The Hour of Death

by Jane Willan

  “Officer Clough. So glad you could join us,” Sister Agatha said. She cast a sidelong glance at Lucy, who sighed and looked out the window. “Would you like tea? Or a Welsh cake perhaps.”

  “A cup of tea would be lovely, Sister.” He smiled at Lucy. “I have heard you are very skilled as an artist.”

  Sister Agatha was not at all sure where he might have heard that, as almost no one had seen any art produced by Lucy. But she did notice that Lucy stopped staring out the window and turned to him. “Thanks,” she said coolly.

  “Are you liking Wales?” he asked, as Sister Agatha poured him a cup of tea.

  “I’d like it better if all sorts of weird things weren’t happening to me. But, yes. It’s beautiful. Far lovelier than I would have thought.”

  “Someday I would like to hear more about what brought you here to our little village.” Wouldn’t we all like to hear that, thought Sister Agatha. She noticed that Lucy stiffened and turned back to the window. Officer Clough looked down awkwardly. She wondered if he knew who Armand Gamache was. It might help him with Lucy if he read a little more Louise Penny.

  “What we were hoping for, Officer Clough, is permission to enter Tiffany’s house. To take a look around for …” Suddenly she found she didn’t have a great argument to put forth.

  Officer Clough leaned forward. “For your investigation?” he said in a quiet voice.

  “I didn’t think your office approved of my investigation. As you put it.”

  “Well, Constable Barnes doesn’t. And he wouldn’t be too happy if he knew we were here, having this conversation.”

  “Do you mean you would be in trouble with your boss if he knew you were here talking with us?” Lucy interjected. Sister Agatha thought her interest in Officer Clough might have gone up a bit.

  “Well, he’s actually out of town today. In Cardiff, at a department meeting. So I guess it’s not going to do any harm if we talk.” He took a sip of tea. “Tell me why you want to get into Tiffany Reese’s house.”

  “I want to see the room where she painted. According to Vonda Bryson, she did all her painting at home in a specially built studio. It was apparently very elaborate and expensive and modeled after a famous artist’s. And no one was ever allowed inside it.”

  Sister Agatha ignored the snort that came from Lucy, who covered it by taking a quick drink from her mug of coffee. Until this morning, Sister Agatha hadn’t known you could buy coffee at the Buttered Crust Tea Shop. It seemed wrong somehow.

  “I think I could learn a lot about Tiffany if I could just spend some time with her paintings. See how she organized herself. Look at what was finished, what was in progress.”

  “You think that somehow her art would give you a hint about who poisoned her?”

  “Yes. Who and why.”

  “Interesting.” He dug into the Welsh cake that sat in front of him. “What do you think, Miss Pennoyer? Do you think an artist’s studio is a window into the soul?” Sister Agatha noticed the tiniest spark awaken in Lucy.

  “I do,” she said, offering him the smallest of smiles. “One’s studio is the place where it all happens. Where you are the most experimental, the most vulnerable, the most … the most … you.” She paused. “So, yes. I guess you could call it a window into the soul.”

  “There’s one problem, however,” Officer Clough said, draining his cup of tea and setting it with a clatter into the saucer.

  “What’s that?” Sister Agatha felt her hope fading. What would be the harm in letting her walk through the studio? It’s not as though it was the crime scene.

  “There is no studio. We turned her house upside down once the tox screen came in. And I can tell you for certain—there is no artist’s studio in that house. You would never have known that Mrs. Reese was an artist at all.”

  * * *

  Sister Agatha usually enjoyed a late night at her desk in the attic library. But tonight, even with a steaming cup of Welsh Brew and one of Sister Gwenydd’s chocolate-covered Advent pretzels in front of her, she only felt stress. Officer Clough’s revelation that Tiffany wasn’t an artist had made Sister Agatha almost frantic to get into Millicent’s studio and see if she could figure out exactly what was going on.

