Crime in the Convent

by Catherine Moloney

  Noakes too was looking extremely shaken, as though he could still hear the hysterical screams of Saddington’s wife – peal upon peal echoing around the forecourt like the sound made by an animal come to slaughter.

  Of course, that’s what it was, the little cemetery where they had seen the sarcophagus. A charnel house where the bones of generations of priests were heaped upon each other. In that sense, Saddington’s grave was hardly a ‘fine and private place’.

  Markham shuddered. There was horror in the glare of the sun.

  ‘Let’s go back inside for a minute.’

  Despite the hearse and the stretcher, he felt as though he was looking at a theatre set made of cardboard. As though he was being pushed into the stalls with an orchestra pit between him and reality. Perhaps the world would turn the right way up once he sat down.

  Indoors, though prisms of light still refracted dizzyingly from the stained glass windows, the church was filled with long, and growing, shadows. Markham had an overwhelming sense of gloom, as though something else was gathering at the edges of the day, crouching ready to make its onslaught.

  Where was Nicholas Saddington now, he wondered. Heaven? Hell? Or trapped in some shadowy netherworld, between the two?

  One thing was certain. The organist had died hard. Markham flinched as he recalled the torn and bleeding fingernails which testified to the man’s desperate attempts to escape.

  ‘The poor bastard. He didn’t get into that thing by himself, did he, Guv?’ Noakes’s lower lip was thrust out, like a small boy working on a puzzle. ‘I mean, it wasn’t a case of hide and seek gone wrong or owt like that…. Someone clobbered him over the head and dumped him.’

  ‘Yes, there was an ugly head wound, so he must have been knocked unconscious first.’

  The stone walls seemed to change their voices, so that what came back to them sounded altered, sibilant. As though the church had somehow twisted their words to magnify the feeling. The fear.

  As they sat there, the darkness and silence felt so deep that Markham had the sensation of both falling and floating.

  Deep breath in, he instructed his body. Deep breath out.

  Beside him, Noakes was preternaturally still, not wanting even to disturb the air around them.

  The DI looked slowly round the church, as though to decipher a hidden message. On the walls, the stations of the cross brooded as before, while warrior saints gazed down sternly from their stained glass windows. What had they seen? What could they tell?

  Markham looked up at the jutting corbels beneath the rafters. Wheeling, burning angels.

  There were fallen angels too, he reflected. ‘Create the angel and you create the devil.’

  Had some malignant emotion slipped the leash to hide itself within these cloistered precincts like the serpent slithering through Eden? Should they be looking for a renegade religious? Or was St Cecilia’s a convenient camouflage for murders which had their roots far back in the past?

  He felt a familiar lick of rage and welcomed it. Nicholas Saddington’s appearance and manner had not been prepossessing, but his end was gruesome beyond imagining.

  The DI contemplated the stained glass windows above the high altar, shot through with ruby, emerald and topaz. Wherever Sister Felicity and Nicholas Saddington now resided – whether in some celestial city of the rainbow or another realm – he meant to see that they obtained justice.

  A short time later, with St Cecilia’s perimeter secured, Markham and Noakes sat in the monastery parlour waiting to speak with the rector.

  ‘These places are all the same, aren’t they?’ Noakes muttered, looking around the small room which seemed swamped by its red Turkey carpet and baroque furnishings – a large round rosewood table, with five straight-backed chairs crowded round it, and a mahogany sideboard heaving with musty religious texts. He pointed at a plaster statue of some quivering saint or other which looked down at them from on top of the sideboard. ‘I mean, there’s no getting away from ’em, is there? Jus’ like the convent. An’ they’ve got ’em in the corridors too…. Like holy traffic signs or summat.’ He was on a riff now. ‘No need for satnav. Turn right at Our Lady, left at Saint Joseph, straight on past blooming St Cecilia.’

  ‘Shut up, Noakesy,’ Markham said. ‘At least the view’s pretty.’

  He walked across to the open mullioned window. The rear garden was indeed idyllic, its well-manicured lawns criss-crossed by gravelled paths. An alley of chestnut trees beckoned enticingly in the distance with its bosky verdure, and the soft breeze was like wine. Wide spaced arcades enclosed a red-tiled cloister garth, which bordered the garden on three sides, screened at its farthest extent by the chestnut trees. Tall lilies and fragrant roses shone against the walls. For all the horror of the recent discovery, an atmosphere of peace reigned.

