As Death Draws Near

by Anna Lee Huber

  I lifted a hand to finger my mother’s amethyst pendant, which she had given me just before she died, thinking of all that Mother Paul and Marsdale had said. “She must have been very lonely.”

  Something in my voice must have alerted him to the seriousness of my contemplation, for he turned to search my face. “Who? Miss Lennox?”

  “Having to keep all those doubts to herself, away from her family and friends. Or most of them. Presumably someone introduced her to Catholicism. One’s faith and religion are not easy things to grapple with. But to do so alone, and then make the astonishing decision to not only abandon the beliefs of her family, but also to give up the possibility of marriage and children, everything she’d been raised to hope for, and join a convent.” I shook my head in admiration. “That takes courage, conviction, and audacity.”

  “Yes, I suppose it does. Especially knowing the religion one is choosing is rather belittled if not outright despised among your peers.” His left eyebrow arched in mocking. “Though, at least as a Catholic, she would be worshipping the same God, studying the same scripture. Or nearly. I can’t imagine what her family would have done had she chosen to turn Turk.”

  I remained silent. I knew next to nothing about the Turkish people or their religion, but Gage had spent time in Greece fighting for their independence from the Ottoman Empire, so I suspected he knew a great deal more than most. In any case, he didn’t elaborate, instead returning to the matter at hand.

  “But wouldn’t Miss Lennox have found herself among friends here, like-minded women devoted to God?”

  “Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean it was any easier to confide in them. It’s not always easy to unlearn the habits one has adopted for one’s survival.” I felt his eyes on me, and turned to meet them. He would recognize I spoke from experience. “She might have felt more welcome to unburden herself, but that does not mean she was able to do so. Remember, the reverend mother told us she was quieter than most.”

  “Some people are naturally quiet.”

  “That’s true. And I assume she was.” I narrowed my eyes up at the top floor of the abbey, where the nuns’ cells were located. “But I think this was more. I think this was very deliberate. I think she was keeping a great deal locked inside her when she was supposed to be purging all and becoming one with Christ.” I turned to Gage suddenly. “Why? I can’t imagine she made the drastic choice to join a convent without doing a thorough amount of research. She can’t have been unaware of what was involved. So why the odd behavior? Why the secrecy?”

  “Maybe she was having a change of heart,” he suggested. “After all, imagining something is never the same as actually experiencing it. Perhaps she was worried she’d made a mistake.”

  I frowned, admitting he could be right. But somehow I felt there had to be more to it. The question was, what? And had it had anything to do with her death?

  I was still considering this as Bree emerged from the door below the stairs. She shook her head to our looks of query, so we did not waste further time with discussion. If she had anything to share, she did not want it done here. We all climbed into the carriage to set off down the drive. We’d been given permission to come and go as we pleased from the abbey, so there was no need to trouble any of the sisters to let us out of the gate.

  Gage slowed as we neared it and leaned closer. “Are you still willing to pay a visit to the Scullys?”

  I assured him I was and he passed me the reins as he jumped down to manage the gate. Once we were through, and Gage took control of the horses again, he turned the phaeton back toward the village. A short distance up the road, he turned into a narrow lane which led along the outer perimeter of the abbey’s wall.

  A grove of dark cedars hid what lay beyond, but once we passed the trees, we emerged into a small clearing which sheltered two cottages—a larger one near the road and a smaller one tucked back near another line of trees. It was a charming little spot, and for a moment I felt I had stumbled into a German fairy tale. There was the woodcutter’s cottage, and the tree stump with its ax sunk into it. The small plot of a garden over which a woman toiled. Except for the stone wall of the abbey running along its southern flank, grown thick with moss in places, we could have been deep in the Bavarian forest.

  The woman in the garden turned to stare at us as we disturbed her pleasant idyll in our smart yellow phaeton. It was no stretch of the imagination to think this was the first time she’d ever had visitors such as us, and she seemed momentarily stunned. Gage took his time as he set the break, climbed down, and turned to help me and then Bree out, giving her a chance to recover and make her way toward us.

  He offered her his most appealing smile. “Mrs. Scully, I presume?”

  She bobbed her head, her dark eyes watchful as she wiped her hands on an apron tied about her waist. Her gaze met Bree’s, and it was clear they were familiar with each other, probably from belowstairs at the abbey, where Mrs. Scully helped out.

  “May I say what a lovely prospect you have? One expects to see the seven dwarves emerge at any moment.”

  I glanced sideways at him, not surprised he’d had the same impression of this little glade.

  But it was clear Mrs. Scully had no idea to what he referred, though her pink cheeks proved she wasn’t immune to his allure or good looks. “No dwarves here,” she replied uncertainly. “Though we do be visited from time to time by a pair o’ troublesome fairies.”

  For a moment he seemed nonplussed, unable to form a reply, but then he beamed brighter. “Yes, I can imagine.”

  Bree’s head bowed, hiding a smile. If we had forgotten we were in Ireland, here was all the reminder we needed.

  Gage cleared his throat. “We’ve come from the abbey, and we wondered if you and your husband might have a moment to speak with us.”

  “Yer here about Miss Lennox?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded her head briskly, the brim of her floppy hat bobbing before her. “Then come an’ settle yourselves. Mr. Scully’ll be up shortly.”

  The creak of a hinge alerted us to the presence of someone else, and we turned to see there was an actual wooden door nestled among the moss and overhanging ivy covering the stone wall. It had opened to emit a man with stooping shoulders and a craggy face, followed by the redheaded lad we’d seen picking brambles earlier. This was Mr. Scully, I presumed. He barely spared us a glance. Davy Somers, however, was obviously flustered, for he allowed the door to slip from his fingers and slam shut. The sound was overloud in the quiet clearing filled with birdsong. The older man gave him a sharp glare.

  Introductions were made by Mrs. Scully, as her husband seemed incapable of emitting any sounds beyond grunts and Davy remained mute. A more welcoming pair I’d never met. I noted that from time to time Davy would also cast longing glances toward the smaller cottage on the other side of the glade, which I quickly surmised must be his own dwelling. That he did not, in fact, live with the Scullys. This seemed to be proven when Mrs. Scully ushered him after us toward their cottage.

  “Why don’t ye join us, Davy? Ye knew Miss Lennox, too.”

  “Not well,” he murmured, but followed us without further argument.

  The first floor of the cottage was divided into two rooms separated by a set of stairs. The door opened into a spotless kitchen, which smelled of herbs, onion, and the scent of meat cooking for their dinner. We were hurried through into the parlor and offered the few cushioned seats spaced about the room, while Mr. Scully and Davy carried in chairs from the table in the kitchen. Because of the shade of the overarching cedar trees outside, very little light filtered in through the small windows, which necessitated Mrs. Scully ordering Davy to light a few of the candles in the room.

  We made awkward small talk, or rather Gage did, while Mrs. Scully bustled about in the kitchen, toasting bread and making tea. I didn’t even think of refusing her hospitality, even though I would ra
ther not have partaken of their meager resources. It would have been unconscionably rude to rebuff their kindness, so we all endured the discomfort of Mr. Scully’s and Davy’s limited conversation, and then fell on Mrs. Scully’s offerings with an enthusiasm that made the old woman’s eyes gleam with pleasure.

  Once everyone was settled, cradling their cups of warm, watery tea, as there was only one table in the room positioned between me and Bree, Gage decided it was best not to waste any more time with idle chitchat. “As I’m sure you know, my wife and I are investigating the matter of Miss Lennox’s death, and we’d like to ask you a few questions. I assume you were all acquainted with her?”

  I studied each of their faces as they glanced at one another, perhaps uncertain who should answer first.

  “More or less,” Mr. Scully replied gruffly. Upon entering the house, he’d removed his hat to reveal thinning gray hair that stuck up in little clusters about his head, a bit like a tufted titmouse.

  “As I understand it, the reverend mother sent you to the constabulary after Miss Lennox’s body was discovered,” Gage asked, urging him to say more.

  “I was snorin’ here afore the fire wit the missus when they come a-knockin’. Would’ve sent Davy.” He turned his glare on the undergardener. “If he coulda been found.”

  Davy flushed, his already pink complexion turning to red.

  “Oh, now, ye can’t be blamin’ the lad for goin’ to have a pint on an evenin’,” Mrs. Scully protested more forcefully than seemed warranted. “You’d have been up at the Yellow House yerself, if’n ye hadn’t fallen’ asleep, sure ye would.”

  It was clear she felt some responsibility for the boy, motherly or otherwise, perhaps because he was an orphan. But it was just as apparent, Mr. Scully did not.

  “The lad’s never around when I’ve need of him,” he groused.

  “Dat’s not true.”

  He leaned forward to yell at her. “Don’t be tellin’ me ye forgot about dat great branch fallin’ on the roof? You was yellin’ like a banshee den.”

  “One other time,” she scoffed. “Dat doesn’t mean never.”

  This was plainly an argument they’d had a time or two before, and within Davy’s hearing if the way he was staring at his lap was any indication. I glanced at Gage in bewilderment, wondering how we could bring this unhelpful dispute to an end.

  Mercifully, Mr. Scully did so for us. “Well, he wasn’t here for us den, an’ he wasn’t here for Miss Lennox neither,” he declared with a bit more relish than the situation warranted.

  Davy’s face paled.

  “Hush now,” Mrs. Scully scolded, and then lowered her voice as if Davy wouldn’t be able to hear her. “Can ye not see the lad feels bad enough about Miss Lennox’s death? Ye don’t need to be addin’ to it.”

  Mr. Scully harrumphed.

  “Were you close to Miss Lennox?” I asked Davy gently, speaking into the strained silence that had descended.

  The question was innocent enough, but he blushed again as if I’d meant something quite different. That flush was the curse of his red hair. He couldn’t hide anything with a complexion like that. “Not really.” He glanced at Mrs. Scully as he spoke in a voice far softer than either of the Scullys and she nodded in encouragement, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as if to restrain herself.

  “But you liked her?” I guessed. “Because she was kind?”

  He shrugged, still not looking at me. “All the sisters are kind. But Miss Lennox, well, she didn’t know how to ignore people. I don’t tink she could.”

  And Davy, whether by accident or choice, was often ignored, I guessed.

  “Did she spend a great deal of time in the gardens?” I asked both men.

  Mr. Scully grunted and shrugged, making me suspect he didn’t pay much attention to who came and went through his domain, so long as they didn’t interfere with his work.

  Davy was more thoughtful. “I suppose so. I saw her often enough. Usually watchin’ the birds. Dat’s why she liked the orchard. Some fancy bird o’ hers nested there.”

  I nodded. So perhaps it was true enough that Miss Lennox liked birds, but I still didn’t believe that was the sole reason she’d left the abbey grounds.

  Neither did Gage, if the pensive gleam in his eyes was anything to judge by. “Did you ever see her leave the abbey through that hole in the wall in the orchard?”

  Davy hesitated and then shook his head. I noticed Mrs. Scully was twisting her napkin in her lap as she watched him.

  “Truly?” Gage asked doubtfully.

  Davy’s eyes flicked to his and then dropped to the floor. “I never saw her leavin’, but . . . I saw her standin’ next to the wall once, just starin’ out across the field.”

  “Did you ask her what she was doing?”

  He shook his head again. “But she saw me. An’ she said . . . she said how she wished she could get closer to dat beech tree by the pond. Dat there was a fisher king dat kept flittin’ just out o’ her reach.”

  “Fisher king?”

  “I tot she was speakin’ o’ Christ in some fancy way. But she laughed an’ told me they must’ve nested in the tree. Den I knew she meant birds.” His voice had gone hoarse near the end, and I wondered if he’d ever spoken so long before in his life.

  “She must’ve been talkin’ about the kingfishers,” Mrs. Scully chimed in helpfully, her voice sounding almost shrill compared to Davy’s low, somber tones.

  Davy nodded. “Dat’s the one.”

  “’Cept kingfishers don’t nest in trees. They make burrows in the riverbanks.”

  And if Miss Lennox had been as much of a bird lover as she portrayed, she would have known that. After all, kingfishers were plentiful enough in Ireland, and the brilliant blue feathers of the males made them one of the first birds a young enthusiast took an interest in.

  Davy looked up at this pronouncement. His pale eyes swimming with sudden distress.

  Sensing the lad needed a moment before being pressed further, Gage turned to Mrs. Scully. “What of you? Did you have much interaction with Miss Lennox?”

  “Nay,” she replied, her concerned gaze on Davy. “But in what little I did, she was always kind. Davy was right about dat.” Her mouth curled upward as if in remembrance. “Had a real sweet smile, she did.” Her voice broke at the end, and she reached up to dab at her eyes with a napkin.

  Which was all well and good, but it wasn’t getting us anywhere with our investigation. From all indications, someone had harmed Miss Lennox. Someone had killed her, whether on purpose or by accident. We couldn’t know which until we figured out who and why. And hearing about her sweet smile was not getting us any closer to knowing either.

  “The field where she was found, with the pond beyond,” Gage remarked. “How difficult is it to get to that spot?”

  “Not very,” Mrs. Scully said. “Ye can approach it from any number o’ directions.” She gestured toward Davy’s cottage. “Follow the abbey wall on down the lane past the trees an’ ye can reach it in ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “Do many people know of its existence?”

  “I should say so.” She sounded almost offended. “’Tis famous. Least in dese parts.”

  “Famous? What do you mean?”

  “’Twas the sight of a skirmish at the outbreak o’ the 1798 Uprising. Don’t be tellin’ me you’ve not heard of it? Grove Cottage used to stand just over dat rise beyond The Ponds, an’ dat’s where they used to plan . . .”

  “Moira,” Mr. Scully hissed.

  Her words stumbled to a halt as she turned to glare at him, but upon seeing the black look in his eyes, her irritation quickly turned to chagrin. Gage and I shared a look of our own.

  “Well, I’m sure you understand,” she explained with a careless wave of her hand. “’Tis long ago, an’ though famous in local lore, mayhap not elsewhere.”
>
  Gage passed me his teacup, which I set on the tray on the table at my opposite elbow. “Has it seen any more recent use?”

  “What? For meetings an’ such? Nay. ’Tis all but been forgotten,” Mrs. Scully scoffed.

  Did she not realize she couldn’t have it both ways? From the glare he sent her under his eyebrows, it was clear her husband had caught her slip. A place could not be both famous and all but forgotten, so which was it? Had she been exaggerating the importance of the site, or was she now trying to moderate its significance?

  “What about by Ribbonmen?”

  Unfamiliar with this term, I turned to look at Gage where he leaned forward in his chair and almost missed the Scullys’ reactions. Mrs. Scully’s knuckles turned white where she clasped them in her lap and Mr. Scully’s brow turned thunderous.

  “Don’t know what yer talkin’ ’bout,” he growled. “We’ve no Ribbonmen here.”

  “Are you sure?” Gage’s voice fairly dripped with skepticism.

  Mr. Scully sat taller, flexing his shoulders. “Aye, I’m sure. Do ye tink I don’t know me own neighbors?”

  Davy watched this confrontation with interest, waiting until both men fell silent before attempting to speak. “But I’ve seen men in dat field,” he declared, and then cowered under the look Mr. Scully threw his way.

  “When?” Gage hurriedly asked, trying to keep him talking before the gardener bullied him into silence.

  “Off an’ on for years. But . . . but a few weeks ago, I saw a gent in fancy clothes, like yours.” He nodded toward Gage’s buff trousers and midnight blue frock coat.

  “You saw a gentleman? Out in the field?”

  He nodded again.

  “Where exactly? What was he doing?”

  Davy’s eyes dropped and he shrugged. “By the pond. ’Twas lookin’ toward the abbey. Don’t know why.”