The little convent chapel was as modest and unostentatious as Markham remembered from their earlier visit, the dozen or so nuns sitting in their choir stalls listening as one of their number stood at the oak lectern reading the prayers for the day.
Somewhat self-consciously, the two men took their seats at the end of the semi-circular row of chairs in the middle of the room. The nuns’ concentration, however, was so perfect that not a head turned in their direction.
“‘But lo, you require truth in the inward parts: and will make me understand wisdom secretly. You shall purge me, and I shall be clean: you shall wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.’”
The words jogged the DI’s memory. Something he had read somewhere else recently about corruption and fiery cleansing….
Markham looked closely at the figures in the choir stall.
His eyes rested on one longer than the rest.
Mother Gregory. Tall, angular. The nun who had quoted poetry on their last visit. The one whose face had held agonized regret. And, as he now realized in a flash of insight, unresolved guilt.
As though pulled by invisible cords, she looked across at him, deep-set eyes meeting his in an expression of mute pleading.
At the end of the short service, Markham casually asked if Mother Gregory might do the honours of the convent garden.
‘We can cap each other’s quotations,’ the DI said easily with his rare charming smile, ignoring the look on Noakes’s face which suggested that this was not his subordinate’s idea of a good time.
Out in the garden and away from the house, Mother Gregory turned to Markham and said simply, ‘You know, don’t you?’
‘Eh?’ The DS was several beats behind.
‘I know that you sent those poison pen letters to Sister Felicity and Sister Lucy.’
Noakes’s jaw dropped.
‘Not all of them.’
Mother Gregory’s complexion was the colour of an unlit wax candle.
‘When the first letters arrived telling them to get out of Bromgrove,’ she said tonelessly, ‘that’s what gave me the idea.’
‘D’you mean you became a nun cos of what happened at St Columba’s with Sister Felicity … stalked her, like?’ Noakes was catching on fast.
‘No, Sergeant.’ She gave a weary smile. ‘My vocation was genuine. But my little brother was at Saint Columba’s.’ There was a tense pause. ‘I never forgot.’
A further silence while Mother Gregory struggled to subdue her emotions.
‘I only learned of the connection with St Columba’s long after I joined this convent … when Sister Felicity and Sister Lucy started to get hate mail.’
A deep groan came from somewhere deep inside her. Like a sound that she’d kept in for months and months. A sound she had swallowed, and suppressed and locked away. But now it was out and driving her forward.
‘I liked Sister Felicity … she was a good woman and a good religious … but I couldn’t help it… It all came back to me …what Johnny went through … what my family went through.’ Her breath came in jagged pants. ‘It wasn’t rational … like I’d been taken over by a demon. I just couldn’t get out of my head that they’d looked the other way, the two of them… Sister Felicity and Sister Lucy.’
So, that was where the imagery of fire and brimstone had come from, reflected Markham. The language of the convent’s daily readings. He should have realized it sooner.
Mother Gregory was rocking herself backwards and forwards on the path, bony arms wrapped around her gaunt frame.
‘And now Sister Felicity’s dead. And I never had a chance to have it out with her … to put things right.’
Markham regarded her compassionately.
‘She was such fun, you know.’ Even in the midst of her wretchedness, the nun’s lips quirked upwards. ‘With some people, their piety’s a kind of awful blight ... like rising damp.’ No prizes for guessing who fell into that category, Markham thought, remembering Mother Clare’s pursed lips. ‘But she was different.’ The nun’s eyes met his helplessly. ‘I miss her,’ she concluded simply.
‘Get yourself some counselling, Mother,’ the DI advised kindly. ‘Think of it as making amends to Sister Felicity, if that helps.’
‘Does the community need to know?’
‘No, I don’t think so. This is just between us.’
Mother Gregory took a deep breath, revived by the scent of the garden’s lush greenery.
‘Thank you, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I nearly told you on that first visit …’
Markham waited.
‘You looked as though you’d understand. As though you know what it’s like to feel trapped between light and darkness…’ She stumbled to a halt. ‘I hope I’m not embarrassing you,’ she said timidly.
