Eddie had prevented Fitzpatrick from betraying Deirdre. But Fitzpatrick had hoped she would come to him, to his parents’ grave by the wall where they had once stood together. Perhaps he caught her eye and sent a pleading glance before turning in that direction.
Once more, I went over the scenes from the funeral. There was the long walk from the church, all the way up York Road to the cemetery, the hearse, followed by carriages carrying family, including Fitzpatrick and his crutches, priests and nuns. None of the nuns in the carriages wore brown. Some of the younger ones walked, all wearing black.
The figure in brown had appeared only at the cemetery. The more I thought about it, the surer I felt.
Cold night air made me shudder. I went inside.
Back in the house, I tapped on my housekeeper’s door. Mrs Sugden emerged, spectacles on the end of her nose. She held her thumb in a book to mark her place.
‘Sorry to disturb you so late. I saw the light under your door.’
‘I heard you come in. I hope you didn’t walk home on your own among all them drunks.’
‘No, and they’re a harmless bunch.’
She gave one of her doubting snorts. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve just had an idea. I’ve a question concerning nuns’ habits.’
She looked blank. ‘Don’t ask me.’
‘I wasn’t going to. Miss Merton, will she still be up?’
Miss Merton lives across the street. She and Mrs Sugden exchange books and recipes.
‘Oh no. Early to bed, early to rise, that’s her motto.’ She frowned. ‘What kind of nuns’ habits do you want to know about? I know the ones up the road by sight. They teach at the school and walk in twos.’
‘I mean what sort of apparel do they wear? Which order of nuns wear brown, with a cord belt, and sandals?’
‘Isn’t that just like them.’ Mrs Sugden shook her head in disbelief. ‘They’ll swelter in summer from the robes and be martyred to chilblains in winter from the sandals.’
‘About Miss Merton, how early is early?’
‘Rising or retiring?’
‘Both.’
‘Bed at half past nine, up at five.’
‘But she’ll know, about habits?’
‘Most likely. Converts always take their religion over-seriously. There are certain novels she refuses point blank to read.’
‘Well thanks. Goodnight.’
She shook her head. ‘I might as well make some cocoa.’
‘I’ll go across and have a word with her in the morning. And I’ll make the cocoa, for disturbing you.’
‘Did you see the message by the telephone?’
‘No.’
‘Mrs Runcie wants you to telephone to her, no matter what time.’ She put down her book. ‘I’ll make the cocoa.’
Philippa must have been waiting downstairs, near the telephone. She answered herself.
‘Kate, hello. I’m sorry I wasn’t well when you called.’
‘How are you now?’
‘Much better thank you. Do you have any news for me yet?’
‘I hope to have, soon. If my hunch is right, I could find the woman we need to speak to by tomorrow.’
When I knocked on her door at quarter past five the next morning, Miss Merton was already spooning chutney into jars. She showed no surprise at seeing me, but explained that these were windfall apples and we must waste not want not.
She listened as I describe the nun, and how I had seen her at the cemetery, alone and apart from the Little Sisters.
‘And she wore sandals?’
‘Yes.’
‘They’re called the sandalled sisters. Their full title is Sisters of the Sacred Candle of St Genevieve. They gather used up candle wax from all the churches across Yorkshire. They melt it down and make new.’
‘Where is their convent?’
‘It’s in York. I forget the name of the little lane, but it’s off Bishopsgate.’
I thanked her but she did not straightaway let me go. ‘Wait.’ She screwed a lid on a jar. ‘You might as well take this across with you. I promised Mrs Sugden a jar of chutney.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And take one for the sandalled sisters while you’re at it.’ She reached for another lid. ‘You say this nun was alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well that’s not right. They never travel singly. It’s not allowed. They’re always in pairs.’
From York railway station, I turned right into Queen Street, along Nunnery Lane and into Bishopsgate. It was with some misgivings that I wended my way through the narrow lane that led to the convent of the sandalled sisters. As a visitor, I should clang the bell on the iron gate, and wait for someone to come, but the bell, with its chain pull, looked powerful enough to wake the Roman and the Viking dead who lay beneath my feet. The gate opened noiselessly. I stepped into a meticulously kept walled garden blooming with flowers, herbs and vegetables.
At the end of the garden, the path led into a courtyard. An atmosphere of perfect tranquillity and joy made me slow my steps. How exquisite it would be sometime to sit here, and forget about the world.
No one appeared by the time I reached the heavy oak door, though I could see along the path into another plot beyond the building, where nuns in brown habits stooped, absorbed in their gardening. I knocked on the door.
Presently, a small, wimple-squeezed face appeared on the other side of the inset iron grille.
‘My name is Mrs Shackleton. I wish to speak with the mother superior, please.’ The nun hesitated. I took the impression that nothing here happened in haste. ‘It is on a matter of some importance.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Real importance,’ I added.
She nodded, and then turned away. I heard her soft footsteps slap the stone floor as she retreated, and I looked through the grille into a dim corridor.
She was not long in returning, and opened the door. ‘Come in.’ She looked at my feet as I stepped inside, and I cursed my lack of forward planning. Brown sandals may have furthered my cause.
