The Hour of Death Page 13

  She opened the purple notebook and paged through her notes. She needed to find out from Kendrick himself if he would admit to the time lapse between ending the race and showing up at the pub. But how? She seemed to remember that Father Selwyn had said he was meeting with him about the funeral this morning—right now, in fact. She couldn’t exactly crash the church office and start questioning Kendrick about where he had been the night of the race. She imagined herself as Bates Melanchthon. He would put it plainly to the suspect. “And where were you, sir, between finishing your race at ten PM and entering the Saints and Sinners Pub at ten thirty? Please account for those thirty minutes, if you will.” In her mind, she could just imagine the suspect crumbling under Melanchthon’s steely gaze and blurting out that he’d been at the church, killing the victim. Crime solved. She looked around The Buttered Crust. In her world, no opportunity existed to put the screws to anyone. And getting a confession out of Kendrick just wasn’t going to happen. Even if he was guilty. Which she was almost totally certain he was. She picked up her mobile and texted Father Selwyn:

  At Buttered Crust. R u meeting with KG?

  A moment later her cell pinged. ys. why?

  Ask him where he was between 10 and 10:30 Friday.

  What? how?

  You’ll think of something.

  Sister Agatha opened her notebook again and, turning to a new page, wrote: “remaining suspects—Millicent and Emeric. Possibly closing in on Kendrick.” She spent the next half-hour going from her notes on the murder of Tiffany to the baffling double homicide that was puzzling Bates Melanchthon. She realized that she was really making no progress on either murder, fictional or real. It was a relief to close her notebook, when her mobile pinged: Order my usual. Leaving the church now.

  She called over to Keenan. “A pot of Glengettie tea and a cranberry scone, if you will, Keenan.”

  “Father Selwyn joining you?” he asked, walking over and giving the table a swipe with his cleaning rag.

  Sister sighed. In a village as small as Pryderi, it was hard to do anything on the quiet. “Yes. Father Selwyn is coming over from the church. He’ll want his Glengettie.” Keenan ambled off without saying anything.

  A few minutes later Father Selwyn slid into the booth. “Did you get me my …?”

  “It’s coming.” She looked at him with eyebrows raised. “What did you find out?”

  “Well, first of all, I want to say that sleuthing and pastoral care of the bereaved really do not go hand in hand. That being said …” he looked up. “Thank you, Keenan.”

  Sister Agatha watched while he poured tea into his cup and, adding cream and sugar, took a sip, then set the cup into its saucer. He broke the cranberry scone in two.

  “So I wasn’t keen on just outright asking, Where were you on the night of your sister’s death?” Father Selwyn took a long sip of tea. “But, I didn’t have to bring it up at all. He talked about it openly.” He paused. “This is bordering on the confidential, but he did say that he felt terribly guilty that he was enjoying himself at the race and pub while all the while his sister lay dying from a heart attack on the floor of the parish hall not four blocks away. And then that he got on a plane early the next morning and left the country. He seemed very remorseful. Genuinely so.”

  Father Selwyn picked up a large piece of cranberry scone. “I love it when it’s full of cranberries like this. Nothing beats The Buttered Crust for baked goods.” He popped it in his mouth.

  “Did you ask him if he went straight from the race to the pub?”

  “Believe it or not, I did. It came out sounding a bit funny. I mean, he probably wonders why I needed to know. But anyway, I asked. And he didn’t hesitate. He said he did. They finished the race and drove right to Saints and Sinners.”

  “He said he went with the friends he ran with? Straight there?”

  Father Selwyn nodded, his mouth full of scone. Sister Agatha watched as he took a long drink of tea. “His exact words were, ‘And to think, we drove past the church on our way from the race. All I could think about was celebrating with my mates.’ ”

  “According to Michael, Kendrick arrived at Saints and Sinners a full thirty minutes after the other runners got there.” Sister Agatha opened her notebook and uncapped her Sharpie. “If I could place him at the scene, I would say it is time to go to the constable.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Here’s what I think happened—he ran the race, which ended in the parking lot of the primary school. He left the school in his own car—not with his running buddies—then stopped at the church on his way to the pub and killed Tiffany, then continued on to Saints and Sinners. Where he apparently had a lot to celebrate.”

