‘Good of you to come so quickly, Sister,’ he said. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘Please.’ She had lifted her veil and saw his dark eyes move to the scarf at her throat.
‘Not the flu that’s going round, I hope?’ he said.
‘No. I’ll tell you about that later,’ she said. ‘Mother Dorothy said you wished to see me.’
‘We exhumed the body of Grant Tarquin last evening,’ he said.
‘And?’
‘You were right, Sister. The body buried under that name was facially disfigured due, apparently, to injuries sustained during the fatal car accident. It is, however, the body of a man in his early sixties with greying hair, certainly not the remains of Grant Tarquin.’
‘The doctor who signed the death certificate and then went off somewhere?’
‘Further enquiries will have to be made, of course, but I’m certain we’ll find that Dr Gullegein never practised any medicine after he left Turkey. Whether his death was an accident or not we don’t yet know. My own opinion is that Grant Tarquin killed him, staged the car accident in some remote part of Turkey where neither of them was known and made the exchange of identities. Then Grant Tarquin simply slipped over the nearest border and travelled for over a year while Dr Gullegein was being buried over here in the old cemetery.’
‘He decided to come back having been declared dead. To get the body of the young girl in the storeroom?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why now? After twenty years?’ she exclaimed.
‘Let’s reconstruct a possible scenario,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said. ‘During a New Year party a young girl is killed. My own belief is that the other members of the house party were unaware of what had happened. Grant Tarquin might have told them she’d left early. Incidentally Sir Robert Tarquin, according to the hospital records, was being operated on for varicose veins at the time. So he wasn’t present. Grant Tarquin hid the girl’s body in the trunk meaning to dispose of it later, since he was under the impression that he was going to inherit the estate anyway. With other guests present it was probably too risky to try to dispose of it at the time. Then his father dies suddenly, leaving him only a competence, and the estate is sold cheaply to your order. You know that Grant Tarquin was married as a young man?’
‘His wife and child died in a car crash,’ Sister Joan nodded. ‘I’ve often wondered if his evil nature wasn’t the result of a twisted grief.’
‘He was always wild,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said, ‘but after that he became quite unconcerned about his behaviour. So, there he is, disinherited, unable to get into the storerooms even though he cultivated friendship with the sisters here at that time.’
‘A perverted kind of friendship,’ Sister Joan said disapprovingly.
‘Morally so, but not against the law of the land,’ he agreed. ‘Then he goes abroad, knowing that though in the past he’s been welcome at the convent that welcome didn’t extend to his having a free run of the storerooms. Better to leave things as they were, but always the possibility of something being discovered must have preyed on his mind. And then, when the pressure threatens to become overwhelming, he meets the good Dr Gullegein, out in Turkey. Here’s a chance to change his identity, to officially die, and later to return to the district and make arrangements to remove that trunk.’
‘Then he must’ve killed the doctor,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Apparently Gullegein had no relatives, no close friends. He lived up country — I understand he was a fairly heavy drinker. Grant Tarquin spins him some yarn about needing to be pronounced dead — maybe he tells him he’s involved in drugs — the good doctor signs the necessary papers; they get drunk together or rather Gullegein does. Tarquin tells his friend he’ll drive him home, stages the accident, represents himself as the doctor to the local police, produces the death certificate, swaps his own photo for the doctor’s in the passport — it’s possible they’d already done that — and quietly leaves the country. A bit of quick talking, maybe a judicious bribe to the police chief so that awkward questions won’t be asked— What puzzles me is why the devil he took the risk of coming back here and trying to get hold of that trunk anyway. Even if it’d been found, he was officially dead. There was nothing to connect him with a murder that was twenty years old!’
‘I think it was the enormity of the risk that appealed to him,’ Sister Joan said thoughtfully. ‘He’d always taken risks. It can become a compulsion — to go on and on, and in the end to start thinking you’re invulnerable. But he must’ve been blown out with conceit. Staying in his own house near the old town hall?’
