The Quick and the Dead (A Sister Agnes Mystery)

by Alison Joseph

  ‘Wh-why,’ Agnes whispered, between breaths, ‘why the hurry?’

  ‘I knew she’d be up there tonight. I sat and thought about whether to bring you, and making the decision delayed me,’ he whispered back. He waited for his breathing to settle, then said to her, ‘One thing you must promise me now. Not a word to a soul, OK? I’m breaking the rules for you.’

  She nodded, and they set off again, their shortening shadows scudding at their feet. She realised, as the landscape became hillier and they began to climb, that they were near the spring, and straining her eyes she could see the glint of the factory over the next hill. Bill, following her gaze, smiled and nodded.

  ‘Emily’s land,’ he said.

  They hurried on, skirting the edge of the next field, keeping close to the woodland until the trees gave out and they were on open hillside, scrunching stubble underfoot. The tall steel fence of Richard Witham’s bottling plant rose up ahead of them, its spikes sharpened by the moonlight. Bill led her past the fence and up the side of Richard’s land, and after a while the hi-tech fencing stopped and was replaced by rusty old barbed wire hammered into a deep ditch. Panting, they walked along the side of this, until Bill stopped. Agnes saw that a huge hole had been cut in it. They didn’t go through the hole, but instead Bill led her past the factory and up the hill behind it. His pace was slower now, and after a while he stopped and looked back.

  The factory was laid out below them, beyond it the hills they had climbed, merging into the distant darkness of the forest. Bill surveyed the scene and smiled, then looked around.

  ‘Are we in time?’ Agnes asked.

  He nodded, and then walked a few feet away towards the tumbledown relic which Agnes had seen before, with Richard Witham. ‘Emily’s house?’ she whispered, and Bill nodded. They crouched down behind the wall. Between the fragments of stone, they could see the field sloping away from them.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ Agnes breathed.

  Bill held her gaze. ‘I’m taking a big risk here. If it wasn’t you I wouldn’t bother. So, no questions, now or later. Promise?’

  Agnes chewed her lip. Reluctantly she nodded. She had no choice. She felt a surge of anger at his ridiculous sense of drama. Presumably he knew what to expect, which meant that all along he’d known more about Emily Quislan than he’d ever told her. And there he was pretending the murders were just unfortunate random incidents. Her thoughts stopped dead at the sound of someone approaching from lower down the hill, the footsteps clear in the still, warm night. Bill tensed next to her and settled lower behind the wall. The approaching tread was quick-paced, the rhythm of four feet rather than two. Down below them, a figure appeared from the trees; a woman on horseback. She was wearing a long dress, with a shawl tied at her neck, her hair was pinned up into a bonnet but long tendrils escaped and floated at her cheeks. The woman rode at a walk, straight-backed. Agnes saw that she was riding side-saddle.

  Horse and rider crossed the field at a stately pace. They seemed insubstantial in the moonlight, almost translucent. Eventually they disappeared behind the bottling plant, at the point, Agnes realised, where the hole had been cut in the fence.

  She turned to Bill, so amazed at what she’d just seen that she needed to ask him, needed him to say, ‘Yes, I saw it too.’

  Bill had gone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Agnes waited, still crouched behind the makeshift shelter. She listened, and waited. He’ll be back soon, she thought. She strained her eyes towards the spring, looking for movement, for the woman on horseback again, for Bill returning. There was nothing. Just the silence of the night, silence so penetrating that after a while it was peopled with noise, owls calling, bats whirring, distant footfalls. A horse’s whinny. She began to move towards the noise, her feet treading much too loudly through the field. The thought occurred to her, as she approached the bottling plant, that Bill was around somewhere, probably watching her. It’ll be more than a punch on the bloody nose, Agnes thought, when I next set eyes on him.