  Taking a sip of tea, she sat back and thought. When she had first begun the investigation, she had been quite certain that Millicent had been copying Tiffany’s art. That the younger artist had even perhaps seen Tiffany as a mentor, though Tiffany Reese was certainly not the mentoring type. Millicent wore Tiffany’s cast-off clothes, painted the same subjects in the exact same style. And then, she had thought that perhaps Tiffany had gotten tired of the younger woman. Or perhaps, as Millicent’s skill and expertise improved, that Tiffany began to feel threatened by her.

  But now, it seemed unlikely that Tiffany had been Millicent’s mentor at all. Instead, Sister Agatha had started asking who was copying whom? Was the article on art fraud simply a nudge by Millicent to figure things out? But when would Millicent have had access to her desk in the library? Or how would she even know that she had a desk in the abbey library? It was impossible to imagine Millicent Pritchard sneaking into the abbey, climbing three flights of stairs, hiding the letter in Sister Agatha’s top desk drawer, and then sneaking out again. But if not Millicent, then who? Who else knew what was going on?

  She bit into the Advent pretzel. Nothing as good as salty and sweet. There was altogether too much sneaking onto the abbey grounds and making mischief. The dognapping, an article left in Sister Agatha’s desk drawer, the poison-pen letter. Who and why? And were they done yet? Or was there more dangerous mischief to come?

  More tea. Another bite of pretzel. She had to get into Millicent’s apartment. And talk to her. And this time, to be more direct. Maybe not a full-blown Bates Melanchthon interrogation, but something a little more to the point than what she had been doing.

  She looked down at the chocolate pretzel. It had a generous sprinkling of candy stars on it. Sister Gwenydd and Lucy had made them together. She had overheard them laughing in the kitchen while the rest of the abbey watched the season finale of Midsomer Murders. The nuns loved John Nettles as Inspector Barnaby. They could overhear Sister Gwenydd telling Lucy about how the pretzel represents the folded arms of prayer and the three circles represent the Trinity. And that monks in the sixth century ate them during Advent and Lent to remind themselves of the expectation of prayer and penance. Although covering them in chocolate and candy stars was Sister Gwenydd’s idea; Sister Agatha didn’t suppose that the early monks had a lot of melted chocolate and candy stars on hand.

  Taking another bite of the pretzel gave Sister Agatha an idea. Recruit Sister Gwenydd and Lucy to work together. They always seemed ready for adventure. At least Sister Gwenydd did, and perhaps she could convince Lucy to come along.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sister Agatha had parked the abbey’s aging minivan under the elm tree on the corner of Main Street and Bishop’s Walk. Millicent rented a small apartment above the Just-for-You Florist shop, and from under the tree she could see the light in her upstairs window. The ancient tree had stood on that corner for as long as anyone could remember. The parish council had debated cutting it down for years, and every time gave it a reprieve. Sister Agatha was of the opinion that the tree should stay. It had survived Dutch elm disease, a collision with the Blackthorne Dairy milk truck, and half the village carving their initials into its smooth bark. And, as everyone knew, it was bad luck to cut down an elm tree.

  Sister Agatha turned off the dome light in the minivan and glanced down the length of Main Street. They certainly rolled up the sidewalks in Pryderi. Eight o’clock on a Thursday evening and the downtown was deserted. She unscrewed the top of the thermos of tea she had brought along and poured a cup. The fragrant steaming Welsh Brew revived her energy. This was a little bit like a true Stephanie Plum stakeout. All she needed was a bucket of chicken and for the minivan to blow up.

  Lucy and Sister Gwenydd had been in Millicent’
s apartment for an hour. They had planned to drop in on her under the pretense of just stopping by to say hello and then talk with her while looking around to see what they could figure out about her paintings. Reverend Mother had handed Sister Agatha the keys to the minivan without comment after the Sister had explained what she needed and why—conveniently leaving out the part about deceiving Millicent into thinking it was a casual social call.

