The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries

by Carrie Bedford

  The apparition kept coming, emerging into the sunlight. I saw that it was a nun. My heart pounded. Was this another visitation like the one from my mother?

  “Mi dispiace,” the nun called out in Italian. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I didn’t expect anyone else to be up here.”

  She came up to me and took my hand. “Sono Chiara. E lei?”

  “My name’s Kate.”

  Hearing my Italian, she smiled.

  “Thank goodness. I don’t speak English. Will you come and sit with me?”

  She led me to the grassy area under the trees, set a basket on the ground and took out a bottle of water. “Here, have some of this.”

  The water was cool and fresh. I felt my heartbeat slowing back to normal.

  “I’m with the convent down in the village and I came to pick some herbs,” she said. “We make tea with the wild chamomile that grows up here.”

  The nun was in her sixties maybe, with dark brown eyes that twinkled under untended eyebrows. Her skin was peachy and soft and she seemed unaffected by her walk up the steep hill, in spite of her heavy black robe and head covering.

  She waited until I had finished drinking. “Do you want to tell me what it is that distresses you so much?”

  I shook my head. The nun was real, but I still felt dizzy and discombobulated.

  “I just need to rest for a minute or two,” I said.

  Sister Chiara patted my hand. “I’ll go pick my herbs and you rest here. Then we can walk down together.”

  She picked up the basket, walked a little further up the gravel road, and disappeared over the crest of the hill. I lay back, smelling the warm, crushed grass, listening to the busy drone of insects in the trees. Although I was exhausted enough to fall asleep, I forced myself to stay awake, to think about the sequence of events that had brought me back to this place. My mind jumped from one thing to another, like a rock skimming the surface of a lake. I thought of Aidan, but tried to push away the fear of what might happen to him, of Rebecca who was dead, and of Sophie, drowned like my brother Toby. My mother’s words echoed in my head. “Toby wants you to be happy.”

  A susurrus of cloth pulled me back to the present. Opening my eyes, I saw that Sister Chiara had returned and was settling herself on the grass a few feet away, pulling her robe down over dark stockings and heavy black lace-up shoes. The basket at her side was filled to the brim with small white flowers that looked like daisies. The distinctive scent of chamomile filled the warm air under the tree.

  “How are you feeling, dear?” the nun asked. Her voice was like her skin, soft and smooth.

  Sitting up, I crossed my legs in front of me. “Better, thanks,” I said. “I think the water helped. I hadn’t realized how steep that hill is.”

  The Sister’s eyes were dark and penetrating. “I think it was more than the climb that upset you,” she said.

  The thick, olive-laden branches above us cast filigreed shadows on the grass. I traced the pattern with my finger.

  “I’ve been having some problems recently,” I said. The words came out almost against my will. I had no intention of confessing all to this nun, however kindly and caring she seemed to be. While I was passionate about churches, I was less than enthusiastic about the religions they represented. An afternoon spent contemplating architectural details or gazing at an ancient fresco on a wall was my idea of heaven, and I knew the history of all the major churches in Tuscany. But I had never connected with a formal religion, with priests and confessionals. Everything I knew about nuns came from The Sound of Music.

  “You can see things you don’t want to see?” Sister Chiara spoke very softly.

  I stared at her. “What?”

  “Are you having, let me think how to explain it, visions?”

  “How on earth did you know?” I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around my legs, holding tight to myself, disconcerted by the nun’s insight.

  Sister Chiara shook her head. “I’m not sure. I can just tell when I look at someone what it is that burdens them. I’ve been able to do it since I was a child. Ultimately, that is what made me go into the convent. I found it hard to be out in public, seeing so many people weighed down by their affliction, whether it was sorrow, or pain, or guilt. Life in the convent is sufficiently secluded that I don’t have to face it every day. And of course, not everyone has a burden that I can discern.” She paused and sighed. “If I could help, perhaps I would have chosen to stay outside in the world and put my gift to some use. But all I can do is see. So I choose to pray for those souls instead.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it. The nun’s obvious pain at being unable to help in a more concrete way reflected my own.

