Crime in the Convent

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘An’ that’s why he came over all peculiar when he saw Lightwood standing next to some old photo of Father Thomas.’

  ‘You can imagine the shock.’ Whatever the man’s misdeeds, Markham felt empathy for his plight. ‘He and … another … get rid of that second will and commit murder to keep their secret safe. Then the beneficiary promptly rolls up at the monastery, large as life and twice as natural. No wonder Calvert nearly had a heart attack when he realized who Lightwood was. It must have felt like some sort of divine retribution.’

  ‘D’you reckon he told anyone?’

  ‘I think he told his fellow conspirator.’

  ‘Why’d he have to die, though?’

  Markham frowned.

  ‘Maybe he got cold feet about everything … Maybe he was going to confess … Maybe it was just too dangerous to let him live….’

  Noakes resumed scratching his chin.

  ‘Let me get this straight, Guv.’

  ‘Be my guest, Noakes.’

  The DS spoke slowly and deliberately like a child reciting its catechism.

  ‘Father Thomas had a kid nobody knew about. He was proper guilty about the lad. That’s why he made another will when he knew he was going to snuff it. The new will left everything to his son. Sister Felicity knew all about it cos of the counselling hoojah. That’s why she had a funny spell when Father Calvert said the money was going to the monastery.’ Noakes took a deep breath before dashing at his narrative, the finish line in sight. ‘Sister Felicity reckoned she knew who it was got rid of the will an’ decided to have a word. They got antsy an’ killed her. Saddington found out summat an’ tried to pull a stroke, so they had to kill him an’ all.’

  Markham nodded approval. ‘A lucid summary, Sergeant.’

  Noakes looked gratified.

  ‘’Course, we’re assumin’ Father Calvert helped with killing Sister Felicity and Saddington…’

  ‘I doubt he did the physical stuff. That would have required some strength and he looked like a stiff breeze would blow him over. No,’ said Markham slowly, ‘we can absolve him of that. But he had to have known.’ There was a pause, then he resumed with increasing conviction. ‘If he was involved in the cover-up about the will, then I think he went along with the rest for the sake of the order.’ And maybe someone else.

  ‘In for a penny…’

  ‘Literally.’ The DI’s face was grim.

  He thought of what Olivia had said about Satan showing Christ the kingdoms of the world. Having once foresworn himself, Father Calvert was on a downward spiral.

  The tectonic plates were shifting under Noakes’s feet. ‘The missus thinks the world of ’em all. Allus talked about Father Calvert like he was bleeding God Almighty.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘This’ll knock her sideways.’

  ‘Fallen angels, Noakes. Fallen angels.’

  ‘Eh?’ The DS looked at him in alarm, as though he suspected Markham had a touch of sunstroke.

  ‘That’s what Olivia said Father Calvert kept talking about. At the nuns’ retreat when he went “off message” and started spouting Paradise Lost at them.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Noakes’s face cleared. ‘When Mother Ursula thought he was going doolally.’

  ‘He was talking about goodness turning to evil. Though the nuns didn’t realize it, he meant himself.’ Speaking so softly that Noakes almost didn’t catch what he said, Markham added, ‘Poor tormented soul. The Devil came and he surrendered. After that, it was all up with him.’

  Being used to the guvnor’s eccentricities, Noakes gave it a few minutes then cleared his throat.

  ‘What’re you gonna tell Sl – DCI Sidney, boss?’

  A spark of angry impatience flared in the DI’s eyes.

  ‘Well, clearly Father Calvert didn’t voluntarily immolate himself on that bonfire, so the DCI’ll know it’s murder.’ Markham raked the thick black hair back from his forehead. ‘But there’s nothing to be gained from sharing our theories about wills and illegitimate offspring. We’ve got no concrete proof as yet. And,’ his face darkened, ‘that oily bishop will be all over us if he catches a whiff of clerical scandal.’

  He came to a decision.

  ‘Let’s go and find Lightwood.’ A dark thought stirred. ‘I think he could well be in danger.’

  They began to walk towards the convent building.

  Something about the guvnor’s resolute bearing prompted Noakes to ask, ‘Do you know who the killer is, boss?’

