Crime in the Convent

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘Queer sort of bedtime reading, if you ask me,’ Noakes said consideringly, with his head on one side. ‘Enough to give folk the heebie jeebies.’

  Markham suddenly recalled a bad dream Olivia had been having. How trees had been closing in on her, first swaying menacingly, then dragging up their roots and actually advancing, remorselessly drawing nearer until fended off at the last minute by the apartment walls.

  Was there some wickedness or dishonour that Sister Felicity had uncovered? Some crime that damned the perpetrator to everlasting hell? Hell that went on and on, an aching timeless hell …

  Where would Sister Felicity go if she was upset?

  Somewhere private. Somewhere away from the other nuns. Somewhere safe.

  Of course. The church. St Cecilia’s.

  Calmly, so as not to alarm the superior and her assistant, Markham said, ‘Right, I’m going to leave you with DC Doyle. He’ll take those details we talked about.’ His eyes met the young detective’s over the nuns’ heads. A wordless message passed between the two men.

  ‘Actually, Mother Ursula, I’m parched,’ the young officer said apologetically. ‘Any chance of a cuppa?’

  ‘Of course!’ Mother Ursula exclaimed, her expression maternal, indulgent. ‘I’m sure we can manage some cake too.’

  Mother Clare was not so easily distracted. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Where are you going, Inspector?’

  ‘Just routine enquiries, Mother Clare,’ he replied blandly. ‘We’ll be back shortly.’

  With that she had to be content.

  ‘What routine enquiries?’ Noakes grunted as they walked back to their car, a tropic heat oozing up through the forecourt gravel.

  ‘I think Sister Felicity may have gone to St Cecilia’s.’ Markham was crisply decisive. ‘To pray … or speak to one of the priests … perhaps just to feel close to Father Thomas.’

  ‘Well, there you go then, Guv.’ Noakes was expansive. ‘Panic over.’

  ‘But she didn’t come home, Sergeant. She was upset about something on Thursday, but they put it down to an upset stomach. What if it wasn’t as simple as that? What if she had discovered something – something that made her a threat to someone? What if that person tracked her down there?’

  ‘I’ll put the blues and twos on,’ the other replied.

  The cool of St Cecilia’s was exquisite after the tiger sunshine outside.

  As he contemplated its interior, which seemed to shimmer with a patina of prayer and praise, Markham felt almost ashamed. How could he have imagined evil tarnishing this holy place?

  Idly, his gaze wandered around the nave and side aisles.

  ‘Nothing doing, Guv.’ Noakes flopped heavily into a pew at the back. He gestured to the confessional boxes. ‘Them Tardis thingummies are seriously creepy … jus’ like little wooden coffins.’

  Suddenly, everything slowed down and Markham heard Noakes’s voice like an overdub to a kind of hallucinatory soundtrack.

  Wooden coffins.

  The scene dissolved, rearranged its dimensions and swam into focus.

  He walked across to the first confessional box and jerked its doors open.

  Empty.

  Now the second.

  The dim light made Sister Felicity’s profile look like a silhouette cut from black paper, a slice of shadow without dimension, angled towards the little counter and grille which separated the two sides of the confessional. She appeared to be leaning forward, but the head was not right. It was lying forward on her arms, a makeshift garrotte pulled so tight about the neck that it looked like part of the dead woman’s habit.

  As though walking through the heart of a dream in which the church slept, Markham softly retraced his steps to where Noakes sat, stupefied.

  Some while later, it was time for Sister Felicity’s body to leave St Cecilia’s. Markham and Noakes bowed their heads in a sign of respect as the hearse pulled out of the forecourt where two uniformed PCs stood guard.

  Back inside the church, they watched as white-suited SOCOs flitted about in the shadows like giant moths.

  Noakes shuddered convulsively.

  ‘When I saw her shape in the … er, box … all black … it was a bit like one of them childhood nightmares … where someone’s waiting for you an’ they’ve got no face. Like Darth Vader.’ He added embarrassedly, ‘Sorry, Guv, I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead or owt.’