  “Maybe I should join a convent too,” I joked. Sister Chiara smiled.

  I picked a few blades of grass and shredded them into tiny pieces, trying to gather my thoughts, which were as splintered as the fragments of green in my hand.

  “When did it start?” Sister Chiara asked.

  “About six weeks ago. It took me a while to realize what was happening. I can see auras that predict death. The first time was here at my Dad’s house. I saw the air rippling over Francesca’s head. I didn’t know what it meant at the time, but she died a week later.”

  “Francesca Brunetti?”

  “Yes, did you know her?”

  “Only slightly. Her cousin belongs to my order and Signora Brunetti visited the convent occasionally to bring fruit from her garden. She carried a heavy burden, with the loss of her son and her husband. May she rest in peace.” The nun made the sign of the cross over her chest.

  “Did anything specific happen that may have triggered this ability to see auras?” she asked.

  “I saw my mother right there.” I pointed at the place on the road where the car had stopped. “I talked to her and she hugged me.”

  “I’m not sure why that would…”

  “Because she had been dead for six months when I saw her,” I said.

  “Ah.”

  “Right.”

  “And her death was a great loss to you.”

  “Yes. I miss her so much. We all do.”

  Sister Chiara turned her face up to the sky, as though sunbathing. After a long silence, she looked back at me. “Was there someone else? Another loss?”

  I hesitated, unnerved by the nun’s ability to laser in on the very thing I’d been thinking about as I lay under the old tree.

  “My little brother, Toby,” I said finally. “He died when he was very small. I was too young at the time to truly understand the sorrow my mother had to endure. I mean, we all mourned him, but it was worst for my mother. I remember that she cried a lot of the time. She gave up working on her cookbooks. When I saw her…”

  I paused, clearing the lump that had caught in my throat. “When I saw her, she told me she is with Toby now and that he needs her.” A tear slid down my cheek. It tasted bitter in my mouth.

  “And why do you think you are responsible for Toby’s death?”

  I shifted uncomfortably on the grass. “Because it was my fault. He drowned when I was supposed to be watching him.”

  “Did your parents blame you?”

  “No, but they wouldn’t, would they? Not out loud at least.”

  “And you were how old when it happened?”

  “Ten.”

  Sister Chiara closed her eyes. The only sound was of the cicadas.

  “Unlike me, you can intervene, can you not?” she asked, opening her eyes.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “There was one where the aura went away, but it wasn’t my doing. He just changed his plans with no input from me. But my nephew has an aura and I don’t know if I can save him. It’s torture. I can’t exactly go round telling people they are going to die.”

  I was about to say more when Sister Chiara put her hands down on the grass and pushed herself to her feet.

  “Shall we start walking down? My Mother Superior will be wondering where I
am.”

  “But I was hoping you could help me!”

  Sister Chiara didn’t reply. She smoothed out the creases in her robe with her hands, picked up the basket and turned towards the gravel road.

  I jumped to my feet, feeling the blood prickle back into my feet and legs. Collecting the empty water bottle, I went after the nun, angry at the sudden lack of interest in my story. When were halfway down the hill, Sister Chiara stopped suddenly, her sensible shoes sliding on the gravel. Gesturing to me to follow her, we walked away from the road, in among the olive trees, passing around ancient specimens with twisted, scabrous trunks. The foliage was so dense that no birds nested here. It was eerily quiet and my breath sounded in my ears like the hiss of a steam engine. The nun came to a halt where the ground fell away in a steep stone-strewn drop to rolling fields beneath.

  “Have you ever seen this?” she asked, pointing down the side of the hill to a house that stood alone at the end of a long driveway. The house itself was unremarkable, but to one side of it lay a large and complex maze, its winding grass alleyways bordered by manicured cypress trees. From our viewpoint, it was easy to see the intricate network of paths with multiple dead ends. I gasped in surprise. Who would build and maintain such an elaborate structure?

