Crime in the Convent

by Catherine Moloney

  Lightwood was about to leave when an impulse made him turn back.

  ‘I wonder, Fathers,’ he said, ‘is there any chance of your showing me the vaults under St Cecilia’s shrine?’

  Strange and unfathomable request. Until that moment, he had barely registered the existence of the vaults. They were mentioned somewhere in the little guidebook he had picked up in the church porch, but he could not have said why he suddenly experienced an intense desire to see them.

  He sensed that the request was somehow unwelcome, but clerical hospitality won out.

  As they stood in an awkward little group in front of the mantelpiece, while the rector fumbled in his cassock for keys, Lightwood heard a sudden indrawn breath from Father Calvert who had turned very pale, his eyes fixed on the wall behind the curate. The young clergyman took a step forward.

  ‘Are you all right, Father? Austin?’ The rector’s voice was sharp.

  Father Calvert was jolted out of his abstraction. ‘It’s this humidity, so tiresome,’ he said, waving away their concern.

  Now the rector was examining their visitor closely, with a puzzled air. Was it that he had met the curate before? Or did Lightwood remind him of someone?

  Smilingly, the rector recollected himself. ‘Right, here are the keys,’ he said, producing them with a flourish. ‘We just have time to take you down before community prayers.’

  Back in the church, Lightwood had an impression of steps that disappeared into darkness at the rear of the shrine and a rush of cold air overlaid with mould. Father Hassett unlocked a grille and ushered Lightwood into a semi-circular chamber containing stone tombs and sealed urns in wall niches with brass plaques beneath. He was relieved by the absence of mouldering wood coffins and other reminders of decay, having somehow convinced himself that the place would resemble a gothic catacomb. From the rector’s look of wry amusement, he guessed this was a common reaction.

  Through another grille he could see a vast turn – a sort of revolving cupboard stacked with vestments and valuables. Father Hassett gestured vaguely towards the gate but, surprisingly, made no movement to unlock it. Lightwood presumed this was the source of Mrs Crane’s ironic amusement – an array of temporal, as opposed to spiritual, treasure. And yet, there didn’t seem to be as much as he had expected…. Wasn’t there meant to be an Aladdin’s Cave of booty?

  ‘Former superiors, benefactors and other holy souls rest here,’ the rector said softly. Beside him, Father Calvert stood with his eyes closed as though in prayer. A cloud of ineffable sadness seemed to envelop the two figures as they contemplated their confrères’ final bourne.

  In the circumstances, Lightwood felt only a clodhopper would demand a peek at St Cecilia’s fabled antiquities. There would be other chances, he told himself. In any event, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, he wanted to get away from the chill little mausoleum and feel sunlight again.

  Out in the church forecourt, Lightwood looked for some time at the priests’ cemetery which held an indefinable appeal for him, watching as butterflies brushed the little white crosses with their gossamer wings. The mortuary vault seemed more than ever like a dungeon by comparison.

  His car was like an oven after the cool of the church, perspiration plastering the fresh shirt to his skin. Ruefully, he examined himself in the overhead mirror, trying to subdue the wavy blond locks which stubbornly refused to lie flat. No time for a shower before his meeting with the youth team, so it would just have to do.

  The curate took one last look at St Cecilia’s, his mind busy with those odd moments of familiarity, of recognition, the piercing blue eyes thoughtful. Despite his cordial reception, something felt “off”, only he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  He told himself he would be back.

  At around the same time as Edward Lightwood was touring St Cecilia’s, Markham and Noakes were heading out to the Hoxton Estate, with no great enthusiasm on the DS’s part.

  ‘Place’ll be like a powder keg if they see the fuzz, Guv,’ Noakes had grumbled.

  ‘We’ll just have to keep a low profile then,’ was the firm response.

  As they drove towards the unlovely gulag just outside the town centre, Markham’s thoughts were running on St Cecilia’s. How long would it be, he wondered, before anyone would sit there alone for pleasure, or without remembering that murder had been done within its precincts. Would it ever be the same for Olivia, knowing that Sister Felicity’s life had been brutally snuffed out in that confessional box, in the place above all others where she should have felt safe and secure?

