When she pulls up on the drive outside the convent, Celine doesn’t waste any time; she heads straight for the large front door of the imposing building, yanking the hanging bell rope and sending it ringing out across the grounds. She takes a long breath, telling herself to slow down, to keep her impatience at bay. It never wins her friends.
The middle-aged woman who answers the door introduces herself as Sister Joanna. ‘How may I help you?’
‘I’m Celine Murphy,’ she replies, extending a businesslike hand. ‘I’m here about a woman called Susan Green. She abandoned a baby on this doorstep in 1995 and I was wondering if there is anyone here who would remember that night, or know anything about it?’
When the nun frowns a little, Celine expands.
‘I’ve been working with the police,’ she explains, ‘trying to help them with a more recent crime they believe could be related. Do you know anything about the baby at all?’
Sister Joanna raises her eyebrows in a surprised, guileless expression. ‘We all know about the baby. It’s one of those events that has gone down in Poor Clares’ folklore. I wasn’t here at the time, but Sisters Angelique and Maria will almost certainly be able to help you; I’ve heard them talk of it many times. Would you like to wait while I fetch them?’
Inside, Celine sits on the wooden bench of the vestibule, taking in the quiet hush as she waits in taut anticipation. The peace of the place is somehow embedded in the very fabric of its panelled walls and cool stone floors. It reminds her in no small way of Two Cross Farm. Here she is, not two miles from that place, in another wholly female sphere, a matriarchal community where peace reigns. Is it always this way, or do these women have their own kind of battles too, just as men do, just as men and women together do? She wonders what it is that ignites all the rage in the world; what it is that makes people want to control, to dominate, to overcome and rule. People like Stefan. Like Jem Falmer. Like Harry Glass, if the police’s suspicions are to be believed. Because here, and at Two Cross Farm, when you strip everything of material value away, when there is nothing left to own or acquire, what need is there to reign over anything?
Soft voices beyond the corridor alert Celine to the approach of more women, and when Sister Joanna returns she has two elderly nuns with her, both of them in their eighties. Despite their equally slight physiques, they move with the dignity of elephants.
‘Sister Angelique and Sister Maria – this is Celine Murphy.’ Sister Joanna gestures towards a room just off the front entrance, and the three of them sit beside the unlit fireplace in a cluster of old armchairs, while Joanna fetches tea.
‘I understand you want to know about the baby?’ Sister Maria says. She brings her hands together, touching the underside of her chin with steepled fingers. ‘The Baby in the Blankets, we call her. She was a beautiful little mite. We had her for two nights and one day.’
‘You seem to remember it – her – very clearly,’ Celine says.
Sister Angelique spreads her hands expansively. ‘We’ve only ever had a single child over the years since I’ve been here – I arrived in 1985, from Somerset, where I’d known of a few. In past decades there were many more, when unwed mothers would go to untold lengths to avoid the shame. But since the 1980s it’s been a very rare phenomenon. They keep them these days.’
Both women bob their heads sadly.
‘Do you have children?’ Angelique asks.
‘No,’ Celine answers. Daylight cuts through, slicing a bright shaft the length of the room, coming to land on an elevated statue of the Virgin Mary. It’s been carefully placed there, Celine thinks, to receive this midday light as the sun moves around the building.
The door eases open and Sister Joanna backs in, balancing a tray of tea things which she slides on to a wooden sideboard. She pours four cups and joins them, perching on the edge of the remaining chair. ‘You said the mother’s name was Susan Green?’ she asks. ‘Sister Angelique, did you ever know who the child belonged to?’
‘Not for certain,’ she replies. ‘Though, some years later, a local told me that a woman had been discovered dead that same night, and that the police eventually concluded they were connected. Is that the case?’
‘Yes,’ Celine replies. ‘We believe so.’
‘And why the interest now? It’s years since—’
‘Twenty-five years,’ Celine says. ‘And I can’t really tell you why the police are looking into it, just that they feel the details of this may help them with a couple of later crimes they’re still investigating.’
The sisters don’t press the point, and merely nod, accepting.