  Reaching for Sister Chiara’s hand, I squeezed it, my chest filled with inexplicable emotion. I knew something of the history of mazes, from the legend of the Minoan labyrinth in Crete, to the proliferation of mazes and their images during the Renaissance. I had once walked the labyrinth on the floor of Chartres cathedral on a field trip from college. I surveyed the one below me. A multicursal maze of this kind, with its many choices of path and direction, represented a puzzle that must be solved in order for the maze walker to find a way out.

  We gazed at the labyrinth for some time while I tried to work out in my mind which path would lead to the exit. Each time I came to a dead end.

  “We should go,” said the Sister. She turned back towards the gravel road, swinging the basket, which sent out puffs of chamomile-scented air. I followed her reluctantly, wishing I had been able to look at the maze for longer. Sister Chiara walked quickly and with energy; I had to lengthen my stride to keep up. At the bottom of the hill, she turned right, away from the village. That was the way home for me too and we continued walking in silence. I had a hundred questions streaming through my head but didn’t know which one to ask. I suspected that Sister Chiara wouldn’t answer any of them.

  We passed a group of women who were returning from the market carrying canvas shopping bags that overflowed with fennel, radicchio and peppers. The women looked curiously at us, and murmured respectful greetings. An aura shimmered over the gray hair of the oldest in the group. I flinched when I saw it, as much because it reminded me that my ‘gift’ was still working as out of concern for the elderly nonna. Sister Chiara glanced at me and gave a slight nod of her head in acknowledgement, but said nothing.

  A hundred yards further along the road, Sister Chiara stopped at an arched green door set into a white stucco wall. Only a simple iron cross hanging at the top of the arch indicated that the convent lay on the other side. Beside the door hung a bell, its verdigris patina suggesting many years of service, but Chiara didn’t use it. She dug a key out of a pocket in her robe and unlocked the door, pushing it open. I glimpsed orderly paths running through trimmed lawns, which were flanked with pots of red and white flowers. Beyond the grass was a two-story stone building with a terracotta tile roof.

  I’d known that there was a convent attached to the village but had never thought about it before. It was strange to think that there was a whole community tucked away behind the walls just a few hundred yards from my father’s house. Most people only see what they expect to see, blissfully unaware of the hidden secrets that lie under the exposed surface of daily life. I craned my neck to see more of the building, but Sister Chiara stepped through the gate, blocking the view. For a moment, it appeared that she would walk away without speaking, but she turned to look at me, held out her hand and patted my arm.

  “Sister Chiara, what should I do?” I asked, sensing that I was about to be dismissed. “Can’t you give me some advice?”

  “You don’t need my help, my dear. The solution lies within you.”

  I stared at her. Her words sounded more New Age than Catholic. As if guessing what I was thinking, she laughed.

  “Oh, I could tell you that this is God’s way of testing you or that this is your cross to bear, but you don’t want to hear that and it wouldn’t help. The solution is in your own hands, or more accurately, your heart. I hope you will tell me when you find it.”

  “How will I reach you?” I asked, suddenly panicked at the thought of not seeing her again.

  “Just come and ring the bell. I will be here.” She leaned forward and kissed me on one cheek and then the other. “Alla prossima,” she said. “I will be thinking of you until we meet again.”

  28

  “I was getting worried about you.” My father had to shout over the roar of the coffee grinder. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I replied, taking espresso cups down from the cupboard. “I’m sorry I took so long. I think we missed the market.”

  “I don’t mind about the market. How did you do? Did you go up to the top of the hill?”

  He turned off the grinder and looked at me with concern. “Paolo’s here. He wanted to see you. I hope you don’t mind?”

  I got a third cup down and gave it to my father. “Of course not. I love Paolo.”

