Blood on the Bones

by Evans, Geraldine

  ‘Anyway,’ he said as he rubbed eyes gritty from tiredness. ‘The issues of weight and strength aside, in the morning, I want you to make a start on checking out the past lives of the ladies. You might as well begin with the novice, Cecile and Teresa, the postulant.’ He threw Llewellyn a bone. 'As you said, given their ages, they're the ones most likely to have had recent entanglements of the masculine variety.

  'While you're starting that particular ball rolling, I shall, tomorrow morning, go and see Mother Catherine again and find out what she can tell me about this young man Father Kelly said visited in August enquiring about the late Sister Clare. I'd go tonight, but it's too late now. According to the list of their Offices that Mother Catherine gave me, they'll have finished their Great Silence and Compline by now and will be tucked up like good nuns in their hard and lonely little beds. I'd rather not end the first day by breaking my promise that I'd do my best to gear our questioning round their daily ritual.

  ‘But if I can't speak to Mother Catherine tonight, I can at least speak to the troops. I want you to round up as many of the team that you can find and tell them to meet me in the Incident Room in ten minutes. I just want a brief chat to see if any of them can throw any ideas into the hopper before we call it a night.’

  It was after ten o'clock already, Rafferty noted as the bleary-eyed team trooped into the Incident Room. ‘I know it's late,’ he told them as he stood in front of them. ‘I won't keep you long.’

  But five minutes later, no one had volunteered any thoughts on the case that might move them forward. To this end, he said, ‘I think what we have to ask ourselves, particularly, is why the body was buried in the grounds of the convent’ – he'd already given up on calling it a monastery as it didn't feel right.

  To his surprise, it was Timothy Smales who spoke up in response to his question, revealing that his improving ability wasn't restricted to learning how to preserve a crime scene. Clearly, he had grown sufficiently confident to voice an opinion in front of his more experienced colleagues.

  ‘Easy, guv,’ he said, glancing sideways at his colleagues, with a pleased little smile for his own knowingness. ‘Because it was one of the nuns that killed the man. They don't hardly go out, so what chance would they have to bury the body anywhere else?’

  Rafferty nodded. It was a valid point. Wasn't he thinking along the same lines himself? ‘So you think it's an inside job, Smales?’

  Smales nodded and looked to the rest of the team for support. When the young officer got no takers, he shuffled in his chair and swallowed past a suddenly too large Adam's apple. The expression behind the bum-fluff revealed his fear that he'd over-reached himself. But he plunged on.

  ‘Got to be.’ Smales reached for the support of formality. ‘Sir. I did some Tudor history at school. Some of the goings on at those convents and monasteries would make your blood run cold. That's why Henry VIII shut most of them down.’

  Rafferty rather thought Bluff King Hal's religious revolution had had more to do with the fact that he wanted their land and their wealth. A burning desire to usurp the authority of the Pope who had failed to grant his divorce, by giving him a timely poke in the eye, doubtless also figured strongly.

  But, aware that the rest of the team was watching him expectantly, waiting for him to reduce Smales to his usual inarticulate unconfident self and that he was waiting along with them, he surprised himself with the realisation that he couldn't correct the poor booby in front of everyone. Perhaps the religious atmosphere of the day had made him more kind and saintly?

  Or else, and, he admitted, far more likely, it was the picture he had in his mind of himself at a similar age, blurting out his opinion as a young, wet-behind-the-ears police constable at just another such gathering half a lifetime ago. It struck him that he must have looked and sounded an awful lot like Smales. He'd certainly never forget that feeling of being crushed under the weight of a superior's withering comments.

  So, instead of making Smales feel small, he made him feel tall, by saying, ‘That's a good point,’ and was rewarded with a huge grin.

  ‘Now.’ He looked around the assembled faces. ‘Has anyone else got a worthwhile observation to make?’

  But nobody had. Maybe they feared that, having deprived himself of sarcastic indulgence at Smales' expense, he would be looking for another sacrificial victim. But like Smales in his seeking of support, Rafferty also got no takers.

