The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries

by Carrie Bedford

  I nodded. “It was. Looking back on it, so much of what she told me was a lie, or a pretense at least. I think that secrets had become the norm for her. Montgomery’s wife couldn’t find out about them and no one at work could know. The apartment that she couldn’t afford, the promotions she got that were probably unmerited. She probably couldn’t distinguish between truth and lies, appearances and reality any more. She thought that money would save her, offer her a different life from the one her parents lead.

  “But you know what saves me from despairing for her is that she was trying to make a change. She’d told Montgomery that it was over between them. She was going to look for a new job. I truly believe that she was trying to put her life back in order.”

  “I agree, and I think you should take some credit for that.”

  “But I’d only been seeing her for a few weeks, not enough time to make a difference.”

  “True, but if she’d already had some doubts about what she was doing, perhaps her renewed friendship with you was just enough to light the torch paper. She saw that you had a good job without sleeping with the CEO, if you’ll excuse my crassness, that you had the respect of your colleagues, and enjoyed a high degree of independence. You became a sort of role model for her.”

  “It was all too late,” I said. “She never had a chance to see what life might have brought her. It’s very sad.”

  We were quiet for a couple of minutes. Traffic on the roads beyond the park provided a muted backdrop to the frantic honking of a flock of geese that rose from the lake in front of us. The surface of the water, momentarily agitated by the departure of the geese, quickly settled, flat and dark under the pewter sky.

  “How are you doing?” I asked Clarke.

  He looked surprised. “Me? I’m good. Not many people ask me that.”

  “It must be tough. Dealing with all that death and violence, grief and anger. Doesn’t it depress you?”

  “I don’t let it,” he said. “If I did, I couldn’t do my job. My work means more to me than anything. I love it.” He smiled. “I meet interesting people, like you.”

  I smiled back. Perhaps he would forgive me for my strange aura-sighting ability and we could be friends after all.

  He looked at his watch. “I should go. I’m meeting Gary for lunch, to go over his statements and prepare him for Jack’s trial.”

  Raising an eyebrow, I nudged him in the arm. “Really? As a key witness, I’ve never warranted a whole lunch, just a couple of coffees in dingy cafes and a freezing cold park bench. What does Gary have that I don’t, I wonder?”

  I turned to look at him. The flush in his cheeks and the brightness of his deep green eyes left no doubt as to his feelings.

  “Good,” I said. “Give Gary my regards.”

  He stood up and re-knotted his scarf.

  “You take care of yourself, Kate. I’ll be in touch again soon.”

  41

  Alan gave us time off for Christmas and New Year, so I asked Josh if he would come to Italy with me. Leo and Olivia were planning to join us there with Aidan and Gabe. When Josh said yes, I felt like a bird let out of a cage, nervous about what the future held for me, yet excited and happy.

  Nonetheless, my mind kept wandering into unwanted places. The horror of Rebecca’s death was still vivid, memories of her bloodied body still weaving through my dreams, disrupting my sleep. I had an image, like a photo in my head, of the moment when the train had hit Nick at the Tube station. My distress over little Sophie’s death was still raw. Still, I was determined to enjoy the holiday with Josh and my family. I ran down the steps from the plane to the tarmac, eager to see Dad again, excited to introduce him to Josh.

  Once we were in the car, weaving through traffic, Dad spoke. “They found the car that hit you on the hill that day.”

  I turned in my seat, saw his face in profile, eyes on the road. He was getting older, I thought sadly. But his grey hair was still thick and he wore it as he always had, a little too long so that it curled against his neck at the back.

  “It belonged to a young man from Florence, apparently. He was hiding stolen goods in the old farmhouse.”

  I glanced back at Josh to see if he’d heard, but he was gazing out of the window, taking in his first views of Tuscany.

  “How did they find the car?”

  “A villager reported a car driving fast on that road. Almost hit her, apparently. So the police took a look, found the stuff in the farmhouse, and waited for him to come back, which he did. Same car, silver, tinted windows. The one you tried to grab hold of, that day.”

