Crime in the Convent

by Catherine Moloney

  He mustn’t jeopardize what they had by suspicion and possessiveness.

  But there was something else, he reflected uneasily.

  He felt sure Sister Felicity and Olivia had shared something – some secret complicity – which had sparked his girlfriend’s interest in St Cecilia’s. With the nun’s murder, it was as though something which threatened their placid existence had stirred into life, squatting like a baleful toad at the poolside. ‘God ought to be on the side of those who suffer,’ Olivia had said after one of her increasingly frequent visits to the church. ‘Not the sinners, surely,’ was his jokey response. ‘It’s they who suffer the most,’ came the unexpected reply.

  Was there some sin hidden in her past for which she sought to punish herself, he wondered. And, if so, would she ever share it with him?

  Noakes, belching happily, brought him back to the present.

  ‘What now, Guv?’

  ‘Let’s touch base with Doyle, then we’d better get over to St Cecilia’s for Father Thomas’s Requiem. You can drive.’

  ‘Right-o.’

  ‘And Noakes—’

  ‘Yes, boss?’

  ‘Let’s make it a nice unobtrusive arrival, shall we. None of your Formula One flourishes.’

  Father Thomas’s funeral rites had a tranquilizing effect on the DI.

  Candles glimmered palely in the watery summer sunshine streaming through the stained glass windows, and a mass of delphiniums shimmered in a cloudy blue haze.

  The community processed around the church and down the nave which had become a rainbow corridor, joyful colours playing on the coffin and mourners. The priests’ unaccompanied voices, surprisingly strong, soared into the rafters with buoyant resonance, and Markham felt a sudden release of tension, as though a tightness in his chest had dissolved and he was temporarily released from the bonds which confined him. This was the only reality. The chanting, the smell of burning candles and incense, the priests silhouetted like carvings on the altar. The strain vanished and he was free….

  Afterwards, he tried to analyse the experience, but the essence somehow eluded him. He supposed it had something to do with the unique character of the funeral, Father Thomas’s death being a cause for celebration as far as his confrères were concerned. Their brother had reached his final goal – eternal life with God – and nothing could trouble their joyful confidence.

  We give them back to you O God, who gave them to us. Not as the world gives do you give… For what you give you take not away. And what is yours is ours also if we are yours.

  It seemed to Markham that the priests seemed to lose their individuality, merging into one organism. Only the rector and his deputy stood out. Once again, the DI was struck by Father Calvert’s papery translucence and almost tottering gait, as though the weight of his ornate cope felt unbearably heavy. Father Hassett too seemed to have aged ten years overnight, but his strongly etched, gaunt features were indelibly stamped with a sense of mission as he spoke of the church’s unending quest to find the pearl of great price.

  Watching the community, the DI found it impossible to believe that there could be a ravening beast in the fold. Vested and whispering soft prayers. A beast in sheep’s clothing.

  And yet, Sister Felicity and Nicholas Saddington had been murdered in this church. Somehow, somewhere, a fissure ran through St Cecilia’s, and something evil lurked in the dark chasm.

  Proceedings concluded with a procession to the little cemetery, the priests carrying lighted candles and congregation falling in behind. Faces were pretty much a blur to Markham, though he spotted Muriel Noakes, majestic in fuchsia, her hat with monster quill designed to mark her out instantly as one used to command. Olivia had joined Mother Ursula and the nuns, gamely recalling Father Thomas’s endearing eccentricities to make them smile. Only Mother Clare declined to be charmed. There was something chilling to Markham in the unresponsive hardness of her face.

  Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.

  Earth rattled on the coffin lid like hail and it was over.

  ‘Right, Guv.’ Noakes was rubbing his hands with anticipatory relish. ‘Funerals always make me a bit peckish an’ the Guild’s doing eats.’ With low cunning he added, ‘The missus’ll expect me to show my face.’

  The funeral baked meats would be like sawdust in his mouth, Markham reflected gloomily, but at least there would be an opportunity to watch faces and intercept glances – the myriad unspoken messages that flashed between mourners might help to trap a murderer.

  ‘Lead on, Macduff.’