  ‘Ah, Inspector. I see you are admiring our cloister.’

  The rector, accompanied by Father Calvert, had slipped noiselessly into the room.

  ‘According to monastic tradition, the cloister is the heart of the monastery where the presence of God is particularly felt. In two days’ time, the community will process round it with lighted candles before carrying Father Thomas to our cemetery.’ He paused before adding gently, ‘As one of the order’s benefactors, his remains would normally have been interred in a position of honour beneath the high altar, but in his humility he requested a simpler resting place.’

  Father Calvert softly intoned, ‘“Lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land.”’

  The Office of the Dead.

  If the rector had himself under control, his deputy was clearly struggling. As he murmured the words which would accompany Father Thomas to his final resting place, Father Calvert’s voice gave way. Reed-thin, he appeared almost translucent in the dim light of the parlour.

  Three deaths at St Cecilia’s in quick succession. One natural, the other two emphatically not. Little wonder that these elderly men were feeling the strain, thought Markham compassionately.

  Once they were seated, the DI wasted no time, feeling that plain speaking would be received by Father Hassett as a tribute of respect.

  ‘Clearly Nicholas Saddington had an enemy. Can either of you think of any reason why someone might have wanted to kill him?’

  A spasm of anguish crossed the rector’s face. He closed his eyes, and held his long slender hands up to his face like a mask, as though to erect a barrier between himself and a world where such violence was possible.

  Then the moment passed.

  The keen dark eyes held Markham’s.

  ‘Saddington was not popular in the parish, Inspector. Arrogant. A real three-tailed bashaw.’

  Father Hassett’s gaze did not drop as he added, ‘I had a few run-ins with him myself.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Oh, choice of music, the proportion of folk to classical music at the big services, that kind of thing. He was monumentally tactless and invariably rubbed people up the wrong way, so Austin and I were always having to pour oil on troubled waters.’

  The rector gave a sigh of exasperation.

  ‘Added to which, we weren’t inclined to take him at his own inflated estimate.’ There was a pause. ‘He felt we were ungrateful.’

  That would explain Valerie Saddington’s wild-eyed reaction earlier when Noakes tried to get her away from her husband’s body and into the monastery. ‘I’m not going anywhere near those creeps,’ she had shrieked. ‘They drained my Nick dry and no thanks for it.’ In the end, the local GP had to administer a sedative.

  ‘Ructions with the nuns?’ Markham asked.

  ‘Oh, any number. Saddington insulted everyone as a matter of course.’ The rector smiled wearily. ‘He was no respecter of persons.’

  Noakes looked at the statue on top of the sideboard as though for inspiration. ‘What about money?’ he enquired bluntly. ‘Was he greedy?’


  ‘You mean was he capable of blackmailing Sister Felicity’s murderer, assuming he was killed for something he knew or saw?’ The rector gave the question due consideration. ‘It’s possible,’ he conceded finally. ‘Though he’d more likely have preferred the role of local hero who helped Bromgrove’s finest get their man.’

  ‘Or woman,’ said the DS dourly.

  Father Hassett gave a dignified bow though looked somewhat scandalized at the suggestion. His deputy, meanwhile, looked sick.

  Markham decided to wind things up. There were any number of possibilities to consider. In the meantime, DCI Sidney was sure to be raising merry hell back at base. To lose one parishioner might be regarded as a misfortune, to lose two looked like carelessness. Though he imagined Slimy Sid would put it more pungently.

  He nodded to Noakes and they got to their feet, the two priests following suit.

  ‘One last thing,’ he said, almost as an afterthought. ‘Was there anything in Saddington’s domestic circumstances that might be relevant?’

  An infinitesimal lifting of Father Hassett’s strong brows. And then they settled back into place.

  ‘There was a disabled son who died at eight or nine,’ the rector replied quietly. ‘Saddington wanted his wife to have a termination when they found out the baby would be born disabled, but she went ahead with the pregnancy.’ He looked distinctly uncomfortable with the turn the interview had taken. ‘I imagine this caused a certain amount of tension in the marriage, but they appeared to have weathered it.’