  “He did all this without anyone noticing?”

  “What’s to notice? Tiffany had every reason to be in the parish hall late at night as the art show was the next day and she was president of the Art Society. And if anyone saw Kendrick Geddings stop at the church and go in, what would they think? That her brother was lending her a hand—probably.” Sister Agatha made a note in her notebook. “I wish I had some way of knowing if he was seen going into the church.”

  “I keep telling the parish board that we need a security camera at the main doors.”

  “Would Emeric have noticed? According to Bevan, he was up in the choir loft the whole time.”

  “I doubt it. I can ask him.”

  Sister Agatha stood up and began gathering her things into her book bag. “Text me when you find out. I’m out of here. I can’t be late for cheese.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Emeric said he heard a voice that sounded very much like Kendrick Geddings in the parish hall the night that Tiffany was killed.”

  The constable shifted in his seat behind his desk and shuffled some papers. “Died. You mean the night Tiffany died. There is still absolutely no evidence that Mrs. Reese did not die of natural causes.”

  Sister Agatha and Father Selwyn had hurried over to the police station as soon as Father Selwyn had talked with Emeric. Sister Agatha happened to be at St. Anselm’s to borrow a few shepherd’s crooks for the abbey’s live nativity scene. She had talked briefly with Father Selwyn, and they had decided there was too much evidence—even though circumstantial—against Kendrick Geddings to not bring in the constable. And this final piece of evidence should convince him to investigate the case as a murder. But so far, the constable was less than convinced.

  “Is this the same Emeric Scoville,” Constable Barnes said, “who told my deputy that he was nowhere near the church that evening, that he had left hours before the lady died?”

  “It seems he withheld that … piece of information … for personal reasons.” Father Selwyn said.

  “He lied to the police for personal reasons? What sort of personal reasons?”

  “Truthfully, I don’t know.” Father Selwyn and Sister Agatha looked at each other. They had wracked their brains as well as pressured Emeric to tell them why he had lied to the police. If he had been in the building, why didn’t he just say so? But he wouldn’t tell them. For Sister Agatha, it verified exactly what Rupert McFarland always said: Everyone has a secret. Some secrets are just more interesting than others.

  “But Constable, wouldn’t you agree that the important thing is that he has come forward now?”

  “First of all, he hasn’t come forward. I see a nun and a vicar in my office, not the church organist. And second, if he lied to the police, how do we know he is not lying to the clergy?” He looked at Sister Agatha. “Are you clergy, Sister? I mean, technically?”

  At the same moment Sister Agatha said, “Yes,” Father Selwyn said, “Not really.” They looked at each other. “It doesn’t matter,” she added quickly. “What matters is that Kendrick Geddings was at the scene—a fact that he has hidden—and has been challenging the will in which the victim was the only other beneficiary.”

  She left out the part about Tiffany nearly strangling Kendrick, as she wasn’t sure young Parker Clough was suppose
d to share that piece of information and didn’t want to get him in trouble with the constable. “Don’t you think it is time that you investigated Kendrick Geddings?”

  “Investigated him? Why? Your proof that he was at the scene is based on a very shaky source and you are forgetting that there was no sign of a murder. So the event you are talking about is a poor woman collapsing from a medical emergency—an emergency that, according to the coroner, was a heart attack. I’m more interested in why Emeric has suddenly decided to incriminate another person—a well-liked individual in the village.”

  Sister Agatha noticed that the constable wrote E. Scoville across the top of his desk blotter. It might have been the first time she had ever seen him take notes.

  Constable Barnes stood up. “Look, I appreciate your interest in this case.” Sister Agatha noticed that he was looking at Father Selwyn, not her. “But it’s nearly Christmas. Let’s put aside all this talk of murder and death at least until after the holidays. Surely there is enough going on at the church and the abbey this time of year to keep you both busy. Without seeing murderers hiding in the holly.” And with that, the meeting with the constable was over.