  Again, the horse’s whinny. Agnes dropped down to the level of the fence and followed it round, back to the hole in the barbed wire. She could hear the horse’s breathing now, and as she came round the corner she saw it there, a handsome chestnut mare, reins looped loosely through the fence. Agnes and the horse looked at each other, and then Agnes approached, calmly, her head slightly bowed. The horse didn’t move. At least, Agnes thought, this is no ghost. She began to feel calmer, reassured by the animal’s warm breathing. The horse raised her head suddenly, shifted, pawed the ground and whinnied again, and Agnes, realising her owner was approaching, looked around for a hiding-place. She ran back a few paces and jumped down into the ditch, pulling some branches of the hedge down over her head. She heard a woman’s voice.

  ‘Lady? You all right?’ The horse whinnied. ‘Was there someone there? Come on, it’s done, we’re going.’ Agnes peered through the branches and saw the young woman in nineteenth-century dress jump up lightly on to the horse’s back and, this time riding astride, set off in a canter, down the slope, away from the spring, the hooves fading away into the night.

  Silence again. A thin cloud passed across the moon. Agnes climbed out of the ditch and went to the hole in the fence. What was it she said was ‘done’? she wondered. And how safe was it to go and see? And where the hell was Bill?

  Agnes stooped down and looked at the hole in the barbed wire. The rough edges where it had been cut looked new. She stepped through it on to the tarmac. She walked quickly to the door that Richard had taken her through last Tuesday, and tried the handle. It was locked. She looked around, crept round the back of the building, checking all the time for signs of a break-in. At the back of the building she stopped. A plain wall, no windows, no doors. There was nothing useful she could do here. She hurried back to the fence, through the hole, retracing the path along the side of the field that she’d taken with Bill earlier that night.

  The moon had clouded over and was now beginning to sink in the sky. She entered the edge of the wood in virtual darkness. The anger that had kept her going, kept her striding through the fields, now began to fade, overwhelmed instead by fear. She walked hesitantly, feeling her way, wondering was this the path, or this … She stopped still, blinking, waiting for her eyes to get used to this new darkness. A rustle next to her made her jump and she found she was looking down into the golden eyes of a fox, she thought, seeing the bushy outline of his tail as he turned and fled. Agnes’s heart was racing. Oh God, she thought … Help me. She realised she could see the path ahead of her, so tentatively began to follow it, hoping it was the one that would lead her to the camp. She summoned up an image of Bill in an attempt to renew her rage, because anything was better than this fear, this irrational, gut-chilling fear. Lord keep me safe this night, she began, the first lines of a prayer she’d learned as a child, and now like a child lost in a fairy-tale forest she imagined witches and ghosts and wolves … But also, she remembered, forcing herself to walk on, in the picture-books of her childhood there was always Our Lord, a clear-eyed young man in flowing robe and sandals, with pre-Raphaelite blond hair. And it was He, she’d been taught, Who is with us in our darkest hour, Who will lead us to safety if only we ask Him. Agnes stopped walking. She stood still in the forest, in the darkness.

  She swallowed her fear, cleared her throat and murmured, ‘Our Father,’ hearing the words out loud against the rustle of the trees. ‘Our Father,’ she said again, reaching out for her God, her Saviour; this Jesus with the blond curls. The words whispered in the silence and then were gone. There is no fairy-tale, she thought. There are no witches, no ghosts, no wolves; and there sure as hell is no angel to gather me up into his arms. There is only fear.

  Agnes stood stock-still in the middle of the woods. I am afraid, she thought. That’s all. I refuse, she thought, setting off again along the path she dimly recalled, I refuse to be distracted by sentimental claptrap. I claim my fear as my own.

  She walked quickly,
twitching her nose at the smell of wood-smoke. Above her, through the branches, the sky was no longer dark. She turned her face towards the camp as the birds began to stir.

  *

  Agnes’s first sensation on waking in Rona’s bender much later that Saturday morning was rage. The very thought of Bill made her want to scream, shout, spit. That he’d abandoned her in a field in the middle of the night was bad enough. But worse than that was the thought that he’d known. He’d known about Emily Quislan all along, and he hadn’t bothered to tell her. Agnes’s second sensation, as she sat up, was a creaky aching in her legs, no doubt from the miles she’d covered. She yawned, looked around. The bender was empty, and there was bustle and shouting outside. At least she’d slept well. She thought about the woman on horseback up at the spring. It seemed to have happened a long time ago — but for Richard Witham it would only just have started. She grabbed her bag, emerged from the bender, waved at the assorted people busying themselves around the fire and under the trees and set off down the hill to the phone box in the village. Using Rona’s mobile would raise too many questions.