  At that moment, the door opened and an extraordinarily handsome young priest entered the room.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t realize there was anyone in here.’ The intruder made as though to retreat. ‘I was just looking for Butler’s Lives of the Saints.’ With self-deprecating charm, he added, ‘Some homework for this Sunday’s sermon.’

  ‘That’s quite all right, Father.’ The rector sounded relieved at the interruption. Politely he made the introductions. ‘Gentlemen, this is Father Reynolds.’ Turning to the newcomer, ‘Cyril, Inspector Markham and Sergeant Noakes from Bromgrove CID.’

  Reynolds. Now why did that name ring a bell? Oh yes, the Richard Chamberlain lookalike. The one Sister Felicity had taken aside for the proverbial quiet word.

  From the way he was staring, his mouth agape, Noakes was clearly disconcerted by Father Reynolds’ film star good looks, his gaze travelling from the dark wavy hair which fell artistically over the priest’s forehead in a widow’s peak, down past the high cheekbones to the full lipped mouth above a well moulded chin. His confrères appeared all the dimmer and more faded by contrast, their faces drained and exhausted, the flesh a little slack, almost feminine. They were perhaps not insensible to the unflattering comparison, but it was clear an easy camaraderie and affection existed between the three men.

  ‘Father Reynolds has worked wonders with St Cecilia’s youth,’ the rector said warmly. ‘Bringing them back to the church.’

  It was clear from the salacious expression on Noakes’s face what he was thinking. Hordes of young lasses, no doubt. Probably lads too, with looks like that.

  ‘What about when they get a crush on you?’ he asked.

  Oh God, subtle as a hand grenade. But Father Reynolds handled the blunt enquiry gracefully.

  ‘We’re called to celibacy, Sergeant. I won’t pretend it’s always easy, but there’s training in what to expect and plenty of sound advice on hand.’

  ‘Bit of a learning curve then?’ Noakes continued stubbornly.

  The young priest was unruffled. ‘We’re all learning till the day we die, Sergeant,’ he said mildly.

  ‘Talking of death, what about Nicholas Saddington? Did he ever put his oar in?’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t quite follow. Aren’t you here about Sister Felicity?’ The other was thrown off balance, as Noakes no doubt intended.

  The rector quickly interposed. ‘There’s been another tragedy, Cyril. Mr Saddington’s body was discovered earlier.’ He reached out a steadying hand. ‘It looks like murder.’

  The young priest instinctively crossed himself, his eyes suddenly blank.

  ‘But how? Why?’

  ‘I’ll be making an announcement to the community shortly.’

  The DI noticed that Father Calvert was swaying on his feet.

  ‘We’ll leave you to it,’ he said. ‘No, don’t bother to show us out. Sergeant Noakes and I know the way.’

  Back outside, Markham looked up at the sky. The clouds had an ominous look, white upon grey, grey upon black, while the sultry air presaged a storm.

  But the lightning, when it came, simply snaked slowly in an orange trickle down a tapioca sky. As though to match the hellbroth slowly brewing at St Cecilia’s.

  ‘Back to the station, Guv?’ Noakes grunted.

  ‘You can hold the fort, Sergeant. Tell Sl – DCI Sidney I’m following up enquiries, whatever it takes to buy us some time. Talk about setting up a press conference, that should do the trick.’

  ‘Can I drop you, Guv?’

  ‘Yes. Marsh Lane Gym. A few rounds in the ring should help to clear my head.’

  ‘Righto. Remember, “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.”’

  ‘I’ll be sure to bear that in mind, Noakes.’

  Markham settled into his seat. ‘You certainly didn’t waste any time back there getting down to the nitty-gritty.’ There was a sardonic note in his voice.

  ‘Eh?’ Noakes looked wary.

  ‘Temptations of the flesh. S-E-X. Masterly.’

  ‘I’m allergic to all them poncey types. Too good to be true, if you ask me.’

  ‘I can always count on you to tell it like it is.’

  Noakes smiled with becoming modesty. ‘Reckon it’s a knack, boss,’ he said.

