The Hour of Death

by Jane Willan

  “Inspector Rupert MacFarland?” Father Selwyn asked. “Mystery Writer’s podcast?”

  “Inspector Barnaby,” she replied. “Midsomer Murders, season six, episode two. However, at the time you lied, Emeric, it wasn’t even a real murder investigation. The constable had declared that she had died of natural causes—a heart attack or stroke.” Sister Agatha knew she was probably on shaky ground, but she couldn’t accept the idea of Emeric as the murderer. “And what about the fact that Tiffany Reese’s painting was missing? Constable Barnes can’t blame that on you, can he? It’s not like they found it in your house or anything.”

  “I don’t know. I lied to the police, they found poison growing in my garden. And I was previously charged with murder by poison.” They all sat in silence for a moment. The only sounds were the Christmas carols they could hear playing from the radio on the sergeant’s desk down the hall.

  Sister Agatha couldn’t stand it any longer. “Why did you lie? Why not just say that you were up in the choir loft?”

  Emeric hesitated a little long, in her opinion. She kept her eyes on him but opened her purple detective’s notebook.

  “I panicked. You know. After having been in a trial and all.”

  “Makes perfect sense to me,” Father Selwyn said. “Panic can make people do all sorts of things.” He paused for long moment and then locked Emeric in his direct gaze. “What I don’t understand, though, is if you were accused of poisoning someone in the past, why would you grow the very same poison in your garden now? Wouldn’t you want to distance yourself from poisonous plants completely?”

  “Oh my God. You don’t believe me either!” Emeric’s eyes widened and his voice cracked. “I didn’t plant it. I rent that house. The back garden was planted when I moved in and I’ve just let it grow. I barely knew what was back there. I’m not interested in gardening.”

  “OK. That’s good. It’s all you have to say then. That you had no idea it was back there.” In Sister Agatha’s opinion, Father Selwyn didn’t sound convinced.

  “I did say that. Very clearly. And yet here I am. Sitting in jail.” Emeric’s shoulders slumped and, blowing out his breath, he leaned against the wall of the cell. Suddenly, Sister Agatha felt sorry for him. But she knew that was a dangerous feeling. Empathy with a suspect was a slippery slope.

  The bell in the clock tower had chimed ten times before the three of them joined hands in a closing prayer. As she listened to Father Selwyn’s comforting voice lifting up his petition for Emeric’s safekeeping, she found herself wondering, just how innocent was he?

  * * *

  Sister Agatha pulled her woolly hat down over her ears. She and Father Selwyn had decided they needed to talk in complete privacy, and the church office was too busy on a Sunday afternoon. Privacy was hard to come by in a village as small as Pryderi, but one place it could be found was the footpath alongside the River Pwy. It was an especially private spot on a day when the temperature barely reached double digits.

  The sun shone bright, but the air was bitter, and once again, she silently thanked Sister Winifred for her hand-knitted red jumper and matching mittens. Father Selwyn tromped along beside her in a long black duster that looked like it was left over from World War II. He had wound a bright-red woolen muffler around his neck. Sister Agatha thought he looked dashing and clerical and rumpled all at the same time. And more than a bit tired. She hated to see how depressed he had seemed after they left Emeric’s jail cell the night before. If only she could do a little more sleuthing on Kendrick Geddings and so take Emeric off the suspect list. Kendrick still seemed a more likely murderer to her than Emeric. They walked in silence for a while, and finally she couldn’t take it any longer. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  Father Selwyn stopped walking. He unwrapped his muffler and then, rewrapping it, gazed into the river, which was little more than a babbling brook. A mostly frozen babbling rook. “If you had asked me yesterday,” he said. “I would have said that of course Emeric is innocent. Maybe I still think he is. But I did read the link you sent me about the trial. And, I have to admit, much as I don’t like it, the whole thing wasn’t as clear-cut as Emeric led us to believe.”