  She stuffed coins into the slot and dialled Fyffes Spring. ‘Hello, Richard?’ she said, hearing him answer.

  ‘Agnes? I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’

  ‘I’m at the road camp.’

  ‘Even better. Can you come here now?’

  ‘Of course. What’s happened?’

  ‘The water’s yellow. Dyed yellow. I don’t understand it. And the leaflets, bloody everywhere. The piece of paper said “I have returned to claim what is mine.” It was in neat capitals, photocopied.’

  ‘Have you called the police?’

  ‘They were here earlier, they’re coming back. Criminal damage and trespass, they say.’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘There’s a hole in the fence, down by the ditch side. And someone’s dug into the well itself and planted something down there, the water’s still coming out yellow. They must have been working on it over several days, without anyone noticing, to dig that deep. It’ll fade eventually, the dye’ll wash out … but that’s not the point.’

  *

  Richard was pale, his hair dishevelled. He sat down heavily in his chair. ‘I just keep thinking, if it wasn’t just dye, if it was … Agnes, why have they got it in for me? The nearest bottled water company is in Norfolk. I can’t see I’m treading on their toes …’

  Agnes said gently, ‘It’s not your competitors. It’s a person with a grudge. It’s not about you. It’s about this land. And can I use your loo?’

  Agnes stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair stood up comically, her face was filthy, one cheek was scratched and bloody, presumably from the barbed-wire ditch. She splashed cold water over herself, patted down her hair as best she could and then went back to Richard’s office. He was leaning forward awkwardly, staring into space.

  ‘I’m going to make you some strong, sweet tea. And then we’ll talk about a strategy,’ Agnes said.

  ‘It’s those anti-road people, it must be.’

  ‘No,’ Agnes said, ‘it isn’t.’

  ‘Try telling that to this lot.’ Richard indicated with his head the driveway, the police car which was pulling up in the car park. Agnes saw, to her relief, Charlie emerge from the car with another officer. She and Richard went out to meet them.

  ‘Don’t say “I told you so”,’ she said to Charlie. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Keeping an open mind at the moment. Could be anyone.’

  ‘What’s the dye?’

  ‘It seems to be fluorescein.’

  ‘Charlie —’

  ‘I know what you’re going to say. Your friends over the way there —’

  ‘They don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘You can say that. But Agnes —’

  ‘I’m going to tell you this before you start to put two and two together. Col, Col Hadley, the boy who died of asthma —’

  ‘The one with the yellow fingernails?’

  ‘Exactly. But he was separate from the Ark, really he was. You’ll learn nothing from them.’

  ‘Doesn’t stop us asking them, does it?’

  *

  Sheila opened the door with an air of suspicion, which lifted slightly on seeing Agnes.

  ‘Sure,’ she said, when Agnes asked if she could use the computer. ‘Come in. Help yourself. I’ll make some coffee.’ Agnes scrolled through the recent messages. There was nothing. If Emily was responsible for the damage at Fyffes Well, she hadn’t bothered to announce it to the world at large, or at least, to the world as it existed on the Net. Agnes switched off the machine and went back downstairs. Sheila was rather absently setting out mugs on the table.

  ‘Sheila — you OK?’

  ‘What — oh, yes. Fine.’

  ‘What is it? Is it Lily?’

  Sheila sat at the table. ‘I don’t know. After our talk on the phone — well, I think you’re right. She is talking about getting married.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Sixteen. Just.’

  ‘Who does she want to marry?’

  ‘She hasn’t said yet. But I think there is someone.’

  ‘Doesn’t she need your permission?’

  ‘Yes. Unless she elopes.’

  ‘She wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘She keeps going on at me, “Mum, lots of people get married at my age. And it’s what God wants from me.”’

  ‘By which she means it’s what Ross Turner wants. Where is she now?’

  ‘Upstairs. I think I heard her getting up. Darling?’ Sheila shouted. ‘Would you like some coffee?’ A moment later Lily appeared in the kitchen. She looked tired and pale. She took the mug her mother offered her and sat listlessly at the table.