At the end of the corridor, she led me into a dimly lit whitewashed room that smelled of rosemary, lavender and, overpoweringly, of melting wax. High narrow windows, heavily leaded, let in very little light. Bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling beams.
The nun gave a most economical gesture. ‘Be seated.’
On either side of the scrubbed deal table stood a bench. I sat down and placed Miss Merton’s offering of chutney on the table.
Presently, a quiet footfall announced that I must gather my wits.
Something about the tall, angular woman in the brown habit was familiar. Perhaps it was the way she moved, the thickness of her straight eyebrows, or the pale blue-grey eyes. ‘You asked to see me.’
‘Mother Superior, my name is Mrs Catherine Shackleton. Excuse my intrusion. I am here on an errand, and have also brought some chutney from a Catholic neighbour.’
That information told her that I was not of her persuasion.
‘Would you care for some refreshment?’
‘Thank you.’
A hovering figure emerged from the shadows. The nun who had answered the door went to a cold press by the wall. She had an odd way of slapping her feet on the floor, soles first. She poured something from a jug and placed it on the table in front of me. I took a sip. It was lemonade, bitter, but refreshing.
When she had gone, I said, ‘I believe you have someone staying here, someone I am searching for.’
‘Oh?’
‘Deirdre Fitzpatrick.’
The mother superior opened her mouth. It stayed open just long enough for me to add, ‘It is imperative that I speak to her.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Kate …’
‘Mrs Shackleton, I know. I mean on whose behalf do you come here?’
‘Mrs Fitzpatrick’s husband asked me to find her.’ The nun’s mouth formed a grim line. Deirdre certainly knew how to bring out the protective side in all who met her.
‘I really must speak to her.’
‘Deirdre is my cousin’s niece. She is unwell, and here for retreat and recuperation.’
The relationship explained why the nun looked familiar to me. There was a family resemblance between her and Deirdre’s aunts. ‘Some things have happened that she should know about, and there are questions.’
The nun fingered her heavy-duty rosary. ‘What questions? She has told me everything.’
I doubted that. ‘Are you saying she has sanctuary here?’
‘She is here for solitude, time to reflect and pray. She was too distraught to go to her own mother’s funeral. Went to the Minster, prayed, walked the walls like a soul trying to find its way home.’
So that had been her story. Curiosity got the better of me. ‘She went to the Minster on the day of her mother’s funeral?’
‘Yes, the Minster. It will be ours again one day.’
So while Deirdre had boarded a train, wearing a nun’s habit, and attended her mother’s funeral, the mother superior thought she had been tripping round York, admiring the walls and praying for the return of the Minster to its rightful owners, the Roman Catholic Church.
Deirdre has style, I thought. I’m very keen to meet her.
‘I must see Mrs Fitzpatrick.’
‘No.’
I stood up. ‘Then I’ll go. The police will not be so understanding.’
‘The police?’
‘They want to question her, as a possible witness to murder.’
‘Murder? That’s preposterous.’
‘A murder in a hotel, where she was present.’
‘No. That can’t be right.’
‘Will you please tell her I am here?’
‘She could have nothing to do with any murder. A man enticed her into a hotel when she was going about her business. She was foolish enough to believe some story of his and found herself in his room. When she realised his true intentions she ran for dear life. After that ordeal, she watched her mother die. She must be left in peace.’
‘Please ensure she does not leave the premises until the police arrive.’
I left the room and walked along the corridor.
‘Wait!’
I turned.
‘You said her husband asked you to look for her?’
‘With respect, Mother Superior, I have nothing more to say, unless it is to Mrs Fitzpatrick.’
‘I would need to sit with her.’
‘If she wishes it, yes.’
‘I will speak to her.’
‘Thank you.’
I went back into the dim room, and waited.
I half expected to see Deirdre wearing the brown habit. She was dressed in dark skirt, blue blouse, navy cardigan, and had purloined a pair of the regulation brown sandals.
Mother Superior said, ‘This is the person who wishes to speak with you, Deirdre.’
I offered her my hand, which she took, cautiously.
At last, I was face to face with the woman who broke hearts, who decided on a course of action and stuck to it, who lied, deceived, helped herself in shops, and blundered through life in her own sweet way.
‘I’m sorry for the loss of your mother, Mrs Fitzpatrick.’
‘How did you know where to find me?’
‘I have my sources.’ Wanting to let her know that I am an investigator, I said, ‘Mr Sykes works with me. You met him one day last year when you were shopping.’
‘Ah.’
‘You will wish me to stay,’ the mother superior said.
‘No thank you. I will be all right.’
Deirdre expected me to be as gullible as Sykes had been.
‘Very well,’ the nun sighed. ‘This lady has some inkling of what you have gone through, I believe.’ This was addressed to Deirdre, but meant for me. I nodded. She walked to the door. ‘Ring the bell when you have finished.’
Alone, Deirdre and I faced each other across the table; each of us perched on a hard bench.
‘It’s almost dark in here, Deirdre, like a twilight world.’
‘It’s dark in here on the brightest of days. The nuns are very conscious of not overusing candles.’