‘I expect we’ll find that he came into the country with a crowd of other tourists waving his own passport for a cursory inspection. The controls at borders are much more lax than they used to be. He hires a car, fills it with supplies bought in the safe anonymity of London and drives to the house, only to find young Jeb Jones installed there as a squatter, which is a circumstance he turns to advantage. Jeb isn’t a local lad. He can easily be bribed to keep quiet about Grant Tarquin’s presence in the house. He lies low, registering by telephone with the Falcon Agency as Mr Monam, scrap merchant and silversmith, sneaks into the office in Nightingale Court to put his estimate in the filing cabinet, prints out the so-called circular, offering his services in clearing out the convent — by the way I doubt if he even knew that you’d started the spring cleaning. He couldn’t have risked going into any of the local pubs where Luther was chattering for fear of being recognized. If you’d taken him up on his offer it’s my belief he’d have sent Jeb and perhaps a couple more out-of-towners to carry out the actual removals. The chest was closed, if you recall—’
‘A secret spring,’ Sister Joan nodded, her eyes intent on his face.
‘Go on yourself, Sister,’ he invited. ‘The rest of the scenario is yours.’
‘I’ve been thinking that he probably sent Jeb over to tiptoe round the storerooms and check up on the amount of stuff to be moved. Grant Tarquin wouldn’t know exactly how much had been added in the past few years. I’d found the photograph of Sir Richard Tarquin—’
‘Wild Devil Tarquin,’ Detective Sergeant Mill nodded. ‘The old boy left quite a reputation behind him. Tales of pacts with the Devil and the Lord knows what else!’
‘I know that Grant Tarquin liked to model himself on his grandfather,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Probably he had that photograph in his possession already and told Jeb to hide it in the roll of brocade.’
‘Why?’
‘To scare off anybody who might start rooting about among the rubbish?’ she suggested. ‘If you’ve an attic full of rubbish and a chance to have someone take it away, it would be very natural to go up and have a quick look round in case there was anything there you might want to keep. A sister coming across the photograph with that inscription on the back would have decided to get rid of the lot without further investigation.’
‘But not this sister?’
‘Not this sister,’ she agreed.
The desk sergeant brought coffee. She sipped hers, feeling its warmth trickle down her throat, easing the soreness.
‘And the footprints?’ he asked.
‘I think now that was merely Jeb tiptoeing around,’ she said consideringly. ‘It was Sister David who reminded me that devil worshippers are reputed to tiptoe in sacred places. There were half footprints in the chapel of rest in the old cemetery too. Would that have been Jeb getting too curious for his own good?’
‘I don’t know why we don’t enrol you in the CID, Sister,’ he said, looking amused. ‘You’re quite right, of course. We compared the prints in the chapel of rest with the shoes Jeb was wearing and they matched. My own guess is that Grant Tarquin went out at night for exercise and popped into the chapel to avoid being spotted. Probably young Jeb saw him coming out of the chapel and popped in himself out of curiosity.’
‘And was killed later on back at the house.’ She shivered.
‘Now, suppose you t
ell me what happened to you in the stable last night.’
‘Someone rang you?’
‘Sister Perpetua. She feared you might let it “slip your mind”. What went on, Sister Joan?’
She told him briefly; unwillingly, at his command, pulling aside the scarf to show the bruises.
‘We’ve an all points alert out for him,’ he said, ‘and an appeal on the TV for anyone with information to come forward. Don’t be too hard on the media. They have their uses. He can’t hide out for ever.’
‘Isn’t a cornered man more dangerous, more likely to take risks?’ she hazarded.
‘We’ll find him. Meanwhile—’ He rose.
‘Don’t go out in the dark alone.’
‘Don’t go anywhere alone. Do you want an escort back to the convent?’
‘I’ll drive straight back without stopping,’ she promised.
‘We’re still trying to identify the young girl,’ he said, moving to the door. ‘No luck in that department yet. Of course she might never have been reported missing. Take care, Joan.’
‘You too. God bless.’ She nodded towards the desk sergeant and went out to the car.
Father Malone was coming along the street, a battered briefcase under his arm, his expression hurried.
