A Dark and Sinful Death

by Alison Joseph

  ‘They’re good, aren’t they?’

  Agnes noticed the straightened black hair and wide-set eyes heavily coated in eye-liner. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, they’re very good.’

  ‘Not that this lot give a toss,’ the girl went on. ‘Look at them all. What are they like, eh?’ Agnes glanced at the crowd. ‘I’ve known Dave for a while now,’ the young woman said. ‘We were at college together.’

  ‘Dave?’

  ‘David Snaith. The artist. He’s around somewhere.’

  ‘Nina, it’s time for the buffet, don’t you think?’ A tall woman in elegant black appeared. ‘And can we have some wine at the far end of the room, thanks so much.’

  Nina turned to Agnes and winked, then sauntered down the room, her tray swaying on her hand.

  Agnes drifted towards a crowd grouped at the far end of the exhibition, wondering whether the artist was amongst them.

  ‘ ... patronage, you see, the only way forward.’ A booming male voice was holding forth next to one of the works. ‘ ... tradition among us mill owners, fostering the arts, looking after the new young voices upon which, after all, the future of British culture depends. Isn’t that so, darling?’ A man in an expensively cut suit was holding out one arm towards the woman who’d just given her orders to Nina. He had thinning grey hair and a broad, amiable face.

  ‘Isn’t what so, Anthony?’ the woman said.

  ‘I was saying that your father’s family had always supported the arts, and we intend to maintain that tradition.’

  ‘Yes, dear, of course. What can have happened to the food, do excuse me, those girls are just hopeless ... ’

  Anthony Turnbull beamed expansively at the few people gathered around the painting. ‘Ah, David, dear boy,’ he said as a thin-faced young man appeared. ‘We’re all dying to hear what you have to say about this.’

  Turnbull was indicating a three-dimensional piece, set in a heavy frame. Various objects were half-submerged in a background of thick muddy oil paint. Agnes saw an antique beer bottle; some kind of spinning bobbin; a sheep’s skull.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  David flinched, stared at the floor, then at the piece. He wore a loose white shirt in fine cotton, and his hair was short and well cut. At last he looked up at the crowd. ‘What did you want to know?’

  There was a silence which Agnes broke. ‘I wondered,’ Agnes said, ‘how such an abstract work could be said to relate to the more representational themes in the other pieces?’

  David looked at her with eyes which were a dark stony grey. ‘It doesn’t,’ he said.

  Turnbull laughed. ‘That’s the problem with modern art — one has to work so much harder. Ah, the food, I see. My wife has worked her magic with the staff at last ... ’ He shepherded his following away from the paintings. Agnes was left standing with David.

  ‘I keep seeing sheep’s skulls,’ she said, conversationally.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ He stared at the floor.

  ‘Someone I know called Joanna Baines — ’

  He flashed a glance at her. ‘How do you know Joanna?’

  ‘I work with her at St Catherine’s.’

  ‘She’s left.’

  ‘She was working with sheep’s skulls.’

  ‘So? It’s the nineties.’

  Agnes glanced at him, but he wasn’t smiling. ‘How do you know Joanna?’ she asked him.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Sister Agnes. I’m a nun.’ Athena would have managed to keep her cover for longer than five minutes, Agnes thought with regret.

  David was surveying her. Then he shook his head. ‘Nice try,’ he said, moving away.

  ‘Me and Elias — Elias Parnell — we’re very concerned ... Agnes followed him.

  ‘Elias can get stuffed,’ David said, beginning to merge with the crowd who were gathered around the buffet table. ‘And while he’s at it, he can give me back the key to her house.’ He disappeared into the throng at Turnbull’s side, and a moment later Agnes heard snatches of conversation: ‘ ... the post-industrial legacy ... the worker as participant in the gaze ... ’

  ‘He’s not that forthcoming, is he?’ Nina was at her side, struggling with two trays of empty glasses. ‘Help me with these will you?’ Agnes took a tray and followed her into the kitchen. ‘I’m off duty now, gotta go back to my little girl.’ Nina went into the hall and took her coat from a row of hangers. ‘You couldn’t do my apron, could you?’

