The Hour of Death Read online

  “Did you see anyone on the abbey grounds whom you didn’t recognize?”

  “No. In fact, I saw hardly anyone. Except Sister Gwenydd, because I stopped by the kitchen around ten in the morning just to say hello.” It now was obvious that Father Selwyn and Constable Barnes were having a heated conversation. Reverend Mother looked toward Sister Agatha, her eyebrows raised. Sister Agatha shrugged.

  “Has anyone been on the abbey grounds today, Reverend Mother? A workman? Plumber?” Sister Agatha asked, also looking at the closed door.

  “No one. As far as I know. I was up here in my office all day. Dealing with paperwork, phone calls, the usual. The rest of the sisters have been occupied either in the cheese barn or in the village. A few were visiting at the care center. I believe Sister Harriet was at her drawing board.

  Sister Agatha turned back to Lucy. “Then what? After noon prayers?”

  “Then I went upstairs to my studio and the door was closed and locked. Like I left it.” Sister Agatha nodded. Lucy was notoriously private about her work. “And there it was.” She nodded toward the note in Reverend Mother’s hand. “On my easel.” Lucy looked down at the dog sleeping in her lap. She stroked his silken ear.

  “And Vincent?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “In his bed in the studio, totally fine.”

  Sister Agatha tapped her Sharpie on her notebook. The last thing she felt like doing was to agree with Parker. Yet it did seem pretty clear that only someone with access to the abbey, a master key, in fact, could walk around unnoticed—except maybe during noontime prayer.

  “Reverend Mother, was anyone missing from the chapel at noon?”

  Reverend Mother looked decidedly unhappy with the question. “I hope you are not following the officer’s idea that it was one of the community?”

  “Of course not. I just …”

  “Well, Sister Winifred was in the cheese barn. And you were … where were you, exactly?”

  “I was with Father Selwyn.”

  Reverend Mother frowned. “That only leaves Sister Callwen, and that thought is ridiculous.”

  “I agree. If Sister Callwen dislikes you, she tells you to your face. She would never leave a note.”

  Everyone turned as Father Selwyn came in the door, his face ashen. He looked at Sister Agatha and then at Reverend Mother. “What is it, Father?” Reverend Mother gestured to a chair. “Sit down. You look pale.”

  “The tox screen came back,” he said, still standing. “They found traces of poison in Tiffany’s system. Aconitum napellus. It causes death by ventricular arrhythmias or …,” he looked down at his notes. “Paralysis of the heart or respiratory center.” He paused, looking truly ill. “The same poison that Emeric had in his back garden. And …,” his voice trailed off.

  “And what?” Sister Agatha asked, not even opening her notebook.

  “And Aconitum napellus is the same poison that Emeric was accused of using twenty years ago.”

  * * *

  Sister Agatha sat at her desk staring out of the mullioned window. The clouds had hung low all evening, and now the night sky was black as pitch. A harsh wind rattled the pane. The words to the Advent hymn sung at compline echoed in her head.

  In the bleak mid-winter

  Frosty wind made moan;

  Earth stood hard as iron,

  Water like a stone;

  The bell in the village clock tower chimed, its clear sound carrying across the cold night landscape. The meeting in the kitchen had ended badly. Father Selwyn had been nearly inconsolable. He had called Emeric’s solicitor and then made plans to stop by the jail on the way home from the abbey. She wondered if it wouldn’t be possible for Emeric to still play the cantata at St. Anselm’s, but of course that was ridiculous. He had been accused of murder. She also tried to reassure Father Selwyn that there was little solid evidence against Emeric. Yes, Tiffany had been poisoned, but there was no solid physical evidence linking the poison she ingested to Emeric. Although they both knew that a good prosecutor could make the case.

  Sister Agatha could not get Kendrick out of her head. Kendrick was at the church at almost the exact time of Tiffany’s death—although the only witness, Emeric, was now accused of the murder. If she could only gather a little more evidence on Kendrick, she might be able to make a case that would help Emeric. And maybe even in time for the Christmas cantata. There had to be something she had missed. Her eye fell on the notes she had taken on Lucy. She sat back and thought for a moment, wishing desperately for a cup of tea but too tired to go down to the kitchen to make one.

  She went over everything in her head: Lucy had had a negative interaction with Tiffany—but then so had half the village. Sister Agatha suddenly realized that Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz had also—in a manner of speaking—had a negative interaction with the Wicked Witch. And it was right before Toto was stolