“Some. But den, we’d rolled her over.”
Yes, that would complicate matters. But perhaps that was a better question for the infirmarian, who had hopefully taken a closer look at the wound.
Gage rejoined us then, wiping his hand with his handkerchief. He indicated with a swift shake of his head that he hadn’t found anything to assist in our investigation, before turning his attention to the sisters. “Mother Fidelis, can you tell us if there were any stones nearby that aren’t where they rested that night? Does this field look the same?”
She scrutinized the land before her through narrowed eyes, but still did not move through the gap in the wall. It was somewhat frustrating, and almost comical, watching the three nuns crowded around the opening. Surely the reverend mother would allow them to step out into the field for this.
“Aye. I tink so. They were scattered there and there.” She pointed to the rocks he had inspected earlier.
He folded his handkerchief and tucked it back into his pocket. “Once you realized she was dead, then what happened?”
“I sent Sister Mary Maxentia for help. Though by dat time others had begun makin’ their way through the orchard, so she hadn’t needed to go far. Reverend Mother came herself to see Miss Lennox, and den she told us not to touch anything else, and sent Mr. Scully for the constable.”
“Mr. Scully?”
“He’s the abbey’s gardener and man of all work. His wife also lends us assistance, as we’re still a rather small branch of the order. Only nine years old. And not enough sisters yet to handle all dat needs done.”
I looked to Mother Paul, who had been observing our conversation solemnly. “Was he the young man we passed picking brambles?”
“No. That was our undergardener and Mr. Scully’s assistant, Davy Somers. He’s a local lad, and an orphan.”
The boy who Sister Pip had believed was sweet on Miss Lennox. Well, he was certainly someone we should talk to, along with the Scullys, but for the moment that could wait.
“I suppose we’ve asked all the obvious questions then,” Gage quipped with a self-deprecating smile I knew was meant to both soothe and disarm. “But is there anything else you think we should know? Anything you noticed that seemed strange or out of the ordinary? A person who shouldn’t have been there, or someone who was acting strangely? A pair of muddy shoes? A grass-stained sleeve? Anything, anything at all.”
“There was one ting,” Mother Fidelis said. Her eyes were troubled when she lifted them from where they’d been fastened on the ground. “Her simple veil. She wasn’t wearin’ it. ’Twas loosely clutched in her hand.”
This obviously didn’t strike me as strongly as it did her. “I didn’t know postulants wore veils,” I admitted.
“A short, white covering beginning at the crown of their heads.”
“And I take it, she was not supposed to remove it.”
“Not in public. Not without good reason.”
I could tell that Mother Fidelis had more to say on the matter, but I decided that could wait until we were alone and able to discuss whatever Miss Lennox might have confided in her as an advisor.
“Didn’t you want to see the pond more closely?” I asked in a low voice as Gage and I hung back from the others and returned through the orchard. Mother Paul and Mother Fidelis strolled sedately a few yards in front of us, but Sister Maxentia had long since disappeared, fleeing as if the hounds of hell were at her heels. Which, perhaps, we were. A rather sobering thought.
He shook his head. “I don’t think the pond matters. I seriously doubt it had anything to do with why Miss Lennox was leaving the abbey grounds or why she was killed.”
I sighed. “I don’t either. It was a silly excuse, and I think she knew it.”
“Which was why it worked. Who would believe she would make something like that up?”
I eyed the back of one of the figures in front of us. “Mother Mary Fidelis.”
Gage turned to look at me. “You think so?
“I think she suspected. Maybe she’ll tell me why.”
CHAPTER NINE
As Gage and Anderley were not allowed inside the abbey, we elected to take a divide and conquer approach. Anderley rode off with the roan gelding to settle himself at the Yellow House and see what he could learn listening to the patrons, while Gage took the phaeton and the list the mother superior had compiled for us and set off to visit as many of the locals connected to the abbey as he could, including Dr. O’Reilly, the convent’s attending physician, and Father Sullivan, the chaplain. He also intended to stop and speak to the workmen renovating a building at the edge of the abbey grounds to be used as a day school for local children. The reverend mother explained this was the reason the wall had not yet been repaired. All of their focus had been on finishing the day school before the fall term would start. He planned to return later to speak with the Scullys and Davy Somers at the end of their workday, and if I was available, I hoped to join him.
For my and Bree’s part, we spent the remainder of the day at the abbey, she belowstairs and me above. I decided my first stop should be to the abbey’s infirmary, which was situated in a large, airy room on the ground floor. I suspected it had once been a sort of billiard room and men’s parlor, for even underlying the strong stench of camphor and lye, I could smell the decades’ worth of cheroot and pipe smoke which had seeped into the wood paneling and moldings. Fortunately, the outer wall of the room was lined with tall Georgian windows, which were open to let in the sunshine and the summer breeze.
Whether as a consequence of her time spent in this room or a natural physical trait, Sister Mary Bernard spoke with a rather nasal voice in sharp, short bursts. It was as if what she had to say must be said quickly, and in as economical an amount of words as possible. At first I found myself taken aback, until I realized she meant no offense, and that, in fact, I should welcome her straightforward approach.
She ushered me toward the interior corner of the room, near a pair of tall cabinets and a small table, and far from where her single patient rested on a narrow cot near the windows. “Reverend Mother said you’d have questions. What do ye wish to know?”
“You examined her?”
She nodded. “Best I could. I don’t know much.”
“I understand,” I assured her. “What can you tell me of her head wound?”
“’Twas a gash. A deep one. Dented her skull and bled someting fierce.”
“Where was it located?”
She lifted her hand to illustrate. “Just here. At the back, but a little to the right.”
That corroborated what the reverend mother had told us. “And what about the rest of her body? Did you notice any other injuries, even small cuts and bruises?”
She scrunched her nose as if it itched. “Two small bruises on her arm. One on the inside, and the other on the outside.”
From someone grabbing her?
“And another larger one on the outside of her thigh, just below the hip,” she added.
I studied her, trying to decide how best to ask what I next needed to. Sister Bernard appeared to be telling me the truth, but only as far as she might recognize it.
“Was her skin overly red or abraded anywhere? Or did you happen to find blood anywhere else on her body?”
“No, m’lady. Just the head.”
I decided that was as close to a definitive answer as I was going to get without asking her whether she had examined Miss Lennox intimately, and I certainly wasn’t going to do that. In any case, it told me what I wanted to know. Without the evidence of blood or bruises or even abrasions on the inside of her thighs or marks that suggested she’d been held down or restrained, it was unlikely Miss Lennox was assaulted.
“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. If I could ask but one more question. Her hands, how did they appear? Was there anything underneath her nails? Were any of
them broken?”
She nodded vigorously and my breath quickened, thinking this might be a bit of evidence we could use. But her answer was not what I’d expected.
“She’d bitten ’em all to the quick. Gnawed at a bit of the skin, too. They weren’t pretty.”
“I see.” So it seemed Miss Lennox had not fought off an attacker, which told us nothing, as we’d already deduced that if she’d been murdered, she’d been struck from behind, either by surprise or while she fled. The only thing that was clear was that Miss Lennox had been anxious about something. Anxious enough to bite her nails down to painful nubs. But why?
I knew Sister Bernard would not have the answers I sought, so I thanked her again and asked whether she still had in her possession the clothes Miss Lennox had been wearing.
She turned to open the cupboard on the right, pulling a small box out from the bottom shelf and thrusting it into my arms. “Here.”
Frowning, I carried this over to the table and carefully began to extract the contents. On top lay a drab gray dress with a white collar and cuffs. The collar and the gray serge at the right were stained with blood, while on the opposite shoulder I could see where the cloth had been ripped at the seam. The right shoulder of her chemise was also stained, but the rest of her clothes, including the short veil, appeared unmarred except for general wear and tear. The sides and backs of her shoes, particularly near the heel, were coated in dried mud, making me wonder where the muck had come from if the rest of her clothing was not also in a similar state. Had Miss Lennox been down to the edge of the pond? I couldn’t think where else she would have . . .
I paused, catching a faint whiff of some earthy scent. Leaning forward, I sniffed the shoes. My nose wrinkled, recoiling from the stench. There was definitely a hint of fresh manure there. From the sheep we had seen beyond the pond?
Where on earth had Miss Lennox gone that fateful day? And why had she been so anxious about it? What sort of trouble could the postulant have possibly gotten herself into?
• • •
At the midday meal, the mother superior addressed everyone assembled, both her fellow sisters and the boarding students, on my behalf, asking them to please cooperate with us and to come forward with any information they thought might be helpful. At first, this proved to be a fruitless effort. Oh, I spoke to a number of well-meaning sisters, but they only wished to tell me they would pray that the Lord would grant me wisdom and guidance in my task. As much as their prayers were appreciated, after the fifth time a nun’s approach raised my expectations and hopes, it was difficult not to feel somewhat flattened. I tried not to let my disappointment show, but it must have been obvious enough, for Mother Fidelis, seated across the table, offered me a gentle smile.
“Lady Darby, perhaps ye would join me as I prepare for my next class?”
“Of course,” I replied, jumping at the opportunity to speak with her and escape the refectory. There was only so much of the students’ wary glances and hushed voices, and the other sisters’ well-wishes, I could endure.
She led me through a side door, which blocked much of the noise from the refectory as it shut behind us. Not that the room had been overly loud. Nowhere in the abbey was. That was one thing I couldn’t help but notice. The sisters certainly preferred and commanded quiet. It was restful, if a bit unexpected at first, to see the students shuffle from class to class in silence.
I began to speak, and then wondered if I was to be quiet, too, as we traversed the corridors. Fortunately, Mother Fidelis put an end to that internal debate.
“Say what ye wish. As a guest yer not beholden to the same rules as the students.”
I turned to her with a start. “How did you know that’s what I was thinking?”
Her gently amused smile returned. “’Tis what all the visitors wonder when they first come here.” Her eyes cut sideways at me, almost shrewdly. “The truth is, we order their silence as much for our own ears as for the students’ spiritual discipline.”
This admission surprised a grin out of me. “Well, I can’t say I blame you. As loud as my four nieces and nephews can be, I can only imagine what dozens of adolescent girls would sound like.”
She shook her head. “Don’t try. ’Twill give ye a megrim just from the effort.”
I laughed at that, and then stifled it with my hand, lest one of the students hear. Mother Fidelis only continued to smile.
Her classroom proved to be nearby, and I couldn’t withhold a gasp as we entered to discover it was a studio of sorts. A cluster of easels sat on one side of the room, each with a canvas at the ready and a small table set beside it, cluttered with paint supplies. The other side of the studio, nearest to the door, was packed tight with tables and chairs, all facing another table at the front where a still life made from religious articles had been arranged. A gold chalice, a black-beaded rosary, and a small cross gleamed in the sunlight shining through the windows behind them.
“I didn’t realize you taught drawing and painting.”
“I try. I’m no master, but we’ve no one nearby whom we can coax to instruct such classes, so I make do.”
“Do you often bring in outside instructors to teach the girls?” I asked, crossing to the wall at the back, where a number of fairly accomplished drawings hung—the best from past projects, I guessed.
“Not so often as we used to now dat we’ve more sisters. Mrs. Sherlock comes once a week to teach deportment and elocution. And until a few months ago, a man from the village helped to teach some of our music classes. But Sister Mary Xaveria has since taken dat over.”
I nodded, having glimpsed Mrs. Sherlock’s name on the list the mother superior had given Gage, but there had been no notation about other teachers. Perhaps this music tutor had already gone by the time Miss Lennox arrived.
“I’m sure the reverend mother will give ye a list of all the people Miss Lennox might’ve encountered, if she hasn’t already.”
“She has,” I told her, not sure whether I should feel amused or unsettled by her ability to divine my thoughts. I understood what made her such a good advisor to those young postulants entering the abbey. Even now she was standing there patiently allowing me to sort through my impressions and decide what to ask next, though I was certain she already knew. I suspected few things slipped her notice.
“You were Miss Lennox’s advisor,” I prompted.
“I was.”
I waited, hoping she would choose to elaborate, but she didn’t. “The reverend mother said she believed you knew her better than anyone here at the abbey.” She neither confirmed nor denied this, and I felt a twinge of annoyance. Perhaps if I phrased a direct question. “Could you tell me your impressions of her? Did she confide in you why she decided to convert to Catholicism and become a nun?”
Her eyes dropped from mine, as if deciding how much to say. “Miss Lennox was, I think, more complex than most gave her credit for. Aye, she was studious, gentle, and observant. But she was also conflicted and doubtful.” She turned to stroll between the tables toward the windows and I followed. “If I were to speculate, I would say her heaviest burden may’ve been dat she was overly reflective. Always carefully considerin’ her thoughts and words, weighin’ every option, calculatin’ the odds. I know for certain it was her biggest struggle—the temptation to live too much in her head, until dat which she had ne’er doubted, she suddenly did.” She paused to adjust something in the still life on the table. “Dat and tryin’ too hard to please others.”
I had been contemplating what she was telling me, trying to form a better impression of Miss Lennox, but this almost offhanded pronouncement at the last stunned me. “Wait. ‘Trying too hard to please others’?” How was that possible? The girl had completely ignored what I was sure her family had wanted for her.
But Mother Fidelis was either not listening or chose to ignore me. “As to why she converted and decided to becom
e a nun, I don’t know dat her professions on either o’ dose subjects are pertinent.”
I blinked, feeling knocked out of kilter with her calm assertions. “At this point, we don’t know what is pertinent and what is not,” I reminded her. “Her reasons for being here seem perfectly relevant to me, considering the fact that they may hold the key to why someone would wish to murder her.”
“I understand,” she replied with composed detachment. “But I’ll still not share dat wit ye. Not yet anyway.”
“Surely this isn’t a matter of the sanctity of the confessional? As I understand, that only applies to priests. And I can’t imagine Miss Lennox wouldn’t want you to share what she told you if it would help bring her killer to justice.”
“Whose justice?” she asked.
I stared at her, once more caught off guard by her words, though this time it might have been the tightening in her voice—the first sign of real emotion I’d seen her exhibit during this entire conversation—that disconcerted me.
“Because ye must realize dat sometimes what society views as justice might not be the same ting as what the Lord does.”
“And you’re only interested in the Lord’s justice?” I guessed.
The corner of her mouth quirked. “Ah, but I didn’t say dat now, did I?”
“But as a nun . . .”
“I’m to seek the Lord’s will and righteousness? Aye. And I do. Dat’s why I said I wouldn’t share Miss Lennox’s professions yet. First, I must pray.”
I watched as she turned to pick up a stack of sketchbooks from the shelf of a bookcase, and began to stroll through the tables, laying them out. For her, it seemed the matter was closed, at least for the moment, but not for me. I fisted my hands in frustration, deciding to try a different tactic.
“It bothered you that Miss Lennox’s veil had been removed, didn’t it? I could see it in your eyes.”
She did not look up from what she was doing, but her mouth pressed into a line. “Yes.”
“Why? It somehow seemed quite significant to you.”
As Death Draws Near Page 11