  Agnes untied her apron strings.

  Nina gestured to the prints on the wall. ‘He’s a nice bloke, Anthony, but he doesn’t know much about art. I mean, look at these — not worth the frames they’re in.’ She laughed. ‘Victorian ladies and happy millworkers and cobbled streets — give me Dave’s work any day. And this one, look ... ’

  Agnes saw a smiling housewife standing by a kitchen range.

  ‘She looks like my mum, she does. Only my mum looks more interesting.’

  ‘Your mother — but you’re — ’

  ‘Black?’ Nina’s eyes danced.

  ‘I just meant — ’

  Nina laughed. ‘My mum’s white. And I’m black.’ She pulled on her coat.

  ‘I was asking David about the sheep’s skull.’

  ‘Oh, that. I prefer his portraits and stuff. He got into that abstract stuff when he met Jo, his girlfriend.’

  ‘Jo?’

  ‘Joanna Baines, Patricia’s sister.’

  ‘And she’s his — ’

  ‘Crazy about each other. Surprised she’s not here, but then, she hates her family.’

  ‘But I had no idea — you see, I work with Joanna.’

  ‘You know Jo? How come?’

  ‘I’m from the convent. I’m one of the sisters.’

  Nina stared at her, then grinned, then started laughing. ‘You’re nothing of the kind. Not you. Not like ... ’ She gestured at Agnes’s skirt, and shoes, then laughed some more.

  ‘David didn’t believe me either.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Ooh, I must go, I’m going to be late.’

  Agnes followed her outside. She pointed her car key at the BMW which unlocked itself with a display of flashing lights.

  ‘Is that — is that yours?’

  ‘Shouldn’t it be? If you’re allowed to be a nun then anything’s possible.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind one of those. Or maybe the 528.’ ‘Now that would be nice. Although I’ve been thinking about a Saab convertible.’

  ‘With a baby seat?’

  Nina laughed. ‘Maybe not. What car do you have?’ Agnes pointed at the Metro. Nina giggled, then clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Rude of me to laugh,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, feel free. It belongs to the school. Not my choice at all.’

  ‘Trade it in for something decent when the nuns aren’t looking,’ Nina said.

  ‘I might just do that. Listen ... ’ Agnes hesitated. ‘Um, I don’t know how to say this. Mark’s death ... ’

  Nina’s smile faded. She opened the passenger door and put her bag on to the seat. ‘What about it?’

  ‘David must be very upset.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘You know Joanna’s vanished from the school?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that. I don’t know her very well.’

  ‘Does David know where she is?’

  ‘Really, love. I’ve got to go. Ring me, if you like. Are you nuns allowed to use the phone? I’m at the mill.’

  ‘At Allbright’s?’

  ‘Yeah, I used to be a sales secretary there, but now I’m in the main office. Now that Patricia’s there. And I usually help out at a “do” like this, a bit of extra dosh.’ She got into her car.

  ‘One more thing — this art of David’s?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Why did Turnbull choose to promote him?’

  ‘Family,’ Nina said. ‘You know what they say about blood being thicker than water.’ She slammed the car door, revved the engine, turned the car with a squeal of tyres and
roared off down the drive.

  Agnes watched the two red dots of light recede. She went back into the house, shivering with cold.

  ‘She’s gone, has she?’ Patricia was in the hall, a bottle of champagne in one hand, a tray of glasses in the other. ‘Good, I hate to keep her out late — you couldn’t help me with this, could you?’ Agnes took the bottle she held out to her. ‘I’m so hopeless with those corks, they frighten me for some reason, I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve been introduced, I’m Patricia Turnbull, and you are ... ?’

  ‘Agnes. Agnes Bourdillon. Is there a cloth anywhere, it makes it easier to hold the bottle?’

  ‘Ah, my lovely wife,’ Turnbull boomed, as they came back into the room. ‘And some even lovelier champagne — ’ The cork popped, loudly. ‘Expertly done.’ He smiled, appraisingly, at Agnes.

  ‘Agnes Bourdillon,’ Patricia said.

  ‘From?’ Turnbull’s eyes searched Agnes’s face.