  And yet the priests had interred Father Thomas just feet away from the sarcophagus where the second victim had been found entombed. ‘We see things sub specie aeternitatis, Inspector,’ Father Hassett had told him with serene imperturbability. ‘Our cemetery is nonetheless still sacred ground, hallowed by the presence of so many saintly confrères.’ Clearly, in the rector’s book, this counterbalanced any grim associations with Nicholas Saddington’s pitiful corpse. At such moments, Markham felt there was something crushing, almost ruthless, about the Catholic church’s eternal certainties.

  He wondered how they were coping in the monastery.

  Charismatic men with whom he had felt an instant connection.

  And yet …

  ‘“A man may smile, and smile, and be a villain.”’

  ‘Wassat?’

  Markham hadn’t realized he had spoken aloud.

  ‘Just some lines from Shakespeare, Sergeant.’

  The DS looked anything but reassured. The guvnor spouting poetry was rarely a good sign.

  The Hoxton was a typical run-down sixties ghetto estate.

  Six four-storey blocks of grimy white pebble-dashed flats.

  Even with the backdrop of blazing sun set in a lapis-lazuli sky, it made Markham’s spirits plummet. How much worse for those who had to live there. St Cecilia’s was like a Fabergé jewel by contrast.

  Eerily deserted, there was no sign of life save for a little knot of youths watching from a distance with sullen resentment.

  ‘Right, Sergeant, let’s get on. Which flat is it?’

  ‘Number 72 in this block here, Guv.’

  Noakes sighed gustily with the air of an early Christian martyr.

  ‘Of course, you can bet the lift won’t be working and everywhere’ll smell of pee.’

  ‘Don’t be pathetic. We’ve seen worse.’ Markham was unsympathetic.

  In fact, when they reached the flat, number 72 was a pleasant surprise, being immaculately clean and tidy, albeit the décor was a dizzying mishmash of swirling concentric patterns dating from the seventies. ‘Jus’ needs a disco ball,’ Noakes muttered out of the side of his mouth.

  There was something bird-like about the elderly woman who informed them she was Mrs Phillips (widowed). As she sat looking at them with her head on one side, she made Markham think of an inquisitive chaffinch. For all her dilapidated looks – straggling scanty grey hair drawn into a low bun, skinny hooked nose, stringy neck – she was tidily dressed in dun-coloured cardigan and skirt with an air of self-respect. From behind cheap spectacles, intelligent black eyes surveyed her guests with ingrained wariness.

  Even though the front room was stuffy and the window firmly shut, Markham showed no sign of discomfort.

  Crossing one elegant leg over the other, he chatted easily about inconsequential everyday matters until, gradually, their hostess relaxed.

  ‘Well now, I’m thinking you’d like a cup of tea, Inspector.’

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘Let me give you a hand, luv.’ Noakes sprang to life, on the scent of biscuits or, better still, cake.

  Mrs Phillips pottered out, trailed by her grizzled sherpa.

  Markham grinned. Where community relationships entailed an edible dimension, then Noakes was guaranteed to rise to the challenge.

  Markham said nothing about the purpose of their interview until tea and home-made chocolate cake had been consumed. The more he saw
of the sparky old lady, the less enthusiasm he felt for dragging her down to that netherworld visited by blessedly few. The place where human beings hurt and abused each other on purpose.

  In the end, she made it easy for him.

  ‘Reckon you’re here about the St Columba business, Inspector.’ With trembling fingers, she removed her rickety spectacles as though reluctant to see him too clearly.

  Markham waited. We have all the time in the world, his posture seemed to say.

  ‘When I heard about … the murder … about Sister Felicity, I guessed you’d be around.’ She tucked a stray wisp back into the chignon then dashed at her story with a sort of desperate resolve. ‘My Alfie was one of the lads at St Columba’s when Sister Felicity was new on the staff. What happened wasn’t any fault of hers or the other nun… They were just young ’uns, scared to speak up … prob’ly couldn’t get their heads round what was going on.’ Her voice was very low. ‘I didn’t bear any malice.’

  ‘What about the family, luv?’ Noakes was gentle.