‘Sister Joan, I didn’t get the chance of a word this morning.’ He paused with his short legs poised for flight upon whatever errand of mercy he was bound. ‘Is your sore throat better? So many down with it! Happily Brother Cuthbert is recovering under Sister Jerome’s care. She has proved a first-class housekeeper even if her nature is a trifle dour, poor soul, but she won’t let him out of bed yet! Do you think they will clear up this bad business quickly? Advent is a preparation for the birth of our Blessed Lord, after all.’
‘I think they’re making progress, Father.’
‘We live in violent times, Sister. Take care now.’ He patted her shoulder and wandered on.
‘Home, James!’ Sister Joan patted the wheel of the van and leaned forward to turn the ignition key.
Her next duty was to inform Mother Dorothy of the attack on her. Her lips curved in a wry grin as she privately acknowledged Sister Perpetua’s sophistry. The older nun had kept her promise to say nothing to the prioress but had made sure the police knew.
The sun was struggling to emerge through a light drizzle of rain that had started, turning the surrounding landscape into a shimmering mist of golden drops. There was water in the deep ruts along the track and she steered an erratic course to avoid them.
‘Oh, no! Silly man!’
Brother Cuthbert, seemingly oblivious to the weather, was fiddling inside the engine of the old car parked at the side of the little schoolhouse for all the world as if he wasn’t supposed to be in bed with a sore throat.
She slammed on the brakes, undid her seat belt and climbed down, her low heels sinking into the wet grass. When Brother Cuthbert was working on the car he wouldn’t have heard Gabriel’s trumpet.
‘Brother Cuthbert, what on earth are you doing out of b—?’
But the young monk wouldn’t be in bed in the makeshift hermitage into which the little schoolhouse had been adapted. Sister Jerome wouldn’t have trailed on foot up here every day to nurse him. Brother Cuthbert had been ordered down to the Presbytery to tend his sore throat. That must have been what he was mouthing at her when she’d driven past a couple of days ago.
She turned to flee, the grass making a squelching noise as she pulled up her foot, and in that second the tall, cowled figure straightened up, turned, and strode towards her, gripping her arm as her hand grasped the van door handle.
‘You shouldn’t have got out of the van, Sister,’ Grant Tarquin said.
‘You’ve been here since—’
‘Since the monk packed his bag and went off into town with Father Malone. He was coughing badly so I reckoned he’d be gone for a couple of days. There was food inside so I didn’t have to go shopping. Young Jeb used to do most of it. He was really quite useful in that way.’
It was astonishing, she thought through her terror, how even now, even here, his charm was palpable. The brilliantly cold dark eyes, the sensual mouth and deep pleasant voice hadn’t changed since her last brief acquaintanceship with him.
‘Now it’s impossible for me to go shopping with the media prying into every nook and cranny,’ he was continuing. ‘And I can hardly go and rent a car or get on the nearest train, so I’ve been looking at the old banger over there, hoping to get it going again. It was risky but I’ve always loved a risk and there was a spare habit inside, so I took the chance. Now don’t go saying that I’ll never get away with it. I’ve managed very nicely so far.’
‘I was going to ask you to let go of my arm,’ Sister Joan said. ‘You’ve given me too many bruises already.’
‘Last night? Sorry about that.’ He had loosed his grip and she sat down shakily on the top step of the van. ‘It suddenly occurred to me that I might use Lilith for a getaway, but the dog came bounding in to greet me — nice little animal by the bye — and then I heard your voice. I wasn’t going to kill you, Sister. I only kill when it’s absolutely necessary.’
‘Was it necessary to kill that poor girl in the trunk?’ she demanded.
‘Poor girl? Oh, Mandy! I never knew her second name.’ He smiled, his teeth very white against the darkness of his face. ‘She was a bit of a tart from London I picked up. I thought it might be amusing to pass her off as a lady!’
He had emphasized the last words with a contempt that made her feel suddenly more frightened than before. Here was someone who simply didn’t consider other people as anything other than objects to be used and abused as he thought fit.