  “Did anything happen?” Dad asked. “You look a little pale. I shouldn’t have let you go up there by yourself.”

  I watched the espresso flow like molten bronze into the tiny cups. Dad put the cups on a tray and handed it to me, then brandished a white paper bag.

  “Pistachio biscotti, your favorite,” he said, following me outside.

  Entering the garden was like stepping into an Impressionist painting; the white and yellow flowers, the muted blues and greys of the table and chairs, and Paolo in his blue striped shirt and the white hat whenever the sun shone. I saw it all at a distance, like a visitor in a gallery. My thoughts were still full of Sister Chiara and of the maze.

  “Ciao, Katerina,” Paolo said, standing up from his seat at the patio table. “Com’e stai?” He waited until I had set the tray down, and gave me a kiss on each cheek.

  “How are your knees?” he asked. “I hope they healed quickly and there are no scars?”

  I lifted one knee for his inspection. “Good as new.”

  When we had sat down, I tilted my face up to the sun, hoping to empty my mind of the frenzied thoughts that filled it.

  “Why is the sun in London either weak and pale or glaring and uncomfortable, yet here it feels nurturing and benign?” I asked of no one in particular.

  “It’s the Tuscan air,” said Paolo proudly. He had been born in Florence and had come back after years away studying medicine in Milan and London, swearing that he would never leave again.

  While he sipped his espresso, I caught him exchanging looks with my father.

  “Katerina, your father is worried about you,” he said, “and I want to offer my help. If you will permit me?”

  “This is an ambush, then?” I said. “Two against one?”

  “Kate…” my father began.

  “It’s all right, I was joking. I’m sorry because I don’t mean to worry you, Dad, not with everything you’re already going through. I wish I could tell you that I’m doing fine, but I’m not. Not really.”

  “That’s what Leo said. He said you’d been up to Oxford last weekend and had been behaving a little erratically, I think was the word. He wanted me to talk to you.”

  “Did he tell you about Aidan?”

  My father put his cup down on the saucer.

  “What about Aidan?” he asked.

  Paolo leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table’s blue tile surface. It appeared that Leo
hadn’t shared the details about the aura with Dad. And I wasn’t ready to tell him yet either.

  “Aidan witnessed a really bad traffic accident,” I said.

  Dad’s face relaxed, and Paolo sat back in his chair.

  “Yes, that was awful. Poor kid,” Dad said. “Leo told me, but Aidan didn’t want to talk about it. He did tell me you bought him a cell phone after that incident, so he could stay in touch. That was nice of you.”

  I felt myself blushing. “Yeah. Well, it would have been good if he’d been able to call Leo to let him know why he was so late getting home. Most teenagers have a phone nowadays.”

  “So back to the erratic behavior,” said Dad. “What’s going on, Katie?”

  “Do you know Sister Chiara from the convent?” I asked Paolo. He frowned and tugged on his chin, giving it some thought.

  “Possibly,” he replied. “I’ve met the Mother Superior and a few of the Sisters because I’ve assisted with some medical emergencies there over the years. Should I know her?”

  “Dad, you’ve met her at a couple of community events, I think. Anyway, I saw her at the top of the hill today,” I said. “We walked down together.”

  I saw Dad and Paolo glance at each other. Paolo’s shoulders shifted upwards in a shrug.

  “Bit of a non sequitur there,” Dad said.

  “She can see things,” I ventured. “She can tell when someone is suffering from a burden, as she calls it, like sadness or guilt, or pain.”

  I paused, gauging the reaction of the two men. Dad looked confused but Paolo nodded as though he understood.

  “Go on,” he said encouragingly.

  “Well, I can see things too.” I ignored my father’s startled expression and plunged on, telling them about the aura, starting with Francesca and Sophie and ending with Rebecca. I didn’t mention Aidan. When I stopped talking, both men were silent. Dad was drumming his fingertips on the tabletop, while Paolo sat with his eyes closed.