Not half! thought Noakes, stealing a glance at the guvnor to see how he was taking this load of moonshine.
Markham’s expression was tranquil, his expression steady.
‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘As it happens, you’re right. I’ve had my Jekyll and Hyde moments.’
‘Or perhaps the Freudians would call it Eros and Thanatos…’
Chuffing hell, lamented Noakes inwardly as he saw his cherished cuppa receding into the distance, they’re at it again. Just like some bollocky programme on Radio 4.
But rescue was at hand in the form of Mother Ursula.
‘Inspector, I’m going to insist you and Sergeant Noakes join me for some refreshment. You both look a bit peaky, if you don’t mind my saying.’
The DS didn’t mind at all. Nice to be appreciated, he thought, the dejected slump to his shoulders a thing of the past.
‘I’d also like to thank you for arranging for Sister Felicity’s body to be released to us on Sunday.’
‘My pleasure,’ the DI replied, though the endless string-pulling and negotiation with officialdom had made it anything but.
‘We’d like to pay our respects, of course,’ Markham murmured.
‘And so you shall, Inspector.’ Mother Ursula was effusive. ‘It will be a very private funeral next week, just for the community, as Sister Felicity would want.’
Bishop McGettrick too, presumably, thought Markham uncharitably.
‘But perhaps you and Sergeant Noakes would care to visit the coffin in our chapel beforehand.’
Markham confirmed that they would do so.
And with that, the little group wandered back through the garden towards the house.
‘So, the St Columba thing had nowt to do with the murders, Guv?’
Fortified by tea and scones, Noakes once again turned his thoughts to their quarry.
‘Unlikely, I think.’ Markham’s quick nervous energy was evident in the impatient tattoo he beat on the car’s leather upholstery. ‘Can’t be sure, but I imagine some troublemaker from the Hoxton, someone who knew the Phillipses, lit the spark—’
‘An’ Mother Gregory stoked it.’
‘Most likely. Anyway, let’s see what Valerie Saddington can tell us.’
The Saddingtons’ house was an undistinguished end-ofterrace located on Bromgrove Mount, which snaked up from the town centre and out towards the suburbs. With a constant stream of traffic rushing past the drab russet-brick exterior, the prospect was only redeemed by a glimpse of hills in the distance, misty mauve against great rifts of blue sky. The skeleton of an unfinished extension, with stacks of bricks and builders’ materials, gave the house a forlorn and unloved feel.
Valerie Saddington, an overweight bottle blonde, took them into the front room, an entire wall of which was covered by mismatched wall-mounted wine racks.
‘Nicholas was a connoisseur,’ she said defensively, following Markham’s gaze. Only she pronounced it connysewer.
After they had sat down, the offer of refreshments having been firmly declined, the DI scrutinized Saddington’s widow closely. The luridly made up eyes were empty (the effect of medication, no doubt), though he detected something that looked very much like anger smouldering in the
ir depths.
Markham wasted no time with flowery condolences, his expression of sympathy both sincere and succinct. Looking at the faux stone mantelpiece and coffee table festooned with cards, he observed that her husband was clearly much missed before assuring the widow that he hoped to expedite release of the body so that she could begin to plan a funeral.
‘It won’t be at St Cecilia’s, that I can tell you,’ was the surprising response.
‘Unhappy associations?’ the DI prompted gently.
‘Fucking leeches.’ A dull tide of crimson washed up her throat. ‘Pardon my French, but those stuck-up priests didn’t appreciate Nick and paid him peanuts. We only had what he brought in cos my Crohn’s meant I couldn’t work. Teaching and gigs had dried up, so we were stretched to the limit.’
There it was. Money difficulties. A motive for blackmail.
Catching Noakes’s eye, Markham could see he was thinking the same. If Nicholas Saddington knew something about Sister Felicity’s killer, he might well have been tempted to trade the knowledge for hard cash. A decision which probably cost him his life.