  * * *

  It was standing room only at St. Anselm’s on the morning of Tiffany’s funeral. Sister Agatha had arrived early and chosen a pew in the very the back of the church. From that vantage point she could see each person as they entered the church and sought out a seat in the pews. So far, most of the village had arrived. She watched as friends and family quietly entered—shedding coats and scarves as they walked down the long middle aisle looking for a seat in the already crowded pews. Tiffany, well known throughout the parish as a result of her involvement in the WI, the church, and all her civic groups, would have had a well-attended funeral under normal circumstances, but the fact that she might have been murdered added to the intrigue and to the size of the crowd.

  Sister Agatha wanted a seat where she could see everyone, and the back pew was the best she could do. She wanted to run through her list of suspects in her head as people walked in. As Inspector Rupert MacFarland had said, Don’t neglect the funeral, laddies! A murderer loves to make an appearance at his victim’s funeral.

  Sister Agatha watched as Father Selwyn entered from the vestry and took his seat behind the pulpit. The bishop, Suzanne Bainton, sat in the front pew. Sister Agatha was amazed again at how put-together Suzanne Bainton was. Tall, impossibly thin, with perfectly styled hair and expensive clothes, Suzanne Bainton was so beautiful and sophisticated that she looked nothing like clergy. Sister Harriet had once remarked that the bishop might have been a runway model who had gotten lost on her way to Paris and ended up in seminary.

  Father Selwyn told her that the bishop wanted to participate in the funeral and so she would be doing the benediction and one of the readings. When Sister Agatha questioned why Suzanne Bainton should even attend the funeral, he had frowned slightly before telling her. Apparently, Tiffany’s brother had given very generously to the St. Asaph diocese—a gift in memory of his parents. The gift had been large enough that it had impelled the bishop to leave her office and come to the funeral to pay her respects to Kendrick’s sister. It must have been a lot of money, Sister Agatha thought. She had never known the bishop to show up for anything in the village. Sister Agatha didn’t truly disapprove of the idea of Suzanne Bainton coming to the funeral, it was just that such behavior was so typical of the bishop. She was always thinking of money and budgets, revenue and connections. It seemed wrong somehow. The last bishop had been far more interested in the people of the parish, not the finances. On the other hand, when he retired, the diocese found itself in something of a financial mess. To her credit, Suzanne Bainton had sorted it out. Take the good with the bad, as Reverend Mother always said.

  Sister Agatha tuned back into the funeral and listened as Father Selwyn read from the Book of Romans: For whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die unto the Lord: whether we live therefore, or die, we are the Lord’s.

  Ah, she thought, leave it to the Apostle Paul to hit the nail on the head. She looked around some more, craning her neck to see the front pew. Could Inspector Rupert MacFarland be right? Did the murderer show up for the funeral? If so, that meant he or she was in the room right now.

  Kendrick Geddings was sitting in the second pew with the few out-of-town family members. They were older by at least one generation than Tiffany or Kendrick. Kendrick seemed deflated, the wind knocked out of him. Sister Agatha had seen him when he came in the church, and he seemed genuinely distraught. But maybe he was distraught over the fact that he had killed his sister, not because she was dead. Sister Agatha felt a small pang of guilt over having such an uncharitable thought while sitting at a woman’s funeral. But she couldn’t just slip off her detective hat that easily, and Kendrick had had both the means and the motive to kill. She did notice in the funeral bulletin that all memorial gifts were to go to the animal shelter in Pryderi. And she had heard from George when she was at her last library meeting that Kendrick had given a huge gift toward the library capital campaign. Would someone so generous murder his own sister for the inheritance?

  Sister Agatha watched as Millicent came down the center aisle—late—and looked around for a seat in the back, but, unable to find one, drifted forward. She finally slid into the conspicuous third pew. Millicent, as usual, was swathed in layers of clothes, only this time they were not fuchsia or purple but mostly gray and black—though she had draped an emerald-green scarf over her shoulders, giving her the appearance of a florescent swami. Millicent did not look as distraught as one would expect considering that she and Tiffany had been friends. In truth, Sister Agatha thought, she looked bored.