  But Noakes was already gone, lumbering towards the St Cecilia Building, with the light of battle in his eye. Markham could only pray that the gustatory challenge was tackled with some degree of decorum but suspected it was a forlorn hope, his sergeant being notorious for buffet demolition jobs on such occasions.

  The DI cast a last look at the little cemetery where the earth was already piled above Father Thomas. Then he flicked an invisible speck off his immaculate pinstripe and followed his colleague.

  Over on the other side of Bromgrove, in the somewhat comfortless kitchen of St Peter and St Paul’s vicarage, a young curate sat meditatively stirring his stewed cup of tea.

  The scent of Batty McDermott – nicotine blended with mulched compost – still lingered, but Edward Lightwood was oblivious to everything save the dilemma he faced.

  What to do about the tramp’s extraordinary tale?

  If what he had said was true, then a priest, penitent or someone belonging to St Cecilia’s was implicated in the murder of Sister Felicity, and quite probably that of the organist too.

  Despite the warmth of the day, he felt his skin prickle with goose bumps.

  There could be no question of taking this to Mr Crane. The vicar already thought he was a bleeding heart liberal with too much time for the likes of Batty.

  But there was something about the old man’s story which disturbed him, something which couldn’t easily be dismissed as the ramblings of a wino.

  It wouldn’t hurt to pay St Cecilia’s a visit. At a push, he could pass it off as ecumenical outreach or some such.

  Feeling better now that he had come to a decision, the curate headed off to his own flat in the vicarage. Time to send a carefully worded e-mail which would smooth his way.

  The die was cast.

  9

  Widening Ripples

  IT WAS GOING to be a scorcher, Edward Lightwood thought on Thursday morning as he sat on a pine bench in the church of St Peter and St Paul, gathering himself for the day ahead.

  Normally he felt enveloped by peace in the uncluttered barnlike space, with its simple oak altar, lectern and crucifix, light streaming down from the three unadorned windows behind the upper balcony and the great circular skylight above. No flummery and folderols. Nothing save man and his Maker.

  But today was different …

  He had passed a restless night, his dreams invaded by armies of demons from childhood fairy tales that he had not thought about in years. Hobyahs, goblins, witches, shape-shifting spirits, incubi whispering at his pillow. As though something foul was stirring in his subconscious.

  Drenched in sweat, the bed sheets tangled and soaking round his feet, he quickly got up and vigorously doused his face in cold water, rinsing away the scummy tide of panic. Then he made himself a cup of coffee and took it over to the living room window of his flat, watching as golden fingers of sunlight touched the Asda store, gilding its stark ugliness with a kind of grace.

  Gradually his heartbeat returned to normal and, Bible in hand, he slipped out of the flat into the church next door. Thursday mornings were earmarked for a ‘working breakfast’ with the vicar, but he needed time to pull himself together first …

  Lightwood let his mind drift as he watched bands of sunlight stipple the ceiling, the pattern of his thoughts mimicking their amorphous movement. Ideas materialized, then broke and dissolved in a slow interlacing, as though part of some strange magic lant
ern show.

  What to make of Batty’s story?

  The tramp had been sincere and quite lucid, with no sign that he’d been on a bender.

  There had been two murders at St Cecilia’s and, if what the old man told him was true (a big if), then someone had guilty knowledge.

  Was it credible that one of the community could be involved?

  A priest?

  The curate’s eyes wandered again to the light burnishing the roof above with shafts of gold so that it looked like the floor of heaven.

  Satan. Lucifer. The sun-bearer turned evil. A fallen glory.

  The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.

  No. It was unthinkable.

  What then?

  Could it have been a disturbed intruder? Someone being counselled? A psychiatric case?

  Batty was hardly a credible witness.

  An old vagrant whom most folk would dismiss as away with the fairies (not to mention Jack Daniels). Hadn’t even been sure if it was a man or woman he’d heard.

  And yet….

  Evil was abroad at St Cecilia’s and Batty McDermott relied on him to do something about it.