‘You killed her,’ she said.
‘The silly bitch wanted something stronger than hash, and I lost my temper. We were up in the storeroom. The trunk was there.’
‘Nobody missed her?’
‘Not as far as I ever heard.’ He shrugged slightly. ‘I told the other guests she’d been called home — look, I didn’t mean to hurt her but I had to shut her up, don’t you understand? I wasn’t myself at the time. My wife had died the previous year and I — so I went a bit wild. If my father hadn’t been such a wretched old Puritan maybe things would’ve been different. I’d have moved the girl’s body the minute the rest of the crowd had gone, but I wait sometimes too long before I act. There’s excitement in that, like playing chicken on a motorway. Then my father died and the estate was left to be sold to your precious sisterhood, and after that I never had the opportunity to spend a long, uninterrupted time up in the storerooms. Even if I’d unearthed the trunk how the devil could I have got the body down the stairs with nuns in and out of the chapel all the time? Finally I went abroad but that trunk stayed at the bottom of my mind like a burr under a horse’s saddle and I knew that sooner or later I’d have to do something about it so I hit on the notion of being declared dead.’
‘So you killed the doctor. How could you?’
‘Because he was a fool,’ Grant Tarquin said coldly. ‘I asked him for a death certificate, told him it was a joke I was planning to play on some friends. He agreed — for a consideration and then after he’d done it he wanted more. We were up in the high country on a driving trip at the time. I lost my temper and hit him. Then it occurred to me that I’d better get rid of him, so I pushed him into the car before he regained consciousness and sent it over a cliff. It was an unfortunate necessity. Then I waited for over a year — travelled about a bit and finally slipped back into the country.’
‘And registered with the Falcon Agency. We know the rest.’
‘Of course I had to lie low. I did everything by telephone. And finding Jeb in my house was a bonus. Jeb would do anything in return for a roof over his head.’
‘I’m sure he would,’ Sister Joan said, ‘but I daresay he’d draw the line at murder?’
‘I told him that I wanted to leave something up in the storeroom to scare the sisters. I’d had that photograph fo
r years. It looks just like me, don’t you think? We have a secret the Devil and I. That used to be the old Tarquin motto, you know, back in the fifteenth century when Sir Richard went off to serve the Earl of Warwick. Of course he wasn’t knighted then. That came later, for special services rendered, along with the motto. But that was a very long time ago.’
‘You killed Jane Sinclair. That was no accident.’
‘The silly wench liked wandering about in the cemetery, reading the inscriptions on the tombstones. I had to dodge her several times when I was out for an evening stroll. Then one evening I looked up and there she was, standing at a window, staring at me. Staring as if she recognized me.’
‘She saw some photographs of your father and grandfather in an old album.’
‘So she told me. I rang her up, asked her to come along to her office because I wanted to make a few enquiries about her landlady and she came. If she hadn’t said anything she’d have been fine but she stood up, looked at me, and said, “But I thought Grant Tarquin was dead”. Silly girl!’
‘And then you killed Jeb Jones.’
‘He sneaked into the convent without my leave. Going to find out what he could steal I daresay. Some old biddy gave him a crack across the nose with her walking stick so he ran away. He said he was going back there. I couldn’t have that.’
‘In other words you kill anyone who might get in your way.’
‘Including you, Sister. You keep hoping that while we’re chatting someone will come by. Nobody will, you know. It’s raining quite hard now — not the weather for a walk. Even the mass media is no longer gathering in such force. Sorry, Sister Joan!’
‘Not as sorry as I am,’ she said with feeling.
‘You know I do regret not having got to know you better,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘When we met before it was only briefly and your interfering stopped me from amusing myself. It seems you have a certain amount of spunk. Wasted in a convent, of course.’
‘Not entirely,’ Sister Joan said, and launched herself at him like a small fury, trusting in the element of surprise that might throw him off balance and give her the vital few seconds she needed in order to climb into the van and lock the door.
A VOW OF POVERTY an utterly gripping crime mystery Page 18