The Hour of Death

by Jane Willan

  “Shut up! And why aren’t you people moving? I said get on the bus.”

  “We’re not leaving Sister Agatha here. Or Lucy.” Reverend Mother said.

  Suzanne stepped forward. “Look, Devon, your problem is with me. Let Sister Agatha go. Let Lucy out of that tank. And you can do whatever you want with me.” Sister Agatha saw the two of them pass a long look. In the distance, she definitely heard the wail of a siren.

  “What would I want with you?” Devon said. “I didn’t want you twenty years ago, why would I want you now?”

  “For God’s sake, Devon. You are a horrible, despicable person.” Suzanne’s controlled voice had reached a near screaming pitch. She threw herself at him, knocking him slightly off balance, which allowed Sister Agatha to scramble to her feet. But her hiking boot caught in the hem of her habit and she fell down again. Sitting up, she saw Father Selwyn lunge at Devon. They both fell into a pile of pallets stacked next to the tank. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sister Winifred hike up her habit and bring her size-ten Wellingtons down on Devon’s wrist. She only hoped it was his gun hand. At the same moment, Sister Callwen, Sister Harriet, and Sister Matilda raced over and threw themselves on top of Devon in a jumble of parkas, habits, jumpers, scarves, and wooly hats. Just then, the police cruiser pulled off Church Lane and tore across the meadow toward them, headlight’s bouncing.

  Constable Barnes was out the door, shouting for everyone to get down. Which was a little late, Sister Agatha thought, considering that half the convent had just landed on top of Devon. She heard a shot fired. Constable Barnes yelling. She thought she heard Parker Clough shouting Lucy’s name, and then, as Reverend Mother helped her back up on her feet, she saw that Parker and two other officers were going hammer and tongs at the white pipe. It looked as if he had gotten a jimmy bar into the seal between the pipe and the tank and was using it as a lever. In a minute, and with a loud cracking noise, Parker had the pipe off and was shouting into the tank. And the next thing she knew they were pulling Lucy out and into a waiting ambulance. Devon was in handcuffs, and they watched as Constable Barnes shoved him into the back of the police cruiser. “Officer Clough will drive the bus back to the abbey,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “I told Constable Barnes about Lewis,” Father Selwyn said. “He’s going to pick him up.”

  “Lewis Colwyn?” Reverend Mother asked, her eyes wide.

  “We’ll tell you later,”

  The nuns fell silent. They stood together in the middle of the empty field, watching the taillights of the ambulance, its siren now blaring, as it pulled out onto Church Lane and raced toward the hospital.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I wish I could have made it to the cantata, but they wouldn’t release me till now—even though by the time we got to the hospital, I was pretty much fine,” Lucy said. She sat next to Parker Clough on one of the comfortable couches in the warming room.

  The spacious warming room, decorated with greens, a huge blue spruce in the corner, and a crackling fire in the fireplace, was filled with the laughter and conversation and the enticing aroma of Sister Gwenydd’s traditional Welsh Christmas dinner. Sister Agatha looked at her friends gathered in the cheerful room and tried to wrap her head around the fact that the murder was solved with the perpetrator behind bars. Along with Lewis Colwyn, the amiable botany teacher, hit man, and Wizard of Oz guy. Sister Matilda looked devastated, and Sister Agatha felt more than a little embarrassed that despite all of her sleuthing, the real bad guy had been under her nose the whole time.

  To everyone’s surprise, when the cantata had ended and the applause died down, Reverend Mother had left her pew and stepped into the pulpit. She then invited anyone who wanted to come back to the abbey for a very late-night Christmas feast. The nuns had missed the wonderful dinner that Sister Gwenydd had spent the day preparing because they were away at the housing development rescuing Lucy and Vincent van Gogh. Then they had all gone straight to the cantata at St. Anselm’s, as several of the sisters were singing in the choir. Constable Barnes had slipped in at the last minute and filled in the bass section. Sister Agatha was pretty sure he had pulled his choir robe on over his uniform.