  ‘How are you?’ Agnes asked her.

  ‘OK.’ She didn’t look up.

  ‘How’s Ross?’

  Lily raised her eyes from the table. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘I’ve met him, twice now. Nice man.’

  ‘He is. Yeah.’

  Agnes had a sudden idea. ‘And how’s Steven Murphy?’

  Lily was looking at her with interest. ‘Do you know him too?’

  ‘I’ve visited there. We religious people, we often mix between different faiths,’ Agnes said. ‘I gather you have a thriving youth group.’ She was aware of Sheila, hovering, listening.

  ‘It’s great,’ Lily said. ‘And new people are joining every day.’

  ‘It must be nice for you to meet like-minded people.’

  Lily nodded, brightening.

  ‘Better than having to go to pubs with your school friends, and clubs, things like that.’

  ‘When people haven’t heard the Good News, it makes things difficult,’ Lily said. ‘It just doesn’t work if people don’t respect the fact that I’m a Christian.’

  ‘No,’ Agnes said, wondering where to go from here. Sheila noisily put down her mug and left the room. Agnes could have hugged her.

  ‘And,’ Agnes tried, ‘with your mother not being —’

  ‘Oh, it’s so difficult,’ Lily blurted out. ‘I hate not being able to tell her things, and I envy Steven because his parents are part of the group, and —’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  Lily looked at Agnes, wide-eyed. Slowly, she nodded. ‘Maybe — I mean, if you could just talk to her. There’s someone I want her to meet, but there’s no point if she’s just going to be hostile to him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He’s called Jerry.’

  ‘I’ve met him too,’ Agnes said. How surprising, she thought. How strange that Ross should …

  ‘Have you?’ Lily was animated now, smiling. ‘When did you meet him?’

  ‘Oh, um, around, you know.’

  ‘Ross thinks we should get married. Poor Jerry, he’s suffered so much.’

  ‘S-sorry?’

  ‘He was going to marry Becky, but then, you know, she joined those people and Satan found her.’ />
  ‘Becky?’

  ‘And I just so wish Mum would come round and not harden her heart before the Lord, and it would just be brilliant if you could talk to her, as you believe and everything, maybe you could bring her along with you to our big meeting tomorrow in town, it’s going to be wonderful …’

  ‘Um, I think it might be better in a smaller group, don’t you, then she can really get to know everyone properly.’

  ‘Maybe, yes. Monday then, oh, no, that’s no good, they’re going to the police.’

  ‘The police? Who are?’

  ‘Jerry and Steven. They’ll be out all day. They’re taking Shirley to the police station.’

  ‘Becky’s mother?’

  ‘Yes. I’m probably not supposed to tell anyone, but she’s been so upset, and Steven’s mum, Elizabeth, they’ve got this plan because Becky’s dad is away on business for the day and Jerry’s going to borrow his cousin’s car. So that Shirley can, you know, see her. Maybe another day?’

  Agnes’s mind was racing. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘another day. I’m sure it’s best,’ she went on, collecting her thoughts, ‘if you don’t exclude your mother. Even if she seems hostile. Sometimes people take a while —’

  ‘For the Lord to work with their hearts. I know. I pray for her every day, you know.’

  *

  Driving back to London that evening, Agnes was aware of uneasy thoughts eddying around her. But one idea emerged with clarity. She must phone Elizabeth before Monday; and she must make sure to catch her on her own.

  *

  On Sunday Agnes stayed at home. She got up late, hearing the chimes from St Simeon’s calling the faithful to Mass, and resolutely ignoring them. She made coffee, and for a while sat at her desk in front of her notebook, staring at the scribbles she had made in it. Jerry, she thought. It didn’t make sense.

  At lunchtime she heard the phone ring, heard Julius leave a message.

  ‘Agnes, I will soon be forced to conclude that you’ve left us altogether and have gone with the Raggle-Taggle Gypsies. I will therefore have no choice but to emigrate in despair. If you’d like to stop me, you only have to give me a ring.’ Agnes smiled at the phone but did not pick it up.