  ‘I suspect someone, Noakes. I hope to God I’m wrong, but …’ He left the sentence unfinished.

  And Noakes knew then it was game on.

  On arrival at St Peter and St Paul, Markham and Noakes made their way to the vicarage.

  ‘Not much to look at is it, Guv?’ The DS was clearly underwhelmed by the drab seventies building which had the air of an ex-local authority property. ‘Smack next to Asda an’ all.’

  ‘This is Austerity Britain, Sergeant, and clergy must be ready to share the privations of their flocks. Anyway,’ Markham added sardonically, ‘I imagined you’d be relieved at the absence of all those “nasty” Catholic concoctions.’ He made a quick inventory of the unprepossessing building set four-square in an equally uninteresting garden. Definitely not candlesticks-and-statuettes territory.

  ‘Well,’ the DS ventured stoutly, ‘I’m not against priests putting on a bit of a show. Like at St Mary’s Cathedral. Otherwise folk don’t think you’re up to much.’

  Typical Noakes. Not entirely indifferent to the seductive influence of papist flourishes.

  ‘I doubt we’ll find Mr Lightwood languishing in a cloud of incense,’ Markham observed dryly as they walked up the path to the front door.

  The doorbell was answered by Lightwood himself in an opennecked shirt and jeans, looking white and shaken, a towel round his shoulders and his right hand bandaged.

  Taking them through to a well-equipped but dreary kitchen, he waited till they were seated at the refectory table.

  ‘What happened?’ Noakes said without preamble.

  ‘Someone pushed me into the canal.’

  ‘What! Are you sure?’

  ‘I know it sounds far-fetched, Sergeant, but I’d gone for a walk…. Felt a bit shaky after I’d seen you at the monastery … It’s a good place to get away from … everyone.’ The redoubtable Mrs Crane, in particular, Markham guessed.

  ‘I often walk along the towpath. It’s very peaceful, only the odd jogger and dog walker.’

  ‘Did you see anyone along there this morning?’

  ‘That’s just it, Inspector, I had the place all to myself … then, next thing I knew, I felt a hard shove and a blow to the back of my neck. I twisted my head at the last minute, otherwise I’d have been knocked out.’

  The curate swallowed hard. The kitchen was cool and cavernous, but beads of sweat stood out on his upper lip.

  ‘Take your time.’

  ‘I went into the water but managed to scrabble to a mossy stretch of bank … just in front of the Sea Cadets’ hut …’

  The bandaged hand was jerking uncontrollably.

  ‘I was groggy … a bit concussed. As I was trying to heave myself out, someone stamped on my right hand. I lost my grip and started to slip back into the water … went right under. When I came back up, I saw him running away in the distance … probably reckoned he’d finished me off.’

  ‘Sounds like you had a narrow escape, mate.’

  ‘I’m a strong swimmer, Sergeant – lifeguard down the Leisure Centre at one time – otherwise I think I’d have drowned. He was a complete maniac….’

  ‘You say ‘he’.’

  ‘Well, they were wearing a dark tracksuit with the hood up, Inspector, so I couldn’t be sure.’ Lightwood’s face contorted with the effort to remember. ‘Tall and strong.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Sorry, it’s pretty much a blank apart from that.’

  Markham and Noakes exchanged glances.

  ‘My sergeant here is going
to make you some hot sweet tea, Mr Lightwood, for the shock. No, don’t trouble yourself,’ as the curate made to get up, ‘he’s a dab hand at requisitioning.’

  The DI turned to his subordinate. ‘Right, hustle up.’

  In no time, they were drinking tea and munching Hobnobs, consumption of biscuits being mandatory in the circumstances. ‘It’s not every day you almost drown,’ was how Noakes put it, accurately if not perhaps felicitously.

  ‘Where are the vicar and Mrs Crane?’ enquired Markham with studied casualness.

  ‘It’s the Marriage Preparation course this afternoon, Inspector,’ Lightwood replied with an air of unmistakeable relief, ‘so they won’t be back till later.’

  Markham took the bull by the horns.

  ‘Look, Mr Lightwood, I want you to tell us about your early life – family background, childhood, that kind of thing.’