  He gave a wry smile. ‘OK. If, unlike young Smales, you haven't anything useful to contribute, you might as well call it a night. I shall want to you all here early tomorrow morning, so make sure you get sufficient beauty sleep.’

  As the team shuffled out, muttering surreptitiously amongst themselves, Llewellyn murmured in his ear, ‘You didn't tell them about the missing spare set of keys to the convent, sir.’

  ‘So I didn't.’ He called the team back, accompanied by smothered groans from several of them, and gave them this information before he dismissed them again.

  It was an hour later before Rafferty felt able to dismiss himself and go home. Abra, his partner, had given up waiting for his return and had gone to bed with a book and a glass of wine.

  As he shrugged off his clothes, dumped them in a heap on the floor and climbed in beside her, Rafferty glanced at the book and pulled a face as he saw that it was a hefty romance, and to judge from the cover, it had plenty of steam.

  ‘Carrying on your love life without me now, Abs?’ he asked plaintively.

  Abra shrugged. ‘What's a girl to do, when she's abandoned for yet another corpse?’ She put a marker on the page and closed the book. ‘Or at least, I presume that's what's kept you so busy you forgot to ring?’

  Ouch. ‘Sorry. Spare me a ‘hello’ kiss, at least, before you return to your fictional lover.’

  Abra tossed her long, thick, chestnut plait provocatively and gave a secret smile. ‘I think I might be able to manage that,’ she told him and she pecked his cheek with a teasingly light touch. ‘Maybe more than one.’ She kissed him again, on the lips this time.

  Although tired after the long, stressful day filled with assorted anxieties, Rafferty began to feel some of the strain dropping away. Abra always had the knack of doing that, even when she was cross with him – and God knew his job would give any woman plenty of reasons to be cross. But he knew that, with Abra, underneath, it was a reluctant crossness.

  Encouraged by the second kiss, Rafferty leant close and put an arm around her shoulders, while his other hand deftly flipped the book to his side of the bed and opened it at random.

  His gaze widened as he read a paragraph. ‘Raunchy,’ he commented. ‘Get you a little hot under the collar?’ he asked softly. Hopefully.

  ‘Just a tad,’ Abra admitted as she snuggled against his chest.

  ‘Fancy getting hotter?’

  ‘Yes, please, kind sir. I've only been sitting here, quietly steaming for the last hour, waiting for you to come home.’

  ‘Then wait no longer, my Little Hotpot.’

  They kissed. Soon, they were both pretty warm and the raunchy book fell unnoticed to the floor.

  Later, as they lay still in each others' arms, Abra returned to an earlier conversation.

  ‘So, tell me about the most recent competition for your attention.’

  ‘Our latest cadaver, you mean?’

  He felt her head nod against his chest. ‘Mm. You know how I love your romantic pillow-talk.’

  Rafferty gave a wry laugh. ‘God, what a silver-tongued smoothie I am. But you did ask. And I bet you'll never guess where this one's turned up. I confess, it gave me a bit of a turn when I heard.’

  Abra sighed, tossed her long, chestnut plait behind her shoulder, and said, ‘Just tell me, Joe. It's too late for guessing games.’

  ‘Our mystery male cadaver only turned up in the local RC convent of all places. In a shallow grave in their grounds. How do you like that for giving a man a Godly twist of the knife in the gut?’

  Confidently, he awai
ted the comfort of some Abra magic, But magic of the sympathetic sort came there none. Not even when he called her 'Abracadabra'. Instead she got a fit of the giggles.

  ‘It's not funny, Abs,’ he rebuked as her giggles threatened to turn to hysteria.

  ‘Oh, but it is,’ she contradicted, once she'd got herself back under control. ‘I hate to sound unfeeling and I admit it's clearly not funny from the dead man's point of view. But, that apart, I wish I'd seen your face when you got the news. Maybe I'll manage to witness it when you tell your ma all about it and how you're probably, even as I speak, plotting to fit one of those poor nuns up for the murder. Wouldn't want to miss such treats twice in one week.’