  Sister Agatha said a quick prayer of gratitude for Reverend Mother’s generosity and turned her attention back to the window of the apartment. It was just down the street from St. Anselm’s church, which meant that Millicent could have murdered Tiffany and then easily slipped back home before anyone was the wiser. Sister Agatha wondered where Father Selwyn was right now. She didn’t have to wonder long, as the side door facing the rectory opened to a pool of light and Father Selwyn stepped out. She smiled as he walked over to her. Stakeouts were more fun with company.

  “Sister,” he said, as she cranked down the window. “Are we doing a good old-fashioned stakeout? Like Stephanie Plum? Where’s your bucket of fried chicken?”

  “Sadly, there is no bucket of chicken.”

  “May I join you?”

  “Of course. Get in.”

  “So what are you doing, exactly?” he asked, settling into the passenger side.

  Sister Agatha launched into an explanation of her idea of recruiting Sister Gwenydd and Lucy to collect information on Millicent and had only just finished when her mobile buzzed. It was a text from Sister Gwenydd.

  “We have to talk.”

  “Come down to the van?” she texted back.

  “U come up.”

  “With Millicent there?”

  “Ys. Now.”

  “Can I bring Father Selwyn?”

  “Ys. We may need him.”

  * * *

  Millicent’s apartment was at the top of a narrow, steep stairway. Her door had a cheerful bird painted on it with a bubble issuing from its beak containing the word “welcome.” It was decidedly more cheerful than Sister Agatha would have expected. Millicent was always so serious. Perhaps here, in her own space, she was more comfortable.

  Sister Agatha knocked and then pushed the door open. Millicent was sitting on the couch, her plump face pale and drawn. Sister Gwenydd sat next to her, holding her hand, and Lucy was in the tiny kitchen to the right of the living room. It looked like she was trying to make tea. Sister Agatha’s eyes took in the entire scene, including the fact that Lucy did not have a single K-cup at her disposal. I hope she knows what to do with a tea bag, she thought.

  “Good gracious. What’s going on?”

  Sister Agatha pulled off her hat and tossed it in the corner. She sat down on an ottoman in front of Sister Gwenydd and Millicent, slipped her notebook out of her jumper pocket, and uncapped a fresh Sharpie. Father Selwyn, shrugging off his coat, sat in the only sturdy-looking chair in the room. He leaned forward, his hands clasped, concerned eyes on Millicent.

  Before anyone could speak, Lucy came into the room bearing a tray of cups, a teapot, a bowl of sugar, and a pitcher of cream.

  “I may be American, but even I know when a cup of tea is needed, she remarked,” and set the tea things on the coffee table.

  Lucy looked at Millicent. “Tell them.”

  “I don’t know where to begin,” Millicent said, taking a deep breath.

  Apparently, no one was questioning the stakeout-coverup-fake story about dropping by to say hello. Sister Agatha reminded herself to stay quiet. She noticed that Father Selwyn didn’t say a word either. He was much better at listening than she was.

  “If I tell you everything, it’ll sound like I killed Tiffany. Which I didn’t. But I just don’t think I can tell you everything.…” She looked at Lucy and then at Sister Gwenydd.

  “Tell them. It never helps to hide things. I learned that the hard way,” Sister Gwenydd said.

  Lucy brought a kitchen chair into the tiny living room and sat down, cradling her teacup in both hands. Sister Agatha added cream and sugar and took a sip, never taking eyes off Millicent. Not a bad cup of tea, she thought. For an American.

  “It doesn’t make you look entirely like a murderer,” Lucy said. “Just sort of.”

  “OK. Well. Everything started about a year ago,” Millicent began, haltingly. “I hadn’t ever shown anyone my art. I didn’t think it was worth anything. And truthfully, I’ve improved a lot since then so it’s a lot better now. Anyway …”

  “One second. How old are you?” Sister Agatha asked, Sharpie poised.

  “Twenty-one.”