  A stillness came over the young priest.

  ‘Is this something to do with St Cecilia’s … something to do with how Father Calvert reacted when I went around there?’ His voice was strained. ‘Something to do with the murders?’

  ‘What you tell us may hold the key to three murders, yes.’ Markham’s eyes and voice were steady, impelling confidence.

  ‘Is that why someone tried to finish me off today?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lightwood’s head reared back at the blunt response, then he recovered his composure.

  ‘I was adopted as a baby, inspector. My parents are Mike and Barbara Lightwood.’ Lightwood’s voice was warm with affection. ‘They got me via the Catholic Children’s Society.’

  Noakes came straight out with it. ‘Did you never try to track ’em down … your, er, natural parents?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose I could have.’ Lightwood’s tone was relaxed. ‘The information’s readily accessible these days, isn’t it?’ He turned thoughtful. ‘But over the years there’d been no informal contact with my birth family via social workers – no arrangements for “letterbox contact” or whatever they call it. I got the impression from my parents that they thought I was better off not knowing…. They never said anything specific, it was just an impression I had.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Maybe I had criminal antecedents, and they wanted me well out of it.’

  ‘How did they react to you wanting to be a priest?’

  ‘They were completely cool about it. I read Theology at Durham and then went to Ridley Hall, so it seemed like a natural progression. I remember overhearing Dad say “Heredity counts for something, then.” Mum explained afterwards that he’d been interested in the church himself at one time, so reckoned I was a chip off the old block.’

  Silence.

  Something in the atmosphere must have communicated itself to Lightwood.

  He stiffened.

  ‘You know who my birth parents are, don’t you?’

  ‘We know who your natural father was.’

  And Markham told him.

  Then it was time for the rest of the story.

  A long-lost son. Fraud. Murder.

  A violent tremor passed through Lightwood when Markham was finished. His eyes were full of pain, helpless. The tears would come later.

  ‘Poor Father Thomas,’ he said softly. ‘No wonder Mum and Dad didn’t want me to find out.’ He clenched his undamaged left hand. ‘And now three deaths.’ With ragged urgency, he pleaded, ‘Promise you’ll nail the bastard behind all of this.’ His eyes fastened on Markham’s. ‘I think you know who it is.’ The DI nodded gravely.

  Lightwood’s eyes cleared.

  ‘Why kill me?’

  ‘We’re not dealing with a rational mind here, Mr Lightwood.’ If we ever were. ‘And don’t forget, you’ve been asking awkward questions … sniffing around St Cecilia’s. Then there’s your resemblance to Father Thomas. If Father Calvert spotted it, why not others? Who knows but that your adoptive parents might come forward at some point to challenge the will?’

  Lightwood shook his head vehemently. ‘They’re well off. And anyway, it’s the last thing they’d do.’

  But Markham continued remorselessly, ‘The risks were too great, so you had to be eliminated. An anonymous mugging by a faceless drug addict or low-life, leaving you floating face down in Bromgrove Canal. The ideal solution.’

  Lightwood sat as though stunned. It was too much to take in.

  At that moment, Noakes’s mobile trilled. As he listened, his face telegraphed ‘There’s been a development.’

  Ending the call, the DS said only, ‘It was Doyle. They’ve found a diary.’

  ‘Father Calvert’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Five minutes later, they were walking towards the car.

  ‘Where did they find it?’

  ‘Stroke of luck really. He’d left it in the infirmary. There’s a sort of dresser thingy in there. You remember … with all kinds of tat from shrines and whatnot. Anyway, the diary was in one of the drawers. Brother Christopher was doing a clear out an’ found it.’

  ‘Almost as though Father Calvert knew something was going to happen to him.’

  ‘Yeah, spooky.’

  Events were moving fast.

  Markham got out his mobile and rang Olivia’s number. No answer. Must still be at the convent. He’d catch up with her later.

  ‘Get hold of Doyle. Tell him to put the church in lock-down and round up the community – we need all of them in one place.’

  Markham felt a sprinkling of sweat erupt on his face, which had suddenly turned cold and clammy.

  Those whom God wishes to destroy he first makes mad.

  Noakes concluded his call. ‘Doyle’s on it, boss.’

