understand the world of business and high finance.
“The repercussions would be worse for Father O’Neill and St. Alban’s administration. Everybody expects contractors to be crooked anyway. Right, Sisters?”
I tried to look suitably contrite.
Sister Veronique swallowed some part of a cookie, and spoke up. “Well, I have a few details of my own, if you’re interested.”
The affair with Teresa Barnes. None of us had brought it up, but the prurience of the topic didn’t keep us all from listening intently.
Sister Veronique was ready with her story. “David’s intention was to keep his affair with Teresa a secret until he made Dean, then leave the order. He’d have a contract by then and they wouldn’t let him go.” She took another bite of cookie. “Whereas they could refuse him the post if he left the order first. So the plan was, he’d be Dean, then he and Teresa would leave their orders and get married.” She spread her hands. “Ta da. Happily ever after.”
Sister Veronique’s frown contradicted her words. “Instead, when he found out about the baby, he pushed her aside. She had no choice but to go home to Michigan.”
“Did Mother Ignatius overhear all that, too?”
Sister Veronique shook her head, her mouth falling into a sad expression. “Teresa told Mother Ignatius. She confided in her.” I saw a surprised look on Sister Ann William’s face, echoing my own feelings. “I know you think we’re radicals and hated Mother Ignatius, but that’s not true. Teresa . . . “ Sister Veronique’s voice cracked. “Now I can’t bear to tell Teresa she may have been to blame for Mother Ignatius’ death.”
“Don’t do it, Sister,” Jake Driscoll said, with vehemence. “Father Malbert is the one responsible, and there’s no sense thinking what we all migh
t or might not have done differently.”
I agreed, except for one other matter. While we were on the topic of blame, I had a question for Jake Driscoll. I’d been sleeping badly since my adventure in the chapel with Father Malbert. Prisoner David, I realized, curiously aware of how titles and relationships were so closely linked.
My attack on David disturbed my dreams. In one, I saw myself hurling flames at his naked body. In another, I ran screaming while my own habit was red with blood and fire.
I’d asked myself over and over if it had been necessary for me to resort to violence.
“How is Father Malbert?” I asked Jake Driscoll.
“David,” Sister Veronique said with a twist to her lips. “He won’t be hearing anyone else’s confession very soon.”
“He’s badly burned, of course. He’ll be all right, but he’s probably scarred for life.”
In more ways than one, I thought.
“It’s not a sin to defend your life, Sister Francesca,” Jake Driscoll said. I shrugged my shoulders. “If you’re thinking of the martyrs, it’s the wrong analogy. It’s not as if you’d have been dying for your faith.” When I pushed my feelings aside, I knew he was correct. “You did what you had to do.”
Sister Ann William nodded vigorously.
“Absolutely,” Sister Veronique said. I had the vague feeling she wished she’d thrown the candles herself.
“One more thing,” I said to Jake Driscoll as we stood to leave. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a single onyx cuff link with an elaborate silver letter D. The D that was different from the D between Mother Ignatius and Mother Consiliatrix. “I think this is yours.”
Jake Driscoll’s eyes widened. “Dang. I’ve been looking for this. Where did you find it?”
“In a compromising place.”
A look of comprehension came over his face. “No wonder you thought . . . “
Killer in the Cloister Page 23