  He recalled the tramp’s undisguised relief and trusting acknowledgment – ‘I knew as you were the man to see me straight, Rev’rund.’ His gait was livelier too, as though he had put down a heavy load. Batty’s main priority in life was to avoid being organized and he found battles hard to fight, the curate thought compassionately. If ever Mrs Crane appeared on the horizon, he was sure to beat a hasty retreat, as before a standard bearer of dreaded officialdom. But Batty had a conscience, and counted on Lightwood, as a man of the cloth, to take the fight to the enemy.

  But who was the enemy?

  He breathed a quick prayer.

  From all blindness of heart; from pride, vain glory, and hypocrisy; from envy, hatred and malice, and all uncharitableness.

  Good Lord, deliver us.

  Then, reluctantly, he headed for the vicarage kitchen.

  ‘Outreach. St Cecilia’s. Hmmm … good idea.’

  The omens appeared favourable.

  Lightwood exhaled slowly.

  ‘Thanks, Frank,’ he said with studied casualness. ‘I thought from an ecumenical point of view it would strike the right note. The rector’s invited me round to the monastery this afternoon.’

  Mrs Crane, a buxom brunette with gleaming pageboy and air of former Head Girl, interrupted her bustling at the draining board to fix her husband’s curate with a shrewd eye.

  ‘Perhaps you’ll hear something about the murder investigation.’

  Lightwood winced.

  ‘Oh, I hardly think, Christine …’ Mr Crane gave an easy laugh. He was a large man with wide slab-like face, reminiscent of a boiled pudding, and strong-looking teeth that he liked to flash in a calculated display of orthodontics as though to compensate for his baldness.

  ‘Ecumenism’s all very well,’ his spouse said forcefully, plonking teapot and toast on the long refectory table, ‘but they’re a strange lot and no mistake.’

  Lightwood waited for further enlightenment which was not long in coming.

  ‘I don’t mean all the fuss and nonsense – they’re welcome to their lace and twiddles,’ Mrs Crane exclaimed, magnificently disdainful as she consigned centuries of High Church tradition to the dustbin. ‘But there’s something creepy and, well, fanatical, about that rector … about the whole lot of them, to be honest.’ Sitting down at the head of the table, she proceeded to slather her toast with marmalade. ‘Unbalanced. But, of course, what else can you expect with a celibate clergy?’ It was a rhetorical question.

  After a respectful pause, Mr Crane elaborated for the benefit of his new curate.

  ‘It’s been a hard time for Father Hassett. Dwindling vocations and congregations.’ He patted his paunch complacently. ‘Unlike our own experience.’

  Mrs Crane looked smug. ‘Well, I suppose it must be fairly galling for an ambitious man. Wasn’t he a globetrotting missionary or some such in his early days?’ A thought struck her. ‘Must be on their uppers too. There’ve been rumours about flogging the parish silver.’

  ‘I imagine their financial worries are at an end now with that bequest from Father Thomas Egerton.’ Mr Crane turned to his young assistant. ‘One of their number has just died. Came from a wealthy background and left everything to the Order,’ he explained. With a little frown of reproof, he said to his wife, ‘I’m sure any, er, business transactions are all above board.’

  ‘Oh, that rector’s sure to have the money men wrapped around his little finger,’ Mrs Crane opined darkly. ‘Who knows what’s going on under the surface. Regular little fiefdom from the sound of it.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t seem to have protected them from the local hooligans,’ her husband observed mildly.

  ‘Oh?’ Mrs Crane was arrested, a piece of toast halfway to her mouth.

  ‘They’ve had hate mail, I believe, and graffiti daubed on the side of the monastery.’

  ‘Church security, I’ll do a memo,’ she said with the brisk efficiency that had struck terror into the heart of Batty McDermott. ‘We can discuss it at the Parish Council tomorrow night under any other business. And another thing …’

  Looking at Mrs Crane’s uncongenial horsey features as she yakked on interminably, Lightwood found himself speculating about her love life with the vicar. Probably pretty low on her list of priorities, he reckoned. Right down there with ‘any other business’. Perhaps that’s why they were childless.

  Eventually, she appeared to run out of steam.

  Somewhat appalled by the direction his thoughts were taking, Lightwood adopted an expression of bushy-tailed interest as the vicar reached for his diary and a foolscap folder.