  ‘Right, let’s go. Blues and twos,’ the DI said hoarsely. ‘We’ve got a murderer to catch.’

  14

  Consummation

  OLIVIA HAD ALWAYS LOVED being in an empty church – before it filled, and the sighs, whispers and coughs of a fidgety congregation started up. When she was by herself, it was so much better.

  Sensing her need for solitude after viewing Sister Felicity’s coffin, Mother Bernadette had shooed her back out into the sunshine, insisting that she was more than capable of completing the library cataloguing by herself. Olivia hadn’t dared allude to the nun’s sciatica. It would have felt like lèse-majesté.

  Now, she slipped into St Cecilia’s vestibule, down the south aisle and past the statue of Saint Gerard Majella with its sorrowful eyes. Then into the confessional, on the penitent’s side where Sister Felicity’s body had been found.

  Olivia drew back the sliding screen. The mesh grille obscured the priest’s compartment. Peeping through the lattice, Olivia checked that it was empty. Then she settled herself on the simple wooden chair, resting her feet on the kneeler and shutting her eyes.

  Outside, the day was growing hot and busy – Bromgrove making its usual uproar – but inside the church all was cool, quiet and peaceful. She felt moment succeeding moment, like beads slipping through the hands of a nun praying her rosary.

  She thought of her friend.

  In the beginning, when she started coming to St Cecilia’s and the convent, Olivia had worried that she was overly swayed by externals – stained glass, incense, lace and embroidery, sonorous Latin cadences. But Sister Felicity only laughed. ‘Souls have complexions too,’ she said. ‘With your love of beauty, what could be more natural? Not for you an austere, Calvinistic God!’

  And for that, Olivia had loved her.

  She didn’t consciously pray now, just allowed herself to become one with the atmosphere – sacred, brooding, self-forgetful – like the little sanctuary lamp glowing out there in the darkness….

  Suddenly, behind her eyelids, Olivia saw an image of the dead nun reaching out to her, her expression fearful.

  Her eyes opened wide.

  Where had that come from?

  It felt like a warning.

  Just then, the heavy main door rattled and someone came into the vestibule.

  She held herself very stil
l, resenting the intrusion.

  But whoever it was didn’t come into the main body of the church. After a few minutes, she heard the oak door being secured from the outside and heavy footsteps retreating. This was followed by similar clanging and rattling on the far side of the sacristy. For some reason, the church was being shut up.

  As though under a spell, Olivia felt oddly untroubled at the thought of being locked in. Perversely, she almost enjoyed the idea that no-one knew where she was, not even Markham. Her mobile switched off, she leaned back against the back wall of the confessional, her heart keeping time once more with the creaking and rustling of the ancient timbers.

  Idly, her mind wandering, she recalled the angry exchange with Leo Wolfitt on the steps of the university earlier that day when she told him she was going to pay her respects to Sister Felicity. A slighting reference to the nun – trivial enough in itself – breached something in Olivia’s defences. ‘You’re too self-righteous for words,’ she had snapped, ‘playing cops and robbers and prancing about with your barmy army.’ Wolfitt and his henchman Ted Kelleher hadn’t taken kindly to the insult. ‘Of course, you’d know all about that,’ Wolfitt had snarled, ‘being a copper’s moll.’ From which she deduced that her relationship with Markham was out in the open. With her creative writing seminars, she suspected it would be a case of the law of diminishing returns from now on.

  She hadn’t mentioned the spat to Markham, who had shown an unwonted touchiness about Wolfitt. Perhaps with reason, she thought, recalling her increasing discomfort at the student’s predatory intensity. At first the attention had been flattering. But later, something about the unswerving traffic-light intensity of his gaze had been unsettling, while disparagement of Sister Felicity had been the last straw. No, Wolfitt’s likely withdrawal from her classes would come as a relief.

  Her thoughts drifted to Markham. Could she ever summon the courage to tell him about that long-ago abortion, she wondered. Surely, he would be shocked and bitterly disappointed that his ‘Rose’ didn’t smell as sweet as he had imagined.

  She knew that her lover had his own secrets. The violent stepfather. The child abuse. The mother who looked the other way.