  “I tried to grab hold of it?”

  He glanced over at me, a look of surprise on his face. “You must remember? That car came speeding over the top of the hill. You yelled at the driver to slow down. When he didn’t, you caught hold of the back door handle and tried to open the door. The police said you were very brave, trying to apprehend him like that, but, honestly, Katie, it was very frightening. You could have been killed if you’d fallen under the car.”

  We drove in silence for a few miles until Josh asked questions about the landmarks we were passing. I was happy to switch into tour guide mode. It saved me from thinking about what Dad had said.

  The next day was the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. The pale sun hung low in the sky, timid and ready to scurry back into hiding. The light was metallic and brittle, and thick frost formed a veneer of white over the trees and paths. I stamped my feet a few times, trying to move the blood through them.

  For the third time my father asked, “Are you sure you don’t want one of us to come with you?

  “No, thanks. I’ll be fine and I have my whistle.” I held up the silver object to reassure him.

  Josh blew on his hands to warm them. “Don’t take too long. Your Dad and I will be waiting for you in the cafe in the village.”

  A few days earlier, I’d had the idea of walking the maze again. I didn’t know what I thought it would achieve but, once rooted, the idea had grown. As soon as we’d reached Dad’s house, I had called Professore Bertagli to ask permission to visit.

  The maze made me think back to the day I had met Sister Chiara up on the hill. It was she who had taken me to the overlook and shown me the labyrinth below. Over the past weeks, I had left several messages at the convent, but whoever answered the phone always told me Sister Chiara wasn’t seeing visitors, that she hadn’t left the convent for over a month.

  I walked to the entrance, turning to wave to Josh and my father before going into the maze, where thick cypress hedges leaned ominously over the narrow path. A few steps brought me to the first turn, and I was suddenly alone, out of view and, it seemed, out of touch with the world outside.

  The anemic sun threw gauzy shadows across the pathways and the grass underfoot was crisp with frost. There was no birdsong, no breeze. The intense silence was unnerving. I walked as fast as I could while still keeping track of my right and left turns. I was cold, and my toes were numb. I wondered if this was a pointless exercise. What could I learn from being alone in here? I could be drinking coffee and eating pastries with Josh and Dad in a nice cozy cafe.

  Surprisingly, I didn’t bump into any dead ends and kept making progress towards the center. Eventually, I noticed a brightening in the air ahead of me; fewer hedges throwing shadows must mean I was close to the heart of the maze. Encouraged, I walked on, rounded a corner and emerged into a small grassy clearing. In the middle was a stone bench with lions’ paw feet.

  Sister Chiara sat on one end of the bench, her black robe in stark contrast to the milky white stone. Her eyes were closed, face turned up towards the pallid sun. I stopped, astonished at seeing the nun there. Professore Bertagli had said nothing about anyone else coming today.

  As if sensing my presence, Sister Chiara opened her eyes and looked at me. She patted the bench beside her and I went to sit down. The stone surface was icy cold.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you,” I said. “I wanted to se
e you.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry, but I’ve been rather preoccupied,” said the nun. “I’m glad to see you, my dear. So much has happened to you since we last met.”

  I looked at her in surprise. “To me? How do you know? Did you talk to my Dad? Or Paolo?”

  Sister Chiara smiled and shook her head. “And you still have that aura. I was hoping to see that gone by now.”

  I jumped as though I’d touched a live electric cable. “Aura? I have an aura? What does it look like?”

  “Don’t be alarmed. It is not the aura you are seeing that signifies death. But it saddens me that it is still there.”

  “Please tell me what it looks like. I can’t see it. What color is it?”

  “It’s dark grey, heavy around your head and shoulders and chest. It’s weighing on your head and your heart.”

  “But what does it mean?”