  Sister Agatha felt for her friend. If Father Selwyn was anything, he was a realist when it came to human sin. And murder was certainly a sin. In fact, it was up there in the top ten. Father Selwyn had been close to Emeric for years. And now it looked as though he had murdered someone in Father Selwyn’s own church. If so, it was not just a horrendous act but a betrayal of friendship and trust. Tiffany, as annoying as she could be, was an active member of the church—the same church in which Emeric played the organ every Sunday. It was all very messy and, when word got out, would be devastating to the congregation. And a devastated congregation meant a lot of work for Father Selwyn as he struggled to shepherd them through it.

  Sister Agatha said nothing, just stuffed her hands deep into her pockets. They turned into the wind and continued their walk. Snow blew up in gusting flurries and talking was almost impossible. But at least no one was listening in.

  “What I can’t figure out,” she said finally. “Is why? What possible motive would Emeric have had to kill Tiffany?”

  “Nothing that I can think of. Of course, Tiffany saw herself as an amazing soprano. And she wasn’t. But a prima donna soprano is nothing new for a church choir director. And I hardly think that a difficult choir member warrants murdering.”

  “The sticking point for me … well, I have lots of sticking points with this murder … but the stolen painting doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Are you sure it was stolen?” Father Selwyn took his hands out of his pockets and blew on them. “I need to ask Bevan if he has seen my gloves anywhere. I’ve misplaced them along with my hat.”

  “We have every reason to think that the painting was stolen. Lucy told me she had seen it on display in the parish hall late Saturday afternoon.”

  “Did the police find the painting in Emeric’s house. Or were they not looking for it?”

  “Interesting question.” Sister Agatha stopped and, pulling a mitten off with her teeth, flipped through her notebook and managed to make a note without taking her other mitten off or letting the wind fling the notebook into the river.

  “You would think that whoever killed Tiffany would have been who took the painting. And if Emeric is guilty, then the painting would be in his house.”

  “Not necessarily. He would certainly have pitched it. Incriminating evidence.”

  “But why?” Father Selwyn said, repeating her question. “Why would Emeric want the painting in the first place or, for that matter, want to kill Tiffany?”

  “And a week before the cantata. Who murders their first soprano a week before the big show?”

  “And what about all the strange things that happened at the abbey? The dognapping, your mysterious article in your desk drawer? Emeric couldn’t have done any of that.”

  Sister Agatha thought Father Selwyn was grasping at straws. It was true that things at the abbey were a bit topsy-turvy, but that didn’t prove Emeric innocent. In truth, she felt that Father Selwyn was striving to prove his friend innocent because he couldn’t stand the thought of the alternative.

  “My instinct tells me that it’s all connected. But I have no actual evidence.” She paused. Her mobile was buzzing and she retrieved it from her pocket, fumbling with her mitten. She glanced at the screen. “Reverend Mother. She says to return to the abbey.” She looked at Father Selwyn. “And to hurry. It’s an emergency.”

  * * *

  For the second time in two days, Father Selwyn pulled the BMW Mini in behind the constable’s police cruiser. They both jumped out and hurried into the kitchen. Sister Gwenydd met them at the door, her face nearly as white as the flour on her apron. “It’s Lucy. They’re all in Reverend Mother’s office.”

  Sister Agatha and Father Selwyn ran up the stairs to the second floor and then down the wide hall, their footsteps echoing, and bu
rst through the door. Lucy sat in the wingback chair, Vincent van Gogh on her lap, her eyes red. Parker Clough sat across from her. He looked more perplexed this time than anything. Reverend Mother sat behind her desk gripping a basketball, her most effective stress reliever, second only to prayer, in both hands. Reverend Mother often tossed it from hand-to-hand during moments of anxiety. “Sister Agatha, good. You’re here. And Father Selwyn. We could use a little pastoral care right now.”

  “What’s going on?” Sister Agatha asked, looking from one to the other. Parker Clough handed Sister Agatha a small piece of paper. “This was found in Lucy’s studio.”

  Sister Agatha took the note, prepared for the worst.

  On it was typed in heavy type the words: SURR/NDER DOROTHY OR DI/ Surrender Dorothy or die? And what’s with the missing e’s? She handed it to Father Selwyn.

  “It’s from …” he said.

  “The Wizard of Oz.” Reverend Mother said.