  Aghast, Rafferty stared at her. He'd been so busy and preoccupied all day, between the blackmail letter and their religiously located corpse, that he hadn't given a thought to that aspect of the case.

  But Abra was right, as he now realised with a sense of dismay. Sure as eggs were eggs, he could guarantee that his ma would have plenty to say when she heard the news. And when she discovered he regarded each and every one of the convent's community as a potential suspect none of her words was likely to be encouraging. And that wasn't even to bring her parish priest into the equation as another suspect.

  The thought that an unkindly God had just given the knife another determined twist ensured that he was still awake long into the night.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, Rafferty was out of the flat early, filled with a zeal so unusual that he hoped it wasn't an indication that the Catholic Church really was gaining an unwanted influence over him. Though he suspected that his zeal was at least partly to do with his desire to take himself out of his ma's reach before she read her morning newspaper.

  OK, he knew he would be unable to long avoid hearing her inevitable championing of the sisters, but as he could guess the likely content of his ma's comments, any delay was to be welcomed. He was certain to receive sufficient ear-bashing from the media on this case, without his ma joining in. And a delay would give him a chance to prepare a few arguments of his own.

  He just wished he could come up with a defence against the blackmailer. Or at least manage to figure out his or her identity and how he should proceed against the threat the blackmailer represented. On his arrival at the police station, he spent an hour and a half working his way through the reports he should have read the previous evening. Then he glanced at his watch, thankful to find that if he went along to see Mother Catherine now he wouldn't be interrupting anything vital. The general domestic and other chores started at nine and Rafferty thought it unlikely that even the Prioress would object to his interrupting the dusting.

  Behind the heavily tinted spectacles that protected her burn-damaged sight, Mother Catherine stared at Rafferty and repeated his question back at him. 'What happened to the man who visited us in August? I'm not sure I understand what you mean, inspector. Of course, I apologise for forgetting to mention him and his visit when you spoke to me before. I admit it slipped my mind. I suppose because I didn't think his visit relevant. As you said Father Kelly confirmed, this visitor left the premises at the same time he did.

  ‘But, certainly, I can tell you what the visitor wanted. He came to see me about poor Sister Clare. He told me she was a relative of his and that he had recently taken up an interest in researching his family tree.’

  She almost faltered then and Rafferty felt a twinge of guilt that he was forcing her to again relive her undoubtedly tragic experiences. But, to his relief, she continued bravely on.

  ‘I broke the sad news that she had died – been murdered – many years ago in Africa. Then he left.’

  She shrugged. 'I really don't know what else I can tell you. Sister Rita, who was escorting Father Kelly to the entrance as I opened my office door, showed my visitor out and, as far as I'm aware, he left with Father Kelly. As I didn't walk him to the front door myself, I can't swear that he actually left the premises, though I can't imagine that Sister Rita would have any reason to detain him. And she can't have done. As you've already said that Father Kelly confirmed she did escort this man to the gate and he left our premises, so I'm at a loss as to why you think I'm able to tell you any more about him.'

  ‘Well no, I don't particularly,’ Rafferty replied. ‘But you must understand, Mother, that if I'm to discover the identity of the dead man and find his murderer, I need to check out visitors to the convent who are of the same age range and gender.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I can see that. But surely his watch will be a help in identifying him? It looked expensive.’

  ‘We're looking into that aspect.’

  He had already arranged for a picture of the watch to be circulated to the media later today. He was hopeful some sharp-eyed member of the public might recognise it.

  To Rafferty's surprise, given his suspicion that this case had been created by the Almighty solely as a means to punish one of his back-sliding children, the dead man's watch did have an inscription on the back. Unfortunately, it was a simple one with no mention of surnames or dates. All it said was: 'To our dear son, Peter, on the occasion of his twenty-first birthday. From your loving parents'.

  Rafferty suspected that God was merely teasing him. He might have given him a watch with an inscription, but He'd made sure that the wording was no help at all.