  Sister Gwenydd thought her Christmas Eve dinner could be reheated, and she and a few sisters were in the kitchen going hammer and tongs to get it on the table. All of the Gwenafwy Abbey nuns, Constable Barnes, Father Selwyn, Emeric, Millicent, Bevan Penrose, and Suzanne Bainton were gathered in the large warming room happily awaiting the meal of Welsh cawl, scallops with bacon, fish pie, freshly baked bread, and, of course, Christmas pudding. At the last minute, Sister Agatha remembered the small bottle of brandy in her book bag. Ben Holden, who had been in the far pasture with the sheep when they all left for the housing development, had returned early from the cantata to start the fire in the warming room.

  “I’m fine, I think,” Lucy said to Parker Clough, stroking the silken ears of her little dog. Or, as Sister Gwenydd now called him, min-pin-stand-in. “It was scary in there, though it was worse in the trunk of the car. I’m just really glad that Vincent ran off before they could shove him into the tank too.”

  “It’s a good thing that tank was empty,” Constable Barnes said. He looked at Reverend Mother. “It was brand new. If it had been used even once for waste storage …” Constable Barnes shook his head. “Well, let’s just say we might not be celebrating right now.”

  “The little pup really did save the day then,” Ben Holden said. “I can’t say I like small dogs, but this one is a corker. He’s a big dog in a little body.” Ben reached down to scratch Vincent van Gogh’s ears. Sister Agatha, who was sitting on the other side of the fire, felt a wave of guilt for thinking that Ben had kidnapped Vincent van Gogh when it had been Lewis Colwyn all the time. She suddenly had a thought. “Ben,” she said quietly. “Why did you leave the article in my desk drawer?”

  “You knew it was me?” the old sheep farmer asked.

  “Not until right now.”

  “Millicent is my grandniece. And I didn’t like her being cheated by that woman. I knew who the real painter was. Millicent showed talent when she was just a wee thing. No one encouraged her though. I thought she deserved better.”

  “Why didn’t you just come to me directly?”

  “You’re the detective.” Ben stood up and placed a log on the fire. “I knew you’d figure it out.” He smiled and sat back down. “Just like you figured everything else out and now that tosser Devon Morgan and his lackey are behind bars. Where they ought to be.”

  “Hear, hear,” Father Selwyn said raising his glass of Pimm’s.

  “It was Devon all along?” Lucy said. “When Tiffany was so hostile to me at the Art Society meeting, I thought it was because I had insulted her art.”

  “Excuse me?” Millicent said.

  “Sorry. Your art. And I didn’t insult it. I critiqued it. I love your art.”

  “Thanks, and you may critique it anytime you want. Now that it’s mine again.”

  “So that’s why at the end of the meeting, when I had left to find the ladies room, I overheard Tiffany in the church kitchen. But at the time, what she said didn’t make any sense.” Lucy paused, her brow crinkled.

  “What did you hear her say?” Sister Agatha started to reach for her notebook but then accepted a glass of Pimm’s from Father Selwyn instead.

  “She said something like, ‘one click on Facebook and your past goes viral.’ To be honest, I didn’t really think about it.”

  “Did you hear anything else?”

  “No, that was it. But then, at that point, I had no reason to suspect Tiffany of anything. Or Devon.”

  “It sounds to me as if Tiffany threatened Devon with putting on social media that he had an illegitimate daughter—who he deserted at birth—and that she was back in town.”

  “He must have panicked. Visions of you giving BBC an interview. ‘Family Values Candidate Dumps Mother and Daughter’. No wonder Devon hired Lewis Colwyn.” Father Selwyn
shook his head and looked into his drink. “Sad, really.”

  “You saw Devon that night, didn’t you?” Sister Agatha said. “As you left the meeting?”

  “I did. He had pulled up in his big car as the Art Society meeting ended. And then I recognized him at the village meeting.”

  “You saw him?” Suzanne asked, her eyebrows up. She also was drinking Pimms. Sister Agatha thought she might have to trade out her cup of Welsh Brew for something more fitting to a celebration.