  ‘She’s a nun.’ David stood at her elbow, smiling.

  ‘A nun?’ Turnbull laughed.

  ‘Yeah,’ David went on. ‘She works with Jo at that school.’

  Turnbull was studying her closely. ‘Is that so?’

  Agnes met his gaze. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is.’

  ‘Well well.’ His gaze held hers, then he smiled back. ‘And isn’t she supposed to be here?’ He turned to his wife. ‘Your sister — I thought she’d be here?’

  Patricia shrugged. ‘I expect something kept her away.’

  ‘Something obviously did.’ Turnbull turned to David. ‘Don’t look at me, mate,’ David said. ‘You know she hates this kind of thing.’ He walked over to the drinks table and loudly snapped open a can of beer.

  ‘Artists, eh?’ Turnbull’s attention returned to Agnes. Patricia took the champagne and headed to the conservatory where the crowd still mingled. Agnes wondered what to say.

  ‘And how did you get to hear about David’s work, then?’

  Agnes took a deep breath. ‘It’s a long story,’ she said. ‘Through the school.’

  ‘Joanna?’

  ‘Not exactly. One of my sixth formers knew David’s brother.’

  Turnbull faltered. ‘Terrible business,’ he said. He picked up his glass of champagne and drained it. ‘Terrible,’ he said again. Agnes followed his gaze to where David stood, leaning heavily on the drinks table. ‘I asked him if I should call this off, but he wanted to carry on. Brave man.’

  ‘Did you know Mark well?’

  ‘He worked for us. And for my father-in-law. He was our gardener for a while. And before that he worked in the mill. Before it became ours.’

  ‘I saw in the press that your father-in-law has retired.’

  ‘Yes. Can’t get away from reporters. Wanting to know my plans for the mill. Luckily they haven’t made too much of — of Mark. It’s important to keep the good name.’

  ‘Of Allbright’s?’

  ‘Yes. Difficult time for the yarn business. Very difficult. Need local support more than ever.’

  ‘Of course, the family must go back years.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m a bit of an incomer. No background in textiles, you see, made all my money in property. I’m sorry, I must be boring you, can I get you a drink?’ He took her arm and steered her towards Patricia who still carried the tray of champagne, took two glasses and handed one to Agnes. He raised his glass. ‘Cheers,’ he said, his eyes meeting hers. She noticed they were a soft grey, like James’s.

  ‘Are there many sisters at the school?’ Turnbull was asking her.

  ‘No. Not these days. Six of us.’

  ‘Falling vocations, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was raised a Catholic, you know.’ He was smiling into her eyes. ‘Another reason to tread carefully in Baines’s country. They’re all chapel here.’

  ‘Do you still believe?’

  He sipped his champagne. ‘Yes. Yes, I do. I’m not very devout or anything. Not like you people.’

  Agnes laughed. ‘It’s not that simple,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure it isn’t. One of these days I’ll — oh, my wife beckons. Do excuse me.’ Turnbull left her side, and Agnes found herself alone. She went to look for David, whom she found sitting on the stairs in the hall, drunk.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your brother,’ she said.

  ‘Why’re you sorry?’ he slurred. ‘Did you do it then?’

  ‘And it’s true, I do know Joanna. I work with her at the school.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘You know Charlotte, apparently. One of our sixth formers.’

  ‘Charlotte — she were going out with Mark. Sort of.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Poor kid.’

  ‘She told me the police were talking to Billy Keenan.’

  ‘They’ve got nothing on him. They’ve let him go. And if anyone knows owt else about him, they’ll not say. He’s safe enough, that bastard Keenan.’

  ‘David — why did Joanna leave us?’

  He looked at Agnes, trying to focus.

  ‘Is it about Mark? She hasn’t been back to the school since Mark was found — ’

  ‘Dead. Found dead. On the moors. Say it.’

  Agnes met his gaze. ‘Found dead,’ she said. ‘On the moors.’

  ‘With his eyes put out.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go on, say it.’

  Agnes kept her voice level. ‘With his eyes put out.’

  David made a kind of sob in his throat. He put his hand over his face. ‘And they’ll never find a bloody thing. Everybody on that estate, they’re just doin’ their own thing. Only themselves to please. They’ll not say who did it, even if they know.’