  Mr Crane cleared his throat.

  ‘Right, Edward.’ Heartily avuncular. ‘Any thoughts about a text for Saturday’s prayer group?’

  ‘I was thinking of Philippians 4.19. “But my God shall supply all your need, according to his riches in glory by Jesus Christ.”’

  Mrs Crane was overcome by a fit of mirth. Something about the curate’s choice of text, taken in conjunction with his forthcoming visit to St Cecilia’s, seemed to amuse her mightily.

  With a growing sense of mystification, he wondered what it was.

  Later that afternoon, Lightwood found himself walking slowly round St Cecilia’s.

  There was no-one else about and, with the church to himself, he made a leisurely circuit, drinking it all in.

  It was very peaceful. The thoughts that had been swarming through his mind like plankton were monetarily stilled as he savoured the smell of hassocks, old wood and the weightless dust of centuries.

  Lace and twiddles.

  Mrs Crane’s mocking words came back to him.

  He had somehow expected the place to reek of popery – flowers and tinsel, wax-lights and embroidery – but found the atmosphere strangely soothing. Surprisingly, he did not recoil from the ornateness, despite his own adherence to a Protestantism which kept fewer forms between man and God. The vicar’s wife would no doubt have considered the whole set-up ostentatious and thoroughly ‘peculiar’, but Lightwood experienced no surge of evangelical indignation. No, he decided, there was nothing which set his teeth on edge, and he found the little martyred saint in her reliquary rather touching than otherwise.

  Round and round he went, looking curiously at everything, feeling rather like a grey jackdaw which had found its way into an aviary tenanted by exotic birds of paradise.

  Finally, he took a seat and sank into a brown study.

  Envy, hatred and malice, and all uncharitableness.

  Where they were present, you had the ingredients of a crime.

  But he had no sense of them polluting this tranquil space.

  Murder was an eclipse, blotting out all that was sanctified, joyous and beautiful. Yet, even though he knew St Cecilia’s to be the site of two murders, Lightwood had the oddest s
ensation of buoyancy – as though he floated in a bubble of happiness, perfect and poised.

  He couldn’t identify the source of the feeling, couldn’t understand why he felt so completely at home, but was content simply to linger, wishing obscurely that he could protract the interlude to infinity.

  Finally, he tore himself away.

  In the monastery, it was the same unnerving sense of déjà vu. I must be coming down with something, he thought, surreptitiously running his finger around the inside of his clerical collar as he sat in the stuffy reception room which was reserved from time immemorial for visiting clergy.

  It could hardly be termed cosy, with heavy, dark-stained furniture and crocheted draperies. A marble mantelpiece dominated like the entrance to a tomb, and some artistically dubious holy pictures and framed photographs adorned the eau de nil walls. But at least there were no statues.

  Through the open window, he caught a glimpse of the garden, where the air was so hot it seemed to shimmer like a mirage. There was an autumn smell abroad. Someone had had a bonfire, the scent of wood-smoke carrying an agreeable aroma of harvest ripening. In the distance, he could see a cassocked figure wandering among the flowerbeds cutting an impatient swathe through a diaphanous curtain of insects.

  Again, that curious sensation of being at home….

  Suddenly, two priests were in the room, having appeared soundlessly as if out of nowhere.

  Introductions were made and coffee brought for the visitor.

  Conversation flowed more easily than Lightwood had expected. Relieved to find the rector and his deputy light years removed from the shifty prelates of anti-Catholic caricature, he reflected with no small satisfaction that Mrs Crane’s assessment was undoubtedly wide of the mark.

  And yet, at some point the atmosphere had imperceptibly darkened, a faint crackling tension creeping in, like the approach of a crepuscular summer storm.

  It was when he got around to Batty McDermott, he realized afterwards. Of course, the whole story seemed embarrassingly implausible, almost sacrilegious, when uttered in such a context. Like the ravings of a madman. Small wonder that his auditors had stiffened at such a preposterous rigmarole although, to their credit, they had listened attentively and Father Hassett promised gravely that he would personally investigate.