  “When I came out of the meeting, there was this tall, handsome older guy with a really expensive car and a driver. I had dropped my portfolio on the sidewalk and he helped me pick it up and then offered me a ride. I didn’t take it. Something about him creeped me out.”

  “Well, at least you have better judgment than I did at your age,” Suzanne said.

  “It’s sort of weird to think that I was meeting my birth father and I had no idea.”

  “But why would Devon show up at the Art Show?” Sister Callwen asked.

  “If Tiffany called Devon and he panicked, then maybe he came straight over. Perhaps he was campaigning in the area,” Sister Agatha said. “Maybe he wanted to meet with Tiffany and convince her to keep his secret.”

  “I’m confused,” Sister Harriet said. “How would Tiffany even know, though, about Devon being Lucy’s birth father?”

  “Well, Tiffany and Devon seemed to have had an affair not long ago. And …” Sister Agatha left off. She looked to Suzanne.

  “And if memory serves, Devon is a very talkative drunk,” Suzanne picked up. “So I’m thinking that he told Tiffany at some point, blurted it out, and then she used it against him when Lucy came to town. He had probably dumped Tiffany by then, and perhaps she wanted some revenge—Devon brings that out in a person. I would assume that Tiffany wanted to get back at him. So she calls him and says, ‘your daughter is back and I am alerting the press.’ Although it sounds as if, she threatened him with Facebook. Which today is probably more harmful than the front page of The London Times.’ ”

  “The next day, Tiffany is dead, and the day after that, Vincent van Gogh is kidnapped,” Father Selwyn filled in.

  “But why all the intrigue—poison, threatening notes, the Wizard of Oz theme?” Bevan asked.

  Constable Barnes cleared his throat. “Turns out that Devon Morgan doesn’t do his own dirty work. He hired Lewis Colwyn to do it. Our family-values politician didn’t want to kill anyone himself, but he wasn’t opposed to hiring it out.”

  “I can’t believe that Lewis Colwyn would do such a thing,” Sister Matilda said, handing Sister Agatha a glass of Pimm’s. “Really, Sister,” she commented, “tea?” She settled her large frame into an easy chair. “When I think of all the hours we spent working together in the abbey greenhouse.” She shook her head.

  “Which was how he targeted Lucy. He was here at the abbey all along. So, in a way, it was an inside job.” Sister Agatha was a little dismayed that she had missed the whole Lewis Colwyn connection. Armand Gamache would have picked up on it straight away.

  “I got a confession out of Lewis Colwyn pretty fast. In fact, he broke down right there at his house when we picked him up.” Constable Barnes looked pained. “Turns out that Devon was blackmailing Lewis Colwyn over an … unfortunate incident in Lewis’ past. He had been involved with an older student when he was a young teacher. He hadn’t been fired, though he would be today, and Devon Morgan told Lewis Colwyn that he would go to the press with it. Lewis was desperate to keep his past a secret.”

  “Desperate enough to kill Tiffany and scare Lucy into leaving Wales?” Reverend Mother said.

  “Desperate enough to put the extract from a deadly plant into the tea canister at the church. I guess Lewis Colwyn’s background in botany came in handy.”

  “Never underestimate the power of a secret,” Millicent spoke up from her seat next to the blue spruce. “It can make you do things you would never have imagined doing.”

  Sister Agatha and Father Selwyn exchanged a glance. Like stepping over a dead body to steal a painting and not even considering calling for help?

  “I don’t understand why Devon Morgan didn’t just have me killed? Why steal my dog and send me notes and run us off the road? It seems like a lot of trouble for a hit man to go to. Even if he does enjoy drama.”

  “Much as I hate to defend Devon Morgan, I would say that even he didn’t have it in his heart to kill his own flesh and blood,” Suzanne said.

  “No, but he did stuff her in a waste-storage tank to die,” Reverend Mother pointed out. “So I wouldn’t give him too much credit.”