  The room went silent. Millicent seemed older. Perhaps because she dressed older. No skinny jeans and boots for her, like Lucy. Or bright-pink hoodies pulled over a nun’s habit, like Sister Gwenydd. “So you were barely twenty when this story starts, right?”

  “Yes. And I was … well … alone.”

  “Your mother died that year, didn’t she?” Father Selwyn asked.

  “The year before. Anyway, I was on my own and I had just started at the florist shop—they let me have this apartment really cheap. I was at work one day when Tiffany came in. She sort of swept in, if you know what I mean. She started giving me orders about flowers. But not in a bad way. In an impressive way. I was sort of blown away by her.”

  “Did she talk to you?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “Yes. In fact, she went out of her way to talk to me. Which made me feel important. I know that sounds stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid. It’s easy to feel important when important people take a special interest in you. The problem is when their interest is more about them than it is about you.”

  Lucy yanked her hair out of its ponytail holder, pulled her hair back, trapped the messy red curls back in the ponytail holder again. Sister Agatha looked at her as if for the first time. Lucy sat on the kitchen chair, her long legs crossed, a young woman at ease with herself, sure of who she was. Sister Gwenydd as well. Both of them were ready to take on the world. In contrast to Millicent, whose eyes were never sure, voice was often trembly, and who was always swathed in layers of mismatched clothes.

  “Well, anyway,” Millicent continued, “that day in the florist shop I had been doodling on an order blank. And it was a really slow day so my doodle was pretty elaborate. I know because I saved it.”

  “You saved a doodle from more than a year ago? Why?” Then Sister Agatha wished she had just waited and listened.

  “Because it was the whole reason Tiffany noticed me. It was the thing that brought her to me.” Millicent stood and walked over to a round table against the wall. She opened a small decorative box on top of the table and removed a slip of paper. She handed it to Sister Agatha.

  A doodle indeed. Drawn in faded blue ink, but beautiful. It was of a swan floating across a lake. Even faded and done with a ballpoint pen, it captured the tranquility and majesty of the large bird, the stillness of the water, the gentle breeze. Sister Agatha looked up.

  “Lovely. So when Tiffany saw this, what happened?”

  “She asked me to come by her house for a glass of wine. And I’m embarrassed to tell you how much that meant to me. Tiffany was older, smart. And I thought that she wanted to be friends with me. And she did. In a way.”

  “When did she ask you to start painting for her?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “How did you know?” Millicent looked at Sister Agatha, her eyes wide.

  “I didn’t until right now.”

  “Well, it was soon after the glass of wine at her house.” Millicent lifted her teacup off the coffee table but set it back down without drinking. “She showed a lot of interest in my art. Which no one had ever done before. My mother had liked it, but never thought it was something I could pursue. But Tiffany thought it was brilliant. Or that’s what she said at first. Anyway, she told me that she was the new president of the Village Art Society. And when she said that, I thought …” Millicent’s voice caught. “I thought she was going to ask me to join. But then she
said that I had a unique opportunity as an artist. That she would enter one of my paintings under her name. As hers. She told me that no one would believe I had done it.”

  Lucy drew in her breath but didn’t speak.

  Millicent looked at the floor. “She said that if people thought it was her painting, they would be impressed, and it would get far more attention.” Millicent paused again, and this time she did take a sip of tea. “And that at the next art show she would tell everyone it was done by me and I could enter my own painting.”

  “Why didn’t you tell her to bugger off?” Sister Gwenydd said sitting on the edge of her kitchen chair. “Sorry,” she said with a glance at Sister Agatha and Father Selwyn. “But seriously. Why didn’t you?”

  “I understand why,” Lucy said quietly. “She offered you two things you wanted more than anything. Friendship and recognition of your art. Unfortunately, she tied the two things up in a tangled knot. A stranglehold.”

  “I feel like an idiot,” Millicent said.

  “Don’t. Artists get used all the time by rich, powerful people who can hold their livelihood in their hands. What she did was despicable, but your response to her is not that surprising.”