Thinking it might make her appear more credible, Celine takes a notebook and pen from her bag, and adopts a poised-to-write stance. ‘Would you mind telling me about that night? It was December 1995.’
‘It was a cold winter that year,’ Maria says. ‘I remember that very clearly, and we were grateful that the child was brought to us – not left out somewhere, to be found.’
Celine inclines her head encouragingly.
‘After prayers, we retire early here,’ Angelique explains. ‘So, when the front bell rang out, past midnight, it woke the entire household. It was most irregular, of course, with us being out here, somewhat remote – and we certainly weren’t expecting any visitors. Moments later we were all out in the corridors – on the landing – wondering what on earth it could be. It unsettles one, doesn’t it, the unexpected? The unanticipated phone call or knock at the door – we’re programmed to fear the worst at that time of night.’
Celine instantly recalls her own response when the call about Delilah had come at 12.05am that night three weeks ago, rousing her from a deep, dreamless sleep. She’d felt instantly nauseous as she’d reached for the phone, certain it could only be her sister calling so late. Celine, it’s me, Pip had whispered, shock-voiced, robotic. Mum’s gone,she’d said. It was the sleeping pills, they think.
‘It can only be bad news,’ Celine agrees now, as she realises a response is expected.
‘Sister Jennifer took control,’ Maria says. ‘She instructed us all to repair here, to the Holy Mother’s room.’ She motions towards the sunlit figurine. ‘And, once we were assembled, she and Sister Angelique answered the door.’
‘You were right there?’ Celine asks Angelique. ‘When the baby was found?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you catch a glimpse of the mother at all? Or was she already gone?’
Angelique smiles, remembering, the warm lines of her face furrowing deeper. ‘The child wasn’t just left – she was handed over. Her guardian was right there, still holding the baby when we opened the front door.’
Celine can barely believe what she’s hearing. ‘Susan Green?’
‘No. No, it definitely wasn’t Susan Green.’
‘How can you be sure? Did you speak with her? What did she say to make you think she wasn’t the mother?’
Sisters Angelique and Maria exchange an affectionate glance.
‘A few of us had drifted into the vestibule at the sound of the infant’s crying,’ Maria says. ‘I could see the stranger beyond the doorway, beyond the sisters, but not the detail. I don’t know if this person wouldn’t or couldn’t speak, but they didn’t utter a word, just stood back in the shadows holding out that child like an offering.’
Celine looks down at her notepad, wanting to write it down, but too mesmerised by the details she’s hearing to do so. ‘What was she wearing?’
‘A full-length dress or tunic, not unlike a habit. A hooded coat – and a scarf pulled high so that not much more than eyes and a nose were visible.’
‘She really didn’t want to be identified, did she?’ Celine says. ‘But I still don’t understand how you were so sure that this woman wasn’t Susan Green.’
‘Because,’ Angelique replies with that customary smile, ‘she was a he.’
For a moment Celine is too stunned to answer. ‘How could you tell?’
‘From the hands. When I took
the baby, I caught a close look at those hands – they were large, strong and elegant. Like a pianist’s, you know?’
Maria is nodding in agreement. ‘Definitely a man. He handed the baby to Angelique, and backed away, stumbling a little – heartbroken, I thought. Then he sprinted out into the darkness, and, as I watched, there was no doubt in my mind that this was a young man.’
‘The father?’ Celine asks.
‘We can only speculate,’ Angelique replies. ‘But that seemed to be the general consensus.’
Sister Joanna has remained silent throughout. Celine looks at her now and there’s something in her calm expression which reminds her of Seed, and she feels an overwhelming need to see her again, to look into her eyes and ask her what it is that she knows. What does she really know about Susan? About Vanessa? About Robyn?
As Celine returns to the car, her mind is a jumble. Could that man on the doorstep of the Poor Clares convent have been Harry Glass? Was it possible that he had been involved with Susan Green, a woman many years older than him at the time, a woman supposedly living in celibacy, confined far from the distractions of men within the safety of Two Cross Farm? Sitting at the wheel, she types a message to Una: Police should test Harry Glass DNA against Robyn’s – possible father?