  ‘My Mick never really got over it. After Alfie topped hisself, we never talked about it … things were easier that way, y’know.’

  Barricading memories behind a groaning door, looking the other way while they pounded and pressed. Yes, Markham knew all too well.

  ‘Go on, Mrs Phillips,’ was all he said.

  ‘The money warn’t no good to us neither … not with Alfie gone … we had no use for it, see.’

  Noakes leaned forward and patted her hand.

  ‘There’s many who’d let it make ’em all twisted inside,’ he said gruffly, ‘but you’re bigger than that. Reckon your Alfie’d be proud of you.’ Embarrassed by the display of feeling, the DS glowered at Markham as though daring him to contradict.

  Mrs Phillips blinked and put her spectacles back on, her eyes suspiciously bright.

  ‘Sister Felicity received some hate mail before her death,’ Markham said. ‘The other sister too.’

  ‘Well, I had nothing to do with that, Inspector, though I can’t answer for others. There was a lot of bad feeling ’bout it on the estate, what with folk knowing my Mick practically died of a broken heart—’

  She stopped suddenly as though a thought had struck her.

  ‘What is it, Mrs Phillips?’

  ‘I remember hearing somewhere that a relative of one of the other boys had become a nun … a sister or cousin …’

  Markham’s body was very still, like a man with the target in his sights.

  ‘In the convent, here in Bromgrove?’

  ‘Oh, I dunno where she might be now. It’s ages ago now … can’t be rightly sure who it was told me.’ She looked anxiously at Markham. ‘Why, is it important?’

  ‘It might be, Mrs Phillips.’ He felt as though something had stirred in his brain, something that had been lying dormant….

  They stayed a further half hour, Noakes delighting her on departure by requesting a recipe for the chocolate cake. ‘The missus’ll want to give it a try,’ he said shyly.

  Outside, they stood leaning against their car, reluctant to subject themselves to its burning upholstery.

  ‘Waddya reckon to that, Guv?’

  ‘I think we’ll be paying the convent a visit, Noakes. The hate mail could be a link to Sister Felicity’s murder.’ He kicked half-heartedly at a pebble. ‘But, equally, it might have nothing to do with it …’

  ‘An’ there’s Saddington … how does he fit in to St Columba’s?’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t, Sergeant … maybe we’re looking at two unconnected killings.’

  Noakes’s expression was comically stricken as they eased themselves into the oven of the waiting car.

  ‘Two murderers, boss! Sl – DCI Sidney won’t like that!’

  ‘Quite.’ The monosyllabic reply conveyed a wealth of feeling.

  With the usual grinding of gears, they were off.

  Privately, Markham vowed to keep this latest development strictly to himself. Not a word to Olivia. He worried that she was getting in too deep.

  And that could be very dangerous.

  10

  Troubling Encounters

  AS THEY DROVE INTO the Convent of Bon Secours’ forecourt late on Friday morning, Markham reflected that it was somewhere he found comfortable, a place away from town where he could feel his surroundings breathe. Even St Michael the Archangel over the front door seemed like a friend.

  The DI needed all the friends he could get. A meeting with DCI Sidney the previous evening against the backdrop of a summer storm had seen Slimy Sid – no doubt under pressure from oleaginous Bishop McGettrick and the Catholic mafia – in full spate. As usual, his spies had kept the DCI well informed. Why wasn’t Markham focusing on local drug addicts and the mentally disturbed? Why this misdirected focus on St Cecilia’s and the St Columba enquiry? Why was he bothering the university?

  Because these weren’t random crimes, you cretin!

  Confronted by Sidney’s arrogant face with its preposterous goatee, the DI had come perilously close to saying the words out loud. Instead, he pasted onto his features the expression he reserved for such occasions – fixed smile worthy of a Zen master – and offered the occasional ‘ah’ and ‘mmm’ to denote respectful attention. Outside a thunderbolt cracked. If Markham could have arranged for a second thunderbolt, he would have directed it at Sidney there and then. When the tirade was over and they’d bowed themselves out of the presence, Noakes went off to his ballroom dancing class – ‘It’s the rhumba tonight an’ Muriel says we’ve got to work on our spiral turns’ – while Markham went and beat seven bells out of DI Chris Carstairs from Vice, a fellow habitué of Doggie Dickerson’s Gym. Afterwards, he felt infinitely better, his fellow officer providing a useful substitute for Sidney when the desire to thrash his boss to a pulp became overwhelming.