‘They were all snotty with him.’ The widow was on a riff. ‘Fancied themselves musical geniuses. Always butting in with their two penn’orth and whingeing … That Father Parker knew just how to put Nick down … and the smarmy, good-looking one—’
‘Father Reynolds?’
‘That’s him. Well, he was an organ scholar at Cambridge, apparently.’ Her voice dripped venom. ‘So, of course, there was no keeping him out of it.’
She bared her lipstick-flecked teeth in a smile reminiscent of a tigress ready to strike.
‘As for the rector, it was all ambition with him. Putting St Cecilia’s on the map. Father Dreamboat was perfect for that.’ Suddenly she seemed to collapse like a deflated balloon. ‘Poor Nick, he didn’t stand a chance against Father Hassett’s blue-eyed boy, even though he was the official parish organist.’
Later, as they were driving back to the station, Markham mulled it over.
Vaulting ambition which o’erleaps itself and falls on the other.
One of the strongest incentives to murder, well up the list, above passion and greed.
But was it the key to these murders? And, if so, how?
Valerie Saddington had dismissed the possibility of any connection between her husband and Sister Felicity, insisting that the birth of a disabled child had, if anything, brought them closer together so there was no reason for him to harbour murderous rage against pro-lifers like the nun.
It felt like they were back to square one, though at least the St Columba angle could likely be discounted. Much to the relief of Slimy Sid and Bishop McGettrick, no doubt.
Markham’s mind drifted back to the priests.
As they were leaving, Valerie Saddington’s hand had shot out and gripped Markham’s arm. He could still feel the strength of that grip, more like a handcuff than flesh and blood.
‘Men of God my eye,’ she had scoffed. ‘That monastery wasn’t awash with brotherly love. “The fur’s flying again, Val.” That’s what my Nick used to say. And they had money troubles too. Siphoning stuff off, he told me...Wish I’d shown more interest … and now it’s too late.’
All roads led back to St Cecilia’s.
‘Where to, boss?’ Noakes enquired phlegmatically.
‘The station, I think. Time to take stock.’
While Markham’s thoughts were circling St Cecilia’s, Olivia was sitting in the church, as had become her habit once the Friday morning creative writing seminar was over.
Sunlight shone softly daffodil-bright on the dark pews, while the stained glass windows cast a gentle subaqueous glow over the nave and transepts. Shrine and statues were a pale shimmer in the side aisles, and the interior seemed to breathe in long, gentle sighs that matched the beating of Olivia’s heart. As though the place pulsed with mystical life, or the ghosts of long-dead parishioners lingered there. Through the plain leaded windows above the pietà in the north aisle, she saw tall cypresses tossing their light draperies in the breeze like guardian spirits.
Strange that she had no sense of desecration. No sense that violence and murder had breached these walls.
Perhaps that was Sister Felicity’s gift to her….
Olivia thought of her friend.
She thought of the burden she herself carried hidden from the rest of the world, even from Markham. The burden that the nun had helped her to lay down. ‘Doctors don’t attend to the soul but only the body,’ she said matter-of-factly to Olivia. And with that, the healing had begun….
Suddenly, she became aware that she was not alone.
There was a figure standing in a pool of shadow at the bottom of the south aisle.
Moving towards her, it materialized into the form of a fairhaired young clergyman.
Olivia felt an odd lurch of recognition, although to the best of her knowledge she had never seen him before.
‘Apologies if I startled you,’ he said in a musical tenor. ‘I was here the other day, but couldn’t resist another peek.’
Olivia relaxed. ‘It has that effect.’
The stranger extended a hand. ‘Edward Lightwood, curate at St Peter and St Paul.’
‘The Anglican church?’
‘That’s the one … you’d probably find it architecturally hideous by comparison with St Cecilia’s.’
‘“De gustibus non est disputandum,”’ Olivia replied with a twinkle in her eyes.
He laughed delightedly. ‘How much more impressive that sounds than hackneyed axioms about tastes differing or beauty being in the eye of the beholder.’
The merriment was infectious, and his candid features commanded trust.