  “I was going to say, ‘My typewriter.’ ” Father Selwyn looked up. “I would know my Remington Rand anywhere.” Sister Agatha noticed that Parker Clough was making a note. At least he was detective enough to recognize a clue when he saw one. She opened her own detective’s notebook and, uncapping the Sharpie, wrote, “Check Father’s Remington.”

  “Where exactly did you find it?” Sister Agatha, asked.

  “I went into my studio—my locked studio—and it was taped to my easel.” Lucy wrapped her arms around Vincent van Gogh. The dog was asleep, oblivious to the commotion around him.

  “Didn’t the Wicked Witch say just ‘Surrender Dorothy,’ but not the rest?” Sister Gwenydd asked.

  “In the original screenplay, these were the exact words,” Parker said. “They changed it for the final production.” Sister Agatha made a note. Officer Clough a Wizard of Oz expert. Who’d have thought?

  “It’s not a joke, do you think?” Father Selwyn said, his brow furrowed. “I mean, if you want to scare someone, would you quote … who is that?”

  “The Wicked Witch.” Sister Agatha said, without looking up from her notebook.

  “Of the West.” Sister Gwenydd added. “That’s important. I mean, it’s not like its Glenda the Good Witch.”

  Parker Clough nodded. “No. This person is not Glenda the Good Witch. Not if they break into locked rooms on private property they’re not.”

  “And if it is meant as a joke, it’s not one I find particularly funny,” Reverend Mother said, setting down her basketball. “Not in light of the fact that no one in the abbey would write it. And certainly no one would go into Lucy’s studio—which all the sisters respect as personal space.” Sister Agatha nodded her assent to that as well. The sisters at Gwenafwy Abbey took personal space very seriously.

  “Are you sure you haven’t rubbed someone in the village the wrong way? Gotten off on the wrong foot somehow?” Parker Clough said, turning to Lucy.

  “No. I don’t think so,” Lucy said.

  “What about when you went to the meeting of the Art Society?” Sister Agatha asked. “When you were guest speaker?”

  “That went fine. I mean except for the one lady who didn’t seem to like me. But I shouldn’t have critiqued her painting. I thought she wanted advice, but she probably didn’t.”

  “Which lady didn’t like you?” Parker Clough asked.

  “Tiffany Reese.”

  He looked at Reverend Mother and then back at Lucy. “When was this?”

  “Last Friday night.”

  “The night Tiffany was killed,” Sister Agatha added. She kept her eyes on Officer Clough. He was thinking so hard she wondered if he was in pain.

  He stood up and closed his notebook. “I’m sure the note is harmless. I’m not saying it isn’t scary. And I don’t like it that someone broke in. But usually anyone who writes a note isn’t likely to follow through. Are you quite sure that you did indeed remember to lock that door?”

  “The door was locked. I’m certain.”

  “Whoever left the note knew the abbey grounds. And they also had to have known when Lucy was in her studio and when she wasn’t.” Reverend Mother picked up the basketball and began to toss it from hand-to-hand again.

  “Well, that’s just the thing.” At this point, the young officer looked decidedly uncomfortable. “It’s nearly impossible for a complete stranger to have done this. And the dog kidnapping as well.”

  “What are you saying, Officer?” Reverend Mother’s tone had gone frosty. She caught the basketball and sat holding it in both hands.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but it seems as though it might have been one of your nuns, Reverend Mother.”

  “Are you saying that one of the sisters placed a threatening note on Lucy’s easel? That one of the sisters of Gwenafwy Abbey would have set out deliberately to frighten her with a ridiculous note from the Wicked Witch?”

  “Of the West,” Lucy said quietly.

  “Are you actually suggesting,” Reverend Mother continued, her voice rising slightly, “that a sister of Gwenafwy Abbey would have trapped a defenseless dog in a crate and left it out in the cold to die?” The room was now more than frosty. It was arctic. Perhaps, Sister Agatha thought, it was Parker Clough who should now surrender.

  “I’m not accusing anyone …”

  “You most certainly are. You are accusing one of us.”