She receives Una’s reply immediately: They’re already on it.
They’re close, Celine can’t help hoping it – so close to bringing all these connections together. And yet – and yet, still some of the answers feel infuriatingly out of reach. Thoughts racing, she pulls out on to the main road and speeds towards Una and home. She thinks of the nuns’ description of those large, elegant hands, and recalls the feel of Harry Glass’s hand in hers when they met; it was rough, calloused from years of manual labour. But back then, as a twenty-year-old, could his hands have been described as elegant? Perhaps. And what of Jem Falmer – he’s the same age as Harry? Could it instead have been he who delivered that baby to the convent, having abandoned her dead or dying mother at the lake? Or was it really feasible that the two men had worked together, one of them at the door while the other drove from the lake?
As Celine swings her camper van on to the unmade road towards Belle France, she visualises the dining room at Two Cross Farm, her mind’s eye scanning the great table, stopping at each of the place settings, scrutinising the women in turn. She’s outside of herself again, disconnected enough to access the minutiae of this remembered scene, to almost smell the aroma of the food, to soak up the tense, fascinated atmosphere of the room. The bowls of food steam as they’re handed from one sister to the next, hand to hand, fingertips brushing, small physical connections being made. She sees Bramble passing a plate of potatoes to Una; Una to Seed; Seed to Celine. Their skin connects too; she feels that clench of electricity deep in the core of her, and it transports her forward to the moment when Seed clasped her strong hands around Celine’s, holding her back before she fled through the waiting press pack. There’s something there, some clear answer just at the edges of Celine’s thoughts—
Without thinking, her right foot engages the brake, bouncing the van to a jerky halt directly outside Two Cross Farm. Through the bars of the iron gates, the grounds to the left and rear of the property are illuminated warmly in the late afternoon sunlight, and Celine finds herself mesmerised by the sight of two small girls, chasing each other around the windmill folly to the far left of the garden. Their high, excited laughter lifts on the spring air and Celine knows she’s not imagining this: the two children are Olive and Beebee.
When Celine slams to a racing halt on the gravel outside Belle France, she is in such a state of panic that for a moment she can only stare at Una as she appears in the doorway, her expression open and unknowing.
‘She lied!’ Celine spills out of the car in her rush to reach Una, to tell her everything, to get to her girls.
‘Who are you talking about?’ Una asks, unmoving.
‘Pip! Pip lied. She isn’t back at her place at all – she’s with Seed! She’s at Two Cross Farm, and she’s got the girls with her. Don’t ask me why, but I don’t think they’re safe, Una. We have to get them out of there!’
Barefoot, Una jogs down the front steps, reaching for Celine’s hand, but she’s batted away. ‘OK, baby,’ she says, raising her palms to show she’s not the threat. ‘Calm, OK? Let me get my shoes on, and we’ll go down there now. But listen, Pip and the girls are in no danger. The police have more or less discounted Seed and the other women as suspects – they’ve called off the search warrant. It’s only a matter of time before they formally charge Harry Glass, and track Falmer down.’ She holds on to Celine’s shoulders, attempting to anchor her. ‘Are you listening, Celine? Aston thinks he’s found those women’s killers – Vanessa’s killers.’
‘OK, Una, I get it!’ Celine yells, shaking her hands from her shoulders. ‘That’s good! That’s great! But Vanessa’s death is in the past, and right now I’m worried about Pip! Something’s not right about Two Cross Farm, about Seed. I don’t know exactly what it is she’s hiding, but I truly believe she – or any one of those commune women – could be a danger to Pip and the girls. You heard her say she’d rather burn the place down than let the authorities inside. I believe her; I think she really meant it. What if she works out that Pip is connected to us? What might she do? We’ve got to get them out of there!’
Una fixes her with a stern gaze. ‘I want you to slow it right down, Celine. Let’s go inside and talk about this before we go rushing in there. You need to tell me exactly what you’re worried about. And then we’ll make a plan.’