  But he hadn't given up on it yet. The dead man's twenty-first birthday might well have occurred years earlier, but with such a pricey watch, there was still a chance they would get a lead on where it had been bought. They might even discover who had bought it. But he didn't allow himself to dwell too much on that possibility.

  ‘What about other visitors?’ he now asked the prioress. Although he felt another guilty twinge that he should seem to imply that she could have had a memory failure about this as well, he couldn't let such scruples deter him. ‘The sisters’ families, for instance. Have any of them visited recently?’

  She shook her head. 'You asked me that before and the answer's still 'No'. We have a sort of open day at Christmas and another at Easter. Those are the only occasions that families can visit. We don't encourage them to turn up out of the blue. It's too distracting. We all chose this life away from the world for its peace and contemplative aspects. If the world kept turning up on our doorstep whenever it chose, the whole point and meaning of our lives would be diminished.'

  Rafferty nodded and drew her back to their previous conversation. ‘This August visitor, I presume he had a name?’

  For the first time, Mother Catherine looked flustered, embarrassed even. ‘Yes, of course, but I didn't quite catch it. He had one of those quiet voices and my hearing isn't what it was. Maybe, as Sister Rita opened the front door to him and was told his business here, she will be able to tell you that?’

  Rafferty nodded. ‘Did he make an appointment to see you or did he just turn up on the off chance?’

  The Mother Superior's normally smooth brow puckered in thought. ‘I'm fairly sure he just turned up. Wait a moment. Let me check the diary. If he made an appointment, it would be in there.’

  She began rummaging in her desk, found the appointments diary and riffled through the pages till she reached the month of August. She shook her head. ‘There's nothing here.’

  Rafferty reached for the diary and checked through it himself. But she was correct. There was nothing.

  ‘I'm sorry I'm unable to be more help,’ she told him. ‘But I really don't think this chap can be one and the same as the dead man. How could he be, when our August visitor left? I'm sure that Sister Rita will be able to confirm it.’

  ‘Did he say why he had come here, specifically?’

  Mother Catherine nodded. ‘He wanted to speak to me personally, he said. To question me about Sister Clare. And although he admitted his earlier enquiries had revealed that she had died, I got the impression he hadn't really believed it. It was at his insistence that the diocesan offices told him where to find me so I could confirm the facts of her d
eath.’

  ‘Did this visitor say what his relationship with Sister Clare was? Or why he was searching for her only now, thirty years after her death?’

  Mother Catherine shook her head. ‘He didn't tell me what the relationship was,’ she explained. 'And I didn't like to pry. But, given his age, which must have been around the mid to late forties, as well as his general demeanour, I suspected he might have believed himself to be an illegitimate son of another family member. He seemed disinclined to believe that Sister Clare was dead. I suppose he assumed that, as one of the nuns who was in Africa at the time she was killed, I would be able to confirm the facts and maybe help him to accept them.'

  Rafferty, prompted into bluntness by what he considered Mother Catherine's careful skirting around the details, asked, ‘Is it possible that he could have been Sister Clare's illegitimate son?’

  Mother Catherine seemed shocked at this blunt suggestion. It took her a few seconds before she replied. The reply was an emphatic, ‘No. Certainly not. Whatever makes you think such a thing?’

  Rafferty apologised. ‘I'm sorry if I've offended you. It's just that Father Kelly told me this man seemed upset when he left. If, as you suggest, he was merely checking out his general family tree, and Sister Clare was his aunt, cousin, or whatever, I can't see why he should be so affected when her death was confirmed. But thank you, Mother, for your help.’ He stood up. ‘I'll have a word with Sister Rita as you suggested. I imagine I'll find her in the garden?’

  ‘Yes. She and Sister Benedicta are busy with the last of the fruit harvest in the orchard.’

  He bid her good morning and went in search of Sister Rita. As Mother Catherine had told him, she was hard at work in the garden with Sister Benedicta, collecting apples and pears and boxing them carefully for storage.