  “I’m just saying that I don’t think we should rule anyone out. Have a talk around, Reverend Mother. Ask a few questions about how people are feeling.” He pulled on his parka and looked longingly at the door.

  “Is Lucy in any danger?” Father Selwyn asked.

  With one hand on the doorknob, Parker turned. “No. I wouldn’t think so. A person who leaves an anonymous note, especially one quoting the Wizard of Oz, doesn’t want a real confrontation. They just want to scare her off.” He paused. “Although …” he started to add. “No. Ridiculous.”

  “What’s ridiculous?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “Well, think about it. The wicked witch in the movie does steal the little dog.”

  “Toto.” Lucy said. “But Vincent van Gogh is a miniature pinscher. I forget what Toto was.”

  “Cairn terrier,” Sister Gwenydd contributed. “And the witch puts him in a basket. Which is like a crate.”

  Sister Agatha stopped writing. Good heavens, she thought. Why didn’t I see that? Out-sleuthed by Sister Gwenydd. She shook her head.

  “Which was when Dorothy decided to run away,” Parker Clough continued, looking directly at Lucy.

  “Well, I’m not running away.” Lucy said. “I’m freaked out a little, and this isn’t what I signed on for when I came here. But I am not going to be frightened by some creep who leaves cryptic notes and tries to hurt defenseless dogs.”

  “Good for you, Lucy.” Sister Agatha found that she liked the young American girl more and more. She seemed to have a bit of spirit about her. Obviously Welsh by birth.

  “You think it was the same person, then?” Father Selwyn said.

  Lucy looked at him with surprise. “Yeah. Of course. Don’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion.” Parker Clough said. Sister Agatha rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “There is no evidence that links the two.”

  “You just said that it was all from the movie. That certainly connects the dognapping and the note, right?” Sister Agatha’s mind was racing. What about the letter in her desk? And the real question, did any of this have to do with the murder in the village?

  “I’m just saying hold off a bit. We don’t have a lot of facts here. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get back to the office.” Parker Clough opened the office door. But before he stepped into the hallway, he turned back, “Father Selwyn, a word, please.”

  Sister Agatha waited while both men left the room, the door closing behind them. She turned to a fresh page in her notebook and, with her Sharpie poised, looked at Lucy. “Could you walk me through the whole thing, Lucy? Start at the beginning.”

&nbs
p; “There’s not a lot to say. I came up to my studio after noon prayers. I thought I would attend. You know, the prayers.”

  “Why did you suddenly decide to attend prayers?”

  “Well, I’m not big into prayer like all of you. But it seemed like it might focus me.” Sister Agatha noticed that Reverend Mother smiled slightly.

  “Actually,” Sister Agatha said. “Start at the beginning of the day. Trace your steps for me from the time you got up this morning.”

  “Well, today was just a normal day. I got up early—around six. I know you guys get up earlier than that. Anyway, I got up. Took Vincent out for his walk.’

  “Did anyone talk with you or see you on your walk?”

  “I ran into Ben. He was at the barn. Vincent likes the meadow by the orchard for his morning walk. Since there aren’t any sheep there, I let him off the leash for a few minutes.”

  “Did Ben say anything to you?”

  “Not really. He always touches the brim of his hat—you know, in that old-fashioned way of his. But I don’t think he actually spoke.” Ben was known to be a man of few words.

  “Then what happened?” Sister Agatha looked up from her notebook at the sound of Father Selwyn’s voice on the other side of the door. She was so focused on Lucy that she hardly thought about it. Suddenly she realized that he was nearly shouting, something Father Selwyn never did. Except at the telly during the World Cup or maybe at Paul Hollywood on the Great British Bake Off. She forced herself to turn back to Lucy. Reverend Mother and Sister Gwenydd were staring at the door.

  “Then I came back to my room. I put Vincent van Gogh in his crate with a biscuit. It’s his morning routine. Then I left to come down to breakfast. I know that I locked the door.”

  “Had you gone into your studio at all at this point?”

  “No. After breakfast, I got Vincent out of his crate and took him over to the studio with me.” Lucy paused. “I worked all morning with one break—a walk at about ten. Then lunch—he was back in his crate—and noontime prayer.”