  ‘Do you think people know more than they’re letting on?’

  David shook his head and laughed, mirthlessly. ‘Who knows. They have their own rules there.’

  ‘Tell me one more thing, David. Is Joanna frightened of something?’

  ‘Listen, lady, I don’t know who you are. I’m just the performing monkey here, I’m just Art in the service of Commerce, just playing my part in this farce — and you turn up here and ask me about sheep’s skulls. Is there any reason I should tell you anything?’

  Agnes scribbled her phone number on a piece of paper. ‘No reason at all. But if you change your mind, I’m on this number.’

  David squinted at the note. ‘Are you for real, then? This really is the convent?’

  ‘It’s my mobile. But, yes, I am from the convent. And if I don’t get back there soon, there’ll be words from Reverend Mother.’ Agnes turned on her heel and headed for the door, aware as she walked away from him of David staring after her.

  Her car engine spluttered into life. She thought about Nina’s BMW. Surely it wasn’t so bad coveting someone’s car if you liked the car’s owner?

  Her head was spinning. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. David and Joanna, Turnbull and Mark. And Charlotte. And Joanna was indeed an Allbright Baines.

  And if Joanna is Patricia’s sister, why does she live on such a rough estate? And why isn’t she an inheritor of the mill? I know no such person, Baines had said.

  And David knew Elias — and Elias had a key to Joanna’s house.

  She pulled up at the school, and drove round to the car park, passing the chaplain’s flat. There was a light still on at the window. Agnes walked towards it. She hesitated, then turned and went into her house.

  *

  ‘Elias?’ Agnes’s voice echoed in the early morning stillness of the chapel. He was standing behind the altar, arranging candles for the first service of the day. He looked up and saw her.

  ‘How’s Charlotte?’ he said.

  ‘Better. She seems calmer. She’s determined to do her exams this year.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s the best way.’

  ‘Elias — I, um, was at the Turnbulls’ last night.’

  ‘The Turnbulls’? How odd.’ He stared at her.

  ‘Yes. Anthony was
doing a private view of some of David Snaith’s work.’

  ‘You surprise me.’

  Agnes scanned his face, but his tone was neutral. He busied himself with the holy water, the chalice. ‘Was Jo there?’ he asked, suddenly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘David sent you a message.’

  Elias smiled. ‘I expect it was rude.’

  ‘He said you can return the key to Jo’s house.’

  ‘Did he?’

  Agnes studied him. ‘Elias — why has Baines disowned Joanna?’

  He looked up. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Because Patricia and Turnbull have inherited the mill, and Joanna hasn’t. And also — ’

  ‘Also what?’

  ‘I went to the mill. Last week. I met William Baines. He threw me out. I was asking about Jo.’

  ‘You did what?’ Elias’s face betrayed anger.

  ‘I was concerned, that’s all,’ Agnes said.

  ‘Why? What business is it of yours?’

  ‘Well — it seems only normal ... I mean — I found her in the art room, she was upset, I was worried about her — ’

  ‘Enough to go snooping around her father’s mill?’

  ‘Yes, actually.’

  Elias unfolded a linen cloth and placed it on the altar. ‘Is that why they moved you from London, then?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Because you were always looking for distractions?’

  ‘I don’t know what you — ’

  ‘Meddling with other people’s lives ...

  ‘Elias, this is undeserved. I thought you’d understand, as you knew her too. As you obviously care about her. I was going to ask you to let me have the key to her house, in case there was something there ... ’

  ‘Why should I do that?’

  ‘I just thought — ’

  ‘She won’t be there.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  ‘If you want to know about Jo, you can always talk to David. Now you know him.’

  ‘Well, hardly — ’

  ‘Now you’re so in with the Turnbulls.’

  Is that what this is about, Agnes thought. This sudden attack. Because I’ve got too close.

  He had his back to her. Agnes walked round the altar until she was facing him. ‘Who do you think killed Mark Snaith?’ she said. He continued to arrange the cloth. ‘Or perhaps you don’t care. Perhaps you think it’s just another tale from the urban war zone.’