‘Olivia Mullen, English teacher… I’m a bit of a magpie when it comes to church attendance, but currently St Cecilia’s suits me the best.’
They fell into an easy conversation, and Olivia found herself warming to the young clergyman.
Finally, he excused himself with an endearing boyishness. ‘Help, it’s the Youth Group and I’m going to be late. Mrs Crane’ll have my guts for garters… That’s the vicar’s wife. Otherwise known as She Who Must Be Obeyed!’
It had been a cordial encounter, yet Olivia had the sense that something was troubling Edward Lightwood and that their apparently inconsequential chat concealed a deeper purpose.
What was it, she wondered.
She thought back over the exchange.
With an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of her stomach, it occurred to her that he had been sounding her out about the priests – the rector, Father Calvert and the community. As though he wanted to be satisfied they were to be trusted….
Why? It didn’t make sense.
Could it be connected to the murders? Could he…? Impossible.
Time to go. Before she drove herself mad with speculation.
Out in the forecourt, Olivia lingered uneasily.
The cypresses now seemed more like tormented maenads against a darkening sky.
She glanced across at the monastery.
In one of the ground floor windows two figures became a tableau vivant, frozen in time.
The rector and his deputy.
Watching.
11
Baal
IT WAS MUGGY AND murky in Markham’s office late on Friday afternoon, overcast skies threatening another storm.
The British summer running true to form, he thought ruefully. At least the air conditioning was back on, though God only knew how long that would last. He felt exhausted and grimy – as though chloroformed by the heat – while Noakes’s linen two-piece now sported greenish hemispheres at each armpit and a white streaky stain along the spine. DC Doyle, meanwhile, dapper and cool in another crisply tailored suit from H&M, appeared unaffected.
Three cloyingly warm, sticky Cokes sat on the desk in front of them, a poor substitute for the ice cold beers available across the road in The Bromgrove Arms.
C’mon, Markham instructed hi
mself wearily, you’re meant to be the alpha dog here. Time to take charge.
‘St Columba’s looks like being a dead-end,’ he said finally, ‘though we still need to check out the Hoxton. You’re on that, Doyle. Speak to Mrs Phillips and put out feelers … it may help to loosen tongues once they know we’re not fingering anyone for murder.’
‘Does that mean no action on the poison pen stuff, sir?’ DC Doyle liked to dot the Is and cross the Ts.
‘No promises.’ The DI’s eyes narrowed. ‘But I’ll have them for perverting the course of justice if we end up chasing our tails.’
‘Got it, sir.’
Noakes directed a baleful look through the window, in the direction of the pub across the road, almost as though he could see that tall green frosted bottle of beer waiting on the bar.
‘What d’you reckon to Nasty Nick’s missus then, Guv?’
Markham shot him a disapproving look.
The DS spread his hands wide.
‘Oh c’mon, Guv. It’s obvious everyone hated Saddington. No-one had a good word to say.’
‘All the more reason for us to accord him some respect,’ came the repressive response. A spark of anger kindled in the DI’s dark eyes. ‘Mrs Saddington said her husband was claustrophobic. Can you imagine his terror when he found himself in that stone coffin?’
The image of Nicholas Saddington desperately clawing at the lid of the sarcophagus momentarily seared Markham’s eyeballs. With an effort, he returned to his analysis of the situation.
‘Our killer is out there, on the hook and writhing. Somehow we need to flush him – or her – into the open.’
Markham felt lassitude wash over him, his thoughts coagulating into a nebulous mass. Rising abruptly, he began to pace the stuffy office, as though by this means he could goad himself to wakefulness.
‘Let’s take another look at the monastery,’ he said finally. ‘Mrs Saddington said there were tensions with the priests and some sort of rivalry with Father Reynolds…’
‘Oh yeah.’ Noakes smiled sourly. ‘Father Dreamboat.’
‘But where does Sister Felicity fit in?’ Doyle was perplexed.
Markham rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘Well, there had been a difficult conversation with Father Reynolds—’
Crime in the Convent Page 14