  ‘That’s all right, Noakesy.’ Markham’s voice was gentle. The DI too felt badly shaken. At his first sight of that featureless shape – positioned as though by a malevolent puppeteer – he had wildly imagined a haggard death’s head suspended in the air above it, waiting like some sort of vengeful ghost. Olivia believed that the spirit of a dead person lingered about the place of their death for a time. If that was true, then Sister Felicity’s soul was a long way from finding peace.

  He steered the DS towards the nearest pew. ‘C’mon, sit down for a minute. You’ve had a shock.’

  Despite the blinding sunlight outside, the church’s interior was coolly cavernous. Only the stained glass windows and a sharp white floodlight over St Cecilia’s shrine relieved the obscurity. Above where they sat, there was a soughing in the roof timbers, the ancient building still stirring and settling after hundreds of years.

  ‘Do the priests know yet?’ Noakes asked after an interval.

  ‘I sent a uniform across to explain the police activity.’ Markham frowned. ‘It’d be awful if they were door-stepped by journalists and had to hear about it second-hand.’

  The DS fidgeted restlessly in his seat.

  ‘Why did Sister Felicity come here, Guv?’ he asked. ‘Did she want to, like, confess something … was she just saying her prayers … or what?’ He sounded totally baffled.

  ‘She went missing after Compline on Friday night,’ Markham said slowly. ‘I think she had an appointment with someone and wanted to be sure of privacy.’

  ‘Wouldn’t one of the priests have to let her in?’

  ‘Not necessarily. St Cecilia’s is quite unusual for Bromgrove in that it stays open till quite late most week nights – eleven o’clock, I believe.’

  ‘But isn’t that asking for trouble, Guv? I mean,’ Noakes gestured helplessly, ‘haven’t they got valuables all over the shop?’

  ‘Well, the altar and shrine are alarmed, except when there’s a service or cleaning in progress … but you’re right,’ Markham’s face was sombre, ‘their arrangements need a major rethink.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Father Hassett’s open door policy is admirable, but the church needs CCTV or, at the very least, some sort of security rota.’ The DI’s tense still glance seemed to comprehend the whole church in its searchlight beam. ‘Then there’s the matter of keys …’

  ‘For the front door?’

  ‘Well, that can be locked and bolted from the inside by any of the community. They all have their own keys. But there’s another door into the church from the sacristy – that’s the room behind the high altar where the priests get ready for Mass. It’s got a staircase which leads up to their private oratory.’ He pointed. ‘You can see the oratory window up there over the altar, above the side pews.’

  Noakes fanned himself vigorously with a hymn book.

  ‘Who’s got keys to the sacristy, then?’

  ‘Oh, that’s anyone’s guess … contractors, cleaners, parish administrator … local history boffins, I shouldn’t wonder. All very happy-go-lucky.’ Markham’s frustration was obvious. ‘I suggested to Father Hassett that he round up as many sets of keys as possible, but I doubt he’s on to it yet.’

  One of the SOCOs came over carrying something in a plastic evidence bag.

  ‘Looks like a prayer book or missal, boss.’

  Markham nodded his thanks and the officer padded away. Then the DI felt in his pocket and slipped on a pair of latex gloves.

  ‘Daily Scripture Readings,’ he murmured. ‘No name on the flyleaf, so could belong to anyone.’

  The wafer-thin pages fell open a
t a text marked by a dried flower. A chrysanthemum, by the look of it. Was it only a coincidence that it was the emblem of death, he wondered.

  ‘Well, what does it say? Is it a clue or summat?’ Noakes asked eagerly.

  Softly, Markham began to read. ‘“No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. You cannot serve God and mammon.”’

  ‘Eh? Not more gobbledygook!’

  At Markham’s steely look, the DS turned an even deeper shade of red, looking around the church guiltily as though he expected God to pop out from the shadows.

  The DI took pity on him. ‘St Matthew’s Gospel. No doubt familiar to you.’

  ‘Er, yeah, thought I recognized it,’ came the subdued mutter. ‘Jus’ remind me, who’s mammon, Guv?’

  ‘It’s more a case of what, Noakes. Mammon’s the Hebrew word for money. Christ is saying you can’t achieve holiness if you’re obsessed with the pursuit of wealth.’