35. BRAMBLE
Present day, Two Cross Farm
It is the arrival of our unexpected visitors that ultimately draws our leader out of her room, and, desperate to restore equilibrium, Regine and I accept that they may stay a night or two.
There’s no denying that it breaks the Code of Conduct, allowing children inside, but the little girls are charming and the mother is desperate and in true need of shelter. More to the point, Seed appears transformed by their presence, and I pray that they might in some way help us get her through this, help bring her back to full strength once more. The young woman, Pip, is in her late twenties or early thirties, although it’s hard to tell as she is so petite, the darkly blooming bruises on her face making her look more vulnerable than perhaps she’d otherwise appear. Where has she come from, to be so far off the main road with nothing but the clothes she stands up in? When we ask her to surrender her phone, she does so without argument, and when we enquire who inflicted her injuries she makes eyes towards the children and the subject is dropped.
It’s mid-afternoon and, as the girls run along the hallway, the oldest, Olive, stops to sniff the air at the threshold to the kitchen, joy crossing her flawless little face. ‘I smell biscuits!’ she announces, and the toddler claps her hands.
I stoop to their level, confidential, my stomach turning over as memories of little Seed rush in at me. ‘Honey and oat biscuits,’ I whisper, indicating towards the open door of the kitchen. ‘Shall we see if we can find you one? I think Oregon will be taking them out of the oven any minute now!’
The mother, Pip, reaches out to touch me on the shoulder, mouthing a thank-you before she heads off to the gardens with Seed, and it’s a wonderful thing to feel useful, to be diverted by these two small angels. In the kitchen, the girls are given glasses of milk and warm biscuits, before Oregon puts them to work making shapes from some pieces of pastry left over from the pies she’s made for tonight’s supper. I leave them sitting at the workbench in the sunlight, their sweet laughter fading behind me as I make my way out to the lawn to join Seed and the mother.
‘Ah, Bramble,’ Seed says, holding out a hand. ‘Pip here says she has relatives in Bournemouth. Didn’t you used to holiday there as a child?’
I nod, remembering the golden beach days of my mother’s younger years, she in a floral sundress and oversized hat, me in a knitted swimsuit, pouring water from a bucket and wat
ching the sand shift. I see my father in the distance, dressed as though for work, in brown suit and polished shoes, his thinning hair parted archly, not joining in, but watching. Always watching.
‘And where did you say you’ve come from?’ I ask, noticing the way her gaze drops whenever we navigate close to the cause of her distress.
‘I – I’ve come from London,’ she says, and I wonder how economical she’s being with the truth. ‘That’s where our family home is – where my husband is now.’ She looks beyond me, back towards the house. ‘Olive and Beebee – are they all right? I don’t like to leave them for too long, not since—’
And there it is again, that coy downward glance with her glossy lashes. Is she to be trusted? But then all at once she breaks down, pressing fingers to her mouth as she sheds heavy tears.
Seed’s hand springs out, almost making contact with the young woman, before she loses confidence and her arm drops to her side. There is something in Seed’s broken expression that terrifies me, and I push the thought away in my rush to comfort the girl, never having been able to tolerate witnessing another human cry.
‘Oh, come now!’ I say, and I slip my arm beneath the young woman’s and we walk, the three of us, past the allotments and wood store, round through the orchard at the back of the house. The sisters we pass try to conceal their interest, nodding genially and saving their chatter for when we are out of earshot. There’s always great curiosity when a new resident arrives, particularly one who comes unannounced, unvetted and uninterviewed. Of course, she won’t be allowed to stay for more than a day or two; Regine, the old stickler, will see to that. But for now Pip is welcome, and I mentally make lists of instructions to hand out over tea. As our tour of the grounds comes to a close, the bell sounds out, and, all around, sisters lay down their tools and head for the dining room. In a burst of joyous laughter, Beebee and Olive come tearing out through the French doors, and there is a holiday feel in the air, and my beachside memories and their tinkling shouts and cries merge in my mind, sweet and sour.
33 Women: A gripping new thriller about the power of women, and the lengths they will go to when pushed... Page 25