  Olivia had been out at her creative writing class when he got back from the gym. On her return, they carefully avoided any mention of Leo Wolfitt – President of the League of Aetheists and professional agitator – and kept to neutral subjects. There was still an air of constraint between them, and his dreams that night had been uneasy. He was in the little cemetery at St Cecilia’s, in front of the sarcophagus where Nicholas Saddington had been found. The lid slowly lifted, but it was Olivia lying there in the tomb looking up at him. When he tried to call out to her, his voice died in his throat.

  Markham had woken in a cold sweat, with a sense of impending catastrophe, to hear the storm marshalling its forces once more in a wild symphony. He could not shake the conviction that something threatened his girlfriend. Something sinister. The slow fear built like a forest fire that he whipped to cinders only to see it slither away beneath the earth and break out again further ahead. For a long time, he watched the bedroom ceiling laced with flickering shadows, the rain’s steady monotone relentless in the background. Eventually, he fell back to sleep, but the feeling of uneasiness persisted.

  After the flurry of rain-whipped squalls the previous day, the sky was now a radiant turquoise, the air soft and fresh with a scent of lavender. Markham felt a sudden intense pang of grief for Sister Felicity and Nicholas Saddington. It seemed too cruel that they should be mouldering in their coffins when the rest of the world was waking up to a beautiful day so full of promise. Once again, he vowed to himself that he would follow wherever the trail led, even if that meant disinterring the monsters that lurked, huddled and inhuman, deep inside those respectable people whom the DCI and McGettrick were so desperate not to offend.

  Noakes’s thoughts, predictably, were of the less philosophical variety.

  ‘Wonder if we’ll get a cuppa. Though that Mother Clare’s enough to curdle the milk.’

  What was it about the DS’s physique, Markham wondered, weighing up the latest sartorial offering. Bulging out of his clothes – which seemed more like a straitjacket than sober linen two piece – he appeared the least likely candidate imaginable for the county ballroom dancing trophy. A quotation he remembered h
earing on Olivia’s lips came into his mind. ‘“A bullock in ballet shoes.”’ It just about summed Noakes up.

  ‘Refreshment can wait, Sergeant,’ he said drily. ‘I want to lay this St Columba business to rest.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s connected to the murders then, Guv?’

  ‘No.’ Something had resolved itself for the DI. ‘No, I don’t think so but I need to be sure.’

  The poison pen letters, he reflected, had been fortunate for the killer. Had offered convenient cover for two murders, with the potential to send CID scurrying in the wrong direction.

  His mouth set in a grim line.

  That ended now.

  *

  Sister Martha greeted them. Remembering the nun from the meeting with Bishop McGettrick, the DI deduced that it must be her stint as convent doorkeeper.

  ‘The community’s in chapel,’ she told them shyly.

  ‘That’s all right, Sister.’ Markham glanced sideways at Noakes with a sly smile. ‘We could do with some spiritual edification. Any objection to our joining in?’

  ‘Of course not, Inspector.’ The little nun was unfazed. ‘I’ll take you there now.’

  Oh God, thought Noakes as they followed her along various corridors. More saints in daft get-up with silly faces looking like they were waiting for a bus.

  ‘That’s Saint Clement Hofbauer.’ Sister Martha gestured to a black-cassocked figure gazing moonily into space. ‘Patron of the poor.’ Well, he certainly looked like a good meal wouldn’t go amiss. ‘And the one over there,’ she pointed to a stern looking woman in a religious habit, ‘that’s Saint Catherine of Siena.’ Another scrawny specimen. No wonder they looked so peed off. ‘She starved herself to grow closer to God,’ whispered Sister Martha in awe, confirming Noakes’s worst suspicions. Just wait till he told Muriel. She had no time for that kind of thing. ‘Acting up’ she called it, and quite right too. No wonder if one of these nuns had turned screwy.