  ‘I remember a story from Sunday school about that,’ Noakes volunteered with bashful pride. ‘Folk in the Bible worshiping a golden calf an’ God smashing ’em to smithereens for it.’

  Markham had a feeling that Yahweh the Storm God was far more to Noakes’s taste than Jesus of Nazareth. Preserving a neutral expression, he continued, ‘Indeed, Sergeant. Well, do you think this text has any message for us?’

  Noakes’s face fell. ‘Not really,’ he replied, crestfallen. Then, in a brighter tone, ‘Unless it’s code … y’know, like that Da Vinci thingy.’

  ‘Don’t even go there, Sergeant.’ Markham shook his head. ‘This might not have anything to do with Sister Felicity – a parishioner could easily have left it in the confessional. And even if the book is hers, there’s nothing sinister on the face of it.’ He ran his eye down the page. ‘Just Gospel extracts with points for meditation. Standard spiritual fare.’

  ‘Humph,’ was the response. Then, ‘What was that, Guv?’

  It was the sound of a door being gently helped to close.

  They got to their feet, poised to head off intruders.

  Seconds later, two figures emerged through the archway which connected the south aisle and side pews.

  Fathers Charles Hassett and Austin Calvert.

  Markham wondered how long they had been in the church and how much they might have heard.

  The rector reached their pew in a few strides, Father Calvert moving at a more monastic pace.

  There was a flush on Father Hassett’s high cheekbones, and the dark eyes glittered with an almost febrile intensity. He was a striking man, reflected Markham, his eyes travelling down the priest’s cassock to the long, elegant hands with their curiously supple fingers – hands that he felt instinctively were fashioned not just for prayer but for strong leadership and the compassionate chastisement of wrongdoers, hands which like Jacob’s might have wrestled with an angel.

  By his side, Father Calvert faded almost into insignificance. Markham’s first thought was that he looked ravaged, the limp more pronounced than ever. Of course, this murder hard on the heels of Father Thomas’s death was bound to take its toll.

  ‘Good afternoon, Inspector.’ Father Hassett’s resonant baritone was at half-throttle. ‘I wish we weren’t meeting under these circumstances.’

  Markham nodded sadly. ‘My condolences, Fathers. I know you have close ties with the sisters.’

  A muscle jumped in the rector’s jaw and he swayed slightly. Father Calvert made an involuntary movement towards him, quickly checked.

  ‘Where was she found?’ The deputy’s voice was the thinnest whisper.

  ‘In one of the confessionals.’

  Father Calvert swallowed hard. ‘An intruder … high on drugs, perhaps?’

  ‘Too early to determine, Father.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Neither priest looked towards the confessionals, as though the profanation was too painful to contemplate.

  The DI looked meaningfully at Noakes, signalling with an almost imperceptible jerk of the head that he wanted to pre-empt any further exchange.

  The DS cleared his throat. ‘Don’t worry, gents … er, sorry, Fathers.’ He straightened his hideous tie. ‘Everything’s in hand an’ you’ll be the first to know about any developments.’

  ‘In the meantime, what can we do?’ The rector sounded desperate for some activity to take his mind off the horror at hand.

  ‘I’ll send an officer to take statements from the community,’ Markham said. ‘Nothing to be alarmed about,’ he added smoothly. ‘Just so we have an idea of movement in and around the church yesterday.’

  The DI courteously but firmly began to usher the two priests back the way that they had come.

  ‘It would be useful if all the Masses tomorrow included an appeal for information. It may be that someone saw Sister Felicity or can shed light on her state of mind.’

  They murmured their ready acquiescence.

  ‘D’you have a community centre … parish hall … or owt like that? Somewhere folk can chat in private an’ have a cuppa?’ Noakes’s tone suggested he considered such an accessory indispensable to any well-run church.

  ‘There’s the St Cecilia Building behind the monastery garden at the back of the house, Sergeant.’ Father Hassett made a deprecatory gesture. ‘Nothing lavish, but refreshments are available after most of the Masses, and our parish groups use it for meetings.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Markham said. ‘We can conduct interviews there.’

  With that, they parted, Markham looking compassionately at their retreating figures.

  ‘They look wrecked, Guv. Almost like they’re holding each other up.’

  When troubles come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.