  An hour later, the DI was recovering from his exertions in the euphemistically entitled ‘sauna’ at ‘Doggie’ Dickerson’s Gym where Bromgrove Police Boxing Club had its unofficial headquarters. In reality, this was simply a shower room marginally less mildewed and fetid than the rest of the premises, steaminess being guaranteed by lack of a functioning window.

  As Markham sat there, brooding, a towel round his hips, Doggie came and sat on the bench opposite. Like some sort of father confessor, he thought with amusement, though anything less sanctified than the old reprobate’s seedy appearance could scarcely be imagined. With what looked like a horsehair wig askew on his head, yellow fang-like teeth, nicotine stained fingers, decaying tracksuit and bloodshot eyes that offered eloquent testimony to his fondness for the hard stuff, the proprietor was the stuff of nightmares. Hammer House of Horror. But for all that, the gym was a favourite haunt of Bromgrove CID and the local criminal fraternity alike. Within its grimy portals, an unofficial truce operated, officers slugging it out without enquiring too closely into the antecedents of their sparring partners. Certainly, Markham preferred Doggie’s sweaty den to anything else Bromgrove had to offer. Its dingy authenticity somehow soothed him, whereas he felt alien and out of place in such temples of perfection as Bodysculpt and Beat the Heat. There was even something perversely satisfying about the proprietor’s startling lack of aesthetic allure.

  ‘Nuns, eh,’ Doggie said laconically out of the corner of his mouth, ever ready to enter into patrons’ professional concerns.

  Markham was somewhat at a loss how to respond to this opening gambit.

  ‘What’s your take on them then, Doggie?’

  ‘T’ain’t natural, women being cooped up like that together wi’out any men.’

  ‘Some of them prefer to live like that. Choose it.’

  ‘It’s not healthy, ’Spector, you mark my words.’ Time for some deep philosophy. ‘Like when two women can’t share a kitchen. My ex an’ the mother-in-law nearly come to blows over it.’

  While Markham was still boggling at the notion of his interlocutor having persuaded any woman to embark on the path of matrimony, the other repeated with lip-smacking gusto, ‘T’ain’t natural.�
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  ‘Well, thanks for that, Doggie. I’ll bear it in mind.’

  When it came to gender politics, the DI suspected that Doggie and DS George Noakes would be in perfect harmony.

  Much gratified, the proprietor bestowed a snaggle-toothed smile on his ‘fav’rite ’spector’ and shambled off.

  Markham closed his eyes. Just two more minutes and then back to the station for a different kind of bob and weave.

  Later that evening, as Olivia lay sprawled full length on the living room carpet next to his armchair, Markham shared Doggie’s forensic insights, to her great glee.

  ‘Priceless,’ she gurgled. Then, more seriously, ‘Your guru may have a point, though.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, “the female of the species is more deadly than the male.”’

  ‘Trust you to use Kipling against me!’

  ‘I was just being facetious, sweetheart.’ Propped up on her elbows, Olivia worked through her thoughts.

  ‘Sister Felicity was so good, I don’t see how any of the other nuns could have hated her.’

  ‘Genuine goodness can be threatening to those at the opposite end of the spectrum.’

  ‘But Gil, they’re all practically living saints up there in the convent.’ She grimaced reminiscently. ‘Though admittedly, Mother Clare can be hard going.’ Restlessly, she plucked at a carpet tassel. ‘Honestly, I don’t think there’s anything evil lurking there.’

  How often had he heard that, Markham thought.

  He pushed away the images that came into his head.

  The monster under the bed. The monster in the closet. The monster in the shadows. The monster in the silence…

  With the mercurialness that was part of her charm, Olivia was now describing her visit to view Father Thomas.

  ‘I mean, I ask you. Sweet Dreams! Only in Bromgrove would they call a funeral parlour that!’

  Markham laughed. ‘All in the worst possible taste, eh.’

  ‘Pretty much.’ Her face fell. ‘Oh Gil, it was awful. What was in the coffin bore no resemblance to him. The most ludicrous thing about it was the way his face had been literally painted.’ Then she gave a tremulous smile. ‘With all the makeup, he looked like a drag artiste.’