‘I suppose you know everyone has been looking for you.’
‘I just want to be left alone.’
‘In a way then, you have your wish.’
‘What do you mean?’
It was too soon to tell her of her husband’s death. Once I said that her husband was dead, she would have a perfect excuse to swoon into silence. ‘You sent your husband a note that arrived yesterday morning.’
‘You’ve read it?’
‘More than that, I’ve copied it.’ I placed my copy of her note on the table.
An angry flush coloured her cheeks. ‘I wanted him not to come looking for me. Fitz showed you my note?’
‘He saw you at the cemetery, dressed in a nun’s habit.’
‘Is that what he told you?’
‘Deirdre, what did you mean, in this note, when you said you were going to the North Sea? You had poor Mr Sykes catching a train to Scarborough.’
‘That’s ridiculous. Fitz would know what I meant.’ She reached out and took the note. ‘You’ve copied it wrong.’
‘How wrong?’
‘Fitz thinks he can’t live without me. If I stay away, he’ll know he can, and that I’m not coming back.’
‘Deirdre, stop being so enigmatic. Mr Sykes got you out of trouble last year. You’re in worse trouble now. You left the scene of a murder.’
‘A murder?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re trying to frighten me. That can’t be true.’
‘Don’t deny that you were with Mr Runcie at the Hotel Metropole.’
She lowered her head. ‘I don’t know anything about a murder.’
‘Did your brother tell you to scarper?’
‘Anthony? What does he have to do with anything?’
‘He was staying at the hotel where you spent the night.’
Marcus had told me that the sister and brother had not met that night, but I wanted to be sure.
‘I never saw Anthony. Not until Saturday, when he found his way to Kirkstall. Then he told me where he was staying. Mr Big wouldn’t have thought to stay on Cotton Street with his family. We’re nothing to him. He doesn’t fool me.’
She picked up the note again and began to fold it, smaller and smaller. I wished I had not put it down. When she let it go, I took it back.
‘Fitz had no right to show you my note.’
‘Why did you say you were going to the North Sea? Did you want him to think you meant to drown yourself?’
‘He would know. Fitz would know. Why do you think it’s a capital letter? It’s not an N, it’s an H, and it’s not an a, it’s an e. The See. The Holy See, where annulments are given out. I’m not going back to Fitz.’
‘It’s the kind of thing a husband might expect to hear in person.’
‘He wouldn’t listen. My aunt, the mother superior, says it can be done quietly, under the circumstances. But it’s none of your business, nor Mr Sykes’s business neither. Just because he got me out of bother once.’
I wanted her to stop, but she did not, as if it was a relief for her to talk about last year, and perhaps pretend that she had not been in a hotel room with a murdered man, and seen her mother die, all in the space of a weekend.
We sat in silence for a long moment. She had said so much more than she intended, and knew it.
‘I think I understand. You are entitled to an annulment, and after such a long time. How many years have you been married?’ I knew this from Fitzpatrick, but wanted her to talk to me, to gain her trust.
‘Six years.’
‘They must have been very difficult years.’
She nodded. ‘Mam knew. She guessed. I didn’t tell anyone. I thought it was my fault.’
‘Of course it wasn’t.’
‘I see that now. At first, I thought that Fitz didn’t find me attract
ive, didn’t want me in that way. Mam just thought him a cold fish. They all did. She thought he might be a bit more human when we had children. When it didn’t happen, she said, there’s summat wrong with that man, and he’d no business marrying you. She wanted me to tell the priest, and then she didn’t because she said at least I had a roof over my head, and maybe childlessness and comfort were preferable to poverty and a brood of crying kids. But he has no soul. Oh, he is devout, always at Mass, but he has no soul, Mrs Shackleton, and he can’t bear to be touched. There was no one I could tell, and then someone guessed.’
She seemed surprised that someone had guessed, but it was to be expected, if she was spending weekends in hotel rooms with strange men. ‘Wait.’ I reached out and touched her hand to stop her saying more. I had not come to talk about her marriage. I had come to take her back for questioning. But I should have told her straight away about Fitzpatrick’s death. And I hesitated to hear about Joseph Barnard, the man who ‘guessed’.
‘There’s something you must know. I have to take you back to Leeds, so that you can give an account to the officer who is investigating Mr Runcie’s murder.’
‘I told you. I don’t know anything about a murder. God’s honest truth.’
‘Then tell me what you do know.’
At that moment, there was a footfall in the corridor. Deirdre went across to the door and closed it. When she sat down again, she said, ‘Mr Runcie was dead when I woke. I didn’t realise straight away because I was groggy from drinking too much the night before, which I did because I couldn’t face being conscious when he came to bed. I knew what he would be like. In the morning, I went into the bathroom, for a drink of water and to splash my face. I thought I’d stay in the bathroom, dash out when the chambermaid knocked, climb back into bed. I came out of the bathroom because I remembered I’d left the bolster in the middle of the bed and I would have to put it back so we could sit up properly. It was when I picked up the bolster and looked at him that I realised something was wrong.’
I remembered going into the room with Marcus, and asking him why the bolster was on the floor. She was telling the truth, I felt almost sure.
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