  ‘True, Noakes.’ The DI squared his shoulders. ‘Right, now we need to visit the convent and break the news to Mother Ursula.’

  God, there were times when he hated this job.

  *

  Mother Ursula’s study at the Convent of Bon Secours felt stuffy and musty in the late afternoon heat, heavily panelled walls contributing to the sense of oppression. As befitted her office, the superior’s sanctum was considerably more comfortable than Sister Felicity’s quarters, with its sofa, a couple of brocade arm chairs and rugs floating like little islands over the polished floor boards. A few tasteful religious prints – Murillo, Botticelli, Tintoretto – decorated the walls, and a subdued but graceful flower arrangement adorned a bureau in the corner of the room. Reproduction holy icons in dark frames, with dully gold backgrounds, stood on Mother Ursula’s handsome rosewood desk next to the window. A bookcase in dark walnut ran the length of one wall, its leaded glass doors displaying what looked like an antiquarian treasure trove. Yes, by any standards, a handsome and well-appointed room.

  The superior looked as if she had aged twenty years since they last saw her, her face a dead ivory and the flesh of her cheeks hanging in wrinkled folds. Mother Clare too appeared to have shrunk into herself, staring in shocked disbelief at the three officers who sat primly in a row on the sofa, their masculine presence somehow a jarring element in the atmosphere. A third nun, introduced as Mother Gregory – tall and angular, with long, aquiline nose and (Markham couldn’t help noticing) enormous feet – completed the gathering.

  Tears slid unchecked down Mother Ursula’s face.

  ‘Our dear, dear Sister Felicity,’ she moaned. ‘At least you are safe now.’

  Mother Gregory spoke. ‘“I have desired to go Where springs not fail, To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail …”’ Her voice broke.

  ‘“And a few lilies blow,’” Markham finished softly.

  The nun smiled gratefully at him.

  Noakes observed this exchange with slack-jawed incredulity. Quoting poetry at each other, he thought. God, that’s all we bloody need.

  But suddenly, Markham was all business.

  ‘Other than telling you that Sister Felicity died of asphyxiation,
there’s not much I can say at the moment.’

  He shot the nuns a keen look.

  ‘Is there anything you can tell us about her relationships?’ He paused delicately. ‘Were there any … differences … with members of the community here? Or in the wider parish?’

  ‘Everybody loved her, Inspector,’ Mother Ursula said earnestly. ‘I know it’s a cliché, but in her case it was true.’

  Markham recalled Olivia’s summing up. ‘Her mind was a storehouse,’ she had said, ‘filled with lovely and unexpected things.’ Remembering, he felt a sharp pang of almost personal loss. The dead nun had been a woman worth knowing.

  ‘But she was no plaster saint,’ said Mother Gregory, her voice almost wistful. ‘And there was no bowing down to the clergy. Remember how forthright she was with young Father Reynolds.’

  ‘Ahem.’ Mother Clare clearly did not approve of the turn the conversation was taking. ‘I don’t think the inspector wants to hear about that.’

  From their frames, the holy men and women seemed to look on disapprovingly.

  ‘On the contrary,’ Markham smiled charmingly at the assistant, ‘any background information you can give will be helpful.’

  ‘What happened with Father Reynolds, then?’ Noakes felt sure they were about to hear something juicy.

  ‘Oh, it was something and nothing, Sergeant.’ Mother Clare was determined to nip this in the bud. ‘Sister Felicity merely felt that Father Reynolds’ … demonstrative manner might be open to misinterpretation and had a quiet word.’

  ‘Bit of a lady killer, this Father Reynolds?’ the DS enquired with prurient relish.

  Markham felt a spasm of self-disgust at the way he allowed Noakes to do his dirty work. Nevertheless, he waited with interest to hear the answer.

  The look Mother Clare directed at Noakes would have felled a lesser man.

  ‘Hardly,’ she said frostily. ‘He is an excellent young religious and took what Sister Felicity said in good part.’

  It was obvious they would learn no more about Father Reynolds, but Markham made a mental note to check him out.

  There was an awkward silence that was eventually broken by Mother Clare.

  ‘I think Sister Felicity was more upset by those letters raking up the St Columba business than anything else,’ she said stiffly.