  “It’s guilt, my dear.” She held her hand up when I began to speak. “Not guilt for anything you have done, but guilt for what you think you have done. It’s always been that. First there was your little brother. What was his name? Toby. You carried the burden of his death on your young shoulders for so many years. And now, there are others who are dead and you think you could have saved them. Why don’t you tell me about them? We have plenty of time.”

  I related the events of the past few months, from my first meeting with Rebecca to the arrests of Montgomery and Jack Cohen. I stumbled over my words when I came to describing Rebecca’s death, and Nick’s. My voice shook when I talked about the attack in my apartment and Josh being injured.

  The whole time Sister Chiara watched me intently, nodding occasionally to show that she was listening. When I had finished, she leaned back and folded her hands in her lap. “While you were talking, your aura vibrated and turned darker, but it was not your fault that those people died. Do you believe that?”

  I thought about it. “I’m not sure. I felt I could have done more to protect Rebecca. And Nick.”

  “That’s not the way I see it, Kate. And I don’t think anyone else would, either.” She paused, and smoothed out the folds in her black robe. “You saved an elderly man in the fish and chip shop, do you remember him? He would have died that night but for you. And there’s Aidan, of course. In saving your nephew, you also saved Leo, who would otherwise have plunged into unassailable grief and depression. And his relationship with his lovely fiancée Olivia would have come to an end.”

  “Oh, they’re not engaged,” I said. How could Chiara know about Aidan, or Olivia, or the homeless man? What was she doing here at the center of the maze, as if waiting for me to arrive?

  “So you have achieved a great deal of good, Kate, but what you are doing now is focusing on the negative. You have so many wonderful attributes and you care deeply about people, but you can’t let that empathy cross the line into responsibility for others. I’d like you to promise me that you will start to take care of yourself, to do what is right for you. Be a little selfish for a change. When you do that, everything will fall into place. And your mother will be freed from worrying about you. She wants you to be happy and then she can be happy too. She deserves that, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, she does.”

  Sister Chiara sat, with concern in her eyes, while I tried to regain my composure. I watched the sun, like a mountaineer attempting to summit, grappling towards its apex. I felt a hint of warmth on my face, as the deep silence was broken by a drip of melting ice. The clear notes of a skylark rang through the clearing and roused me from my reverie. I glanced at my watch. It was almost noon.

  “I should go. My father and my boyfriend are waiting for me. Will you come with me? We could have lunch.”

  “That is kind of you, but no thank you, Kate. You go ahead. I’d like to stay here for a little longer and enjoy the sunshine.”

  I stood but didn’t move away. “I’d like to see you again soon. It’s Christmas in a few days. Perhaps you could come for dinner?”

  “Perhaps, my dear, perhaps. Now you go and join the others. We don’t want them to be worrying about you.”

  Still I hesitated. I didn’t want to leave Sister Chiara alone.

  “Goodbye, Kate. Remember what I said.”

  The nun’s words seemed like a dismissal, so I nodded and turned away reluctantly to find my way back to the exit.

  When I emerged into the garden, blinking in the brightness after the shadows of the towering hedges, I looked around for Professore Bertagli. There was no sign of him. I’d wanted to ask him if he knew that Sister Chiara was in the maze. I was still astonished that she had been there on the very day I went back.

  I walked out along the long driveway into the village. On each side of the unpaved road, green hills topped with cypress trees rolled into the distance, punctuated here and there with ploughed fields awaiting the spring planting. The rich earth was dark, the color of espresso.

  My conversation with Sister Chiara ran like a recording in my head. I needed some time to think about it all; there was so much I didn’t understand. When I reached the cafe, Josh stood up to give me a hug.

  “Did it go okay?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Let me warm up a bit. I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Dad had already ordered me a cappuccino and a slice of panettone. I devoured them as though I’d just returned from an expedition in the wilderness. I felt the warmth of the little cafe percolating into my bones, smelled the fragrances of coffee and baking, and listened to the soft hiss of the milk steamer and the music of the conversations around us. Aware that both Dad and Josh were looking at me expectantly, I pushed my plate away.