  “True. Devon must have realized that Sister Agatha and I were getting close to figuring it out. And when he saw that Suzanne had appeared on the scene, he raised the stakes. Especially as he planned to run for First Minister. And you can’t do that if you have fathered a baby, abandoned its mother and forced her to give it up for adoption,” Father Selwyn said. “He knew his political career was in jeopardy if the story got out. Another secret.”

  “There is a silver lining here. Awful as everything is that has happened,” Lucy said. “I may have been given up for adoption for not-so-great reasons, but I ended up having a wonderful childhood with great parents.”

  Suzanne Bainton looked down into her drink and used her cocktail napkin to wipe her eyes.

  “And I’ve met my birth parents—well, perhaps they weren’t quite what I expected.” Lucy paused while laughter rippled through the room. “The friendship I now have with the woman who gave birth to me, and with everyone here at Gwenafwy Abbey, makes it all very worthwhile. And so I have created a special gift as a way to say thank you.”

  At that moment, the door between the warming room and the outside hall opened, and Ben and Parker entered, carrying between them the large sheet-covered canvas from the chapel. They set it down carefully in front of the fireplace.

  “As you know,” Lucy said, standing in front of it, “I am an atheist. But living here at the abbey has changed that a bit. No, I’m not going to become a nun. Like some people who drop in and then never leave.” She looked at Sister Gwenydd, who laughed from where she stood in the door, her hands in potholders and wearing her long kitchen apron. “But I think there is something to be said for the love and companionship of this place. And I think, after being with you through all of this, that the love you have for each other and for the world comes from something greater. I’m not sure that I’m ready to say it is God. Or Jesus. But it’s definitely something bigger than all of us.” She took a deep breath. “So, this is for you.” And Lucy swept the sheet off the large canvas.

  At first, Sister Agatha thought it was a nativity scene. “Very well done,” she was about to say, but then paused, looking closer.

  For a moment, everyone stood silently, admiring the scene at the manger. But very quickly, a gasp went through the room, and they all broke out into laughter, and then applause. The nativity scene was peopled by familiar faces. At first, one of the shepherds at the side of the manger looked like any other shepherd in any nativity scene. But on closer examination, the tall figure with the kind eyes and gentle smile was recognizable as Father Selwyn. Kneeling next to a lamb on the other side of the manger was another shepherd, Ben Holden. Mary was Sister Gwenydd. Joseph was none other than Officer Clough. The three angels hovering above the manger each had the sharp eyes and ready smiles of Sister Winifred, Sister Matilda, and Sister Harriet. The wise men were wise women—Reverend Mother, Suzanne Bainton, and Sister Callwen. Holding on to the rope of a camel was Constable Barnes. And standing at the back, observing everything with purple notebook in hand, was an angel whose wings were slightly tilted—Sister Agatha.

  The door to the kitchen opened, and Sister Gwenydd entered with a steaming pot of Welsh cawl, followed by two sisters carrying fresh bread, cheese pie, and oatcakes, just as the bell in the village clock tower chimed midnight.

  “Everyone,” Reverend Mother said, “it is Christmas day. And a trul
y glorious Christmas. Let us all join hands and welcome the babe of Bethlehem.”

  As they formed a circle around the big room, a fire crackling in the fireplace and fragrant steam rising from the platters of food on the table, Constable Barnes’ deep bass joined with Reverend Mother’s soprano until the entire group raised their voices in the ancient hymn:

  Come, Thou long expected Jesus,

  Born to set Thy people free;

  From our fears and sins release us,

  Let us find our rest in Thee.

  Also available by Jane Willan

  The Shadow of Death

  Author Biography

  Jane Willan wants to live in a world where everyone has time to read their favorite books, drink good coffee and walk their dog on the beach, but until that can happen she enjoys life as a pastor and writer. When she’s not working on a sermon, or hiking with her husband, Don, you can find her re-reading Jane Eyre, binge-watching Downton Abbey and trying out new ways to avoid exercise. This is her second Sister Agatha and Father Selwyn mystery

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Jane Willan

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.

  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-759-3

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-760-9

  ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-761-6

  Cover illustration by Teresa Fasolino

  Book design by Jennifer Canzone

  Printed in the United States.