  Father Selwyn continued with the liturgy, his deep voice filling the nave with the stirring words from the Book of Isaiah: “The spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to comfort all who mourn.”

  He continued in his rich voice until the first part of the liturgy was ended and the congregation rose to sing. Emeric launched into a stirring rendition of For All the Saints, and Sister Agatha felt the familiar sense of joy sweep over her. Not joy because a woman had died. And certainly not joy because she thought of Tiffany as a saint. Far from it. But a quiet joy because of the hope that the hymnwriter expressed.

  For all the saints, who from their labors rest …

  there breaks a yet more glorious day,

  the saints triumphant rise in bright array.

  The hymn began perfectly, but then the impossible happened. Emeric hit a wrong note. A jarringly wrong note. He quickly recovered and went on, but Sister Agatha looked up from her hymnbook just in time to see Father Selwyn glance into the choir loft. Emeric Scoville was such a stickler for perfection when it came to his playing that to hear him mess up was a bit of a shock. Was his mind on other things? Murder, perhaps? Sister Agatha desperately wanted to whip out her purple detective’s notebook, but she resisted. Even she knew that a book with the word MURDER in big letters on the front wasn’t exactly appropriate at a funeral.

  The door that led from the sanctuary down to the kitchen opened and Sister Agatha watched as Vonda Bryson slipped through and took a seat in a side pew. Vonda had obviously been in the kitchen preparing the funeral dinner for Tiffany. Again, Sister Agatha wanted nothing more than to open her notebook and uncap her Sharpie. Again, she resisted. She wondered how Vonda was feeling. She had taken Vonda off the suspect list now that she had determined that the young mother was at the Bump and Grind the night of the murder. Looking at her sitting in the pew, Sister Agatha felt for her. Vonda, pale and shaken, was staring at the page in the hymnbook, but she wasn’t singing. Perhaps she was remembering her offhand remark about Tiffany’s funeral dinner—the dinner that she was now preparing only a week later.

  Sister Agatha turned her attention back to Father Selwyn who, she thought, in his black cassock and white surplice, brought an image of stability into the midst of a distressi
ng death. She turned around at a slight disturbance behind her. Lewis Colwyn had stumbled while walking down the aisle in search of a seat. Unable to find a place to sit, he tried to crowd in with the Murdoch family, who finally squeezed together to make room for him in their pew. Sister Agatha wondered about the absence of his wife. Until recently, they had always been seen together, laughing, talking. They seemed to enjoy simply being together. But lately, his wife had been absent. Maybe that had something to do with Lewis’ unkempt appearance. Perhaps things weren’t so great at home.

  Father Selwyn read again from the Book of Common Prayer. And then Suzanne Bainton rose and led the congregation in prayer. Both she and Father Selwyn descended the steps of the altar and stood next to the casket, now covered with the funeral pall. Sister Agatha listened to the ancient words of the commendation:

  Into your hands, O Merciful Lord,

  we commend our sister, Tiffany,

  in the sure and certain hope

  that, together with all who have died in Christ,

  she will rise with him on the last day.

  And then, with the bishop walking behind him, Father Selwyn led the casket out.

  * * *

  From where she stood in the graveyard, Sister Agatha could just see the top of the big crane that had been moved to the construction site. The procession to the cemetery had snaked halfway up Church Lane to the small graveyard that overlooked the village. The sorrow of the moment seemed even worse because of the proximity of the construction site.

  Father Selwyn spoke the final words of committal and the interment was over. Tiffany Reese had been laid to rest. As the mourners turned and walked back to their cars, the cold wind picked up and clouds covered the sun. Sister Agatha felt weighed down by one truth—she was nowhere near to solving Tiffany’s murder.

  The Gwenafwy Abbey sisters had decided just to walk back to the abbey as they were already so close. When they reached the wrought-iron gate, Sister Callwen asked Sister Agatha why she wasn’t wearing her blue wooly hat on such a cold day. It was then that Sister Agatha realized she must have dropped it at the cemetery. She hated to lose her favorite hat, so she turned back, telling the others not to worry but to go inside and get warm, she needed a bit more of a walk anyway.