  “I saw Sister Chiara in the maze,” I said.

  “Funny that she would be there the same day as you,” said Josh, waving at the waiter to bring more coffee. “Did you talk to her?”

  “Yes, it was strange. I asked her to come home for lunch, but she seemed to be enjoying the sunshine, so I invited her to visit sometime over Christmas. That’s okay, isn’t it, Dad? If she comes?”

  “Of course. Ah, here’s Paolo.” Dad stood up to grab another chair from the empty table beside us. Paolo came in, taking off his coat and unwinding a green paisley scarf from around his neck. Without being asked, the waiter brought a macchiato and set it down in front of him.

  He took a sip. “Sorry I’m late. I was over at the convent. Sad thing, one of the sisters passed away a few hours ago. I had to sign the death certificate.”

  I had a knot in my stomach. “Who was it?” I asked.

  “You met her, I seem to recall. Nice lady. Sister Chiara. She’d been having heart problems for a couple of months, which led to a fatal myocardial infarction. One of the sisters found her in her room after she didn’t make an appearance for noon prayers.”

  42

  Two days later, Josh and I stood together at the back of the small chapel. It was packed with mourners. The sheep-wool smell of damp clothes was interlaced with the stronger fragrance of incense and the odor of lilies. Lamps suspended from the vaulted ceiling, formed pools of greenish light on the travertine floor, while a bank of votives flickered at the entry to the side chapel. The dark walnut wood coffin gleamed in the glow of the altar candles. Vases of pink and white flowers sat on the altar top.

  Italian funerals were somber affairs and took a long time. After a few minutes, my attention wandered to a pretty fresco on the wall of the apse behind the altar. Finally, when a rustling and shifting signaled the end of the service, everyone stood to follow the coffin to its resting place in the cemetery.

  Memorial plaques, stacked three high in the walls, each bore a photo of the deceased, and a small votive that was lit day and night. The congregated mourners were silent while the coffin was pushed carefully into the long, narrow niche in the wall. Two nuns placed vases of flowers on the sill; later, when we’d left, the opening would be sealed closed and a marble plaque fixed into place.

  I had struggled to make sense of it all for three days now a
nd was no closer to understanding. But it didn’t matter. I had to accept the fact that I had sat on the bench in the maze and talked with Sister Chiara several hours after she had died.

  The priest turned away, his work done, and a nun knelt briefly for one last prayer. Tears trickled down my cheeks, warm on my cold skin. Josh reached out to brush them away. He gave me an encouraging smile. He’d smiled a lot since we arrived in Tuscany, although he was suitably solemn for the funeral.

  The convent bells began, ringing out over the valley, and startling a murder of crows that flew up in a noisy panic from the old oak tree in the center of the convent grounds. I linked my arm through his for the short walk back to my father’s house.

  That night, Leo and Olivia arrived with the boys and the house was full of voices and laughter, warm with crackling log fires, festive with Christmas lights. Presents were piled up under the tree that Josh and Dad had cut and trimmed.

  I could tell that Dad liked Josh. Only Josh was allowed into his study to look at the draft of the Book, as we called it, the gardening book he’d been working on. Huddled over drafts and layouts, they closed the door after me when I took in cups of tea or glasses of wine.

  I spent most of my time in the kitchen. Paolo had volunteered to be my assistant; we baked, rolled out pasta sheets, and cooked multi-course feasts, while Olivia sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea and flipping through recipe books for new culinary challenges to give us. Leo and the boys kicked a ball around on the frosted lawn, or played video games with the volume turned as high as it would go.

  On Christmas Day, flutes of prosecco in hand, Leo and Olivia announced their engagement. Olivia said they planned a quiet wedding ceremony in the early spring and were hoping to get away for a week to somewhere exotic like the Seychelles or the Maldives. Sister Chiara had been right when she referred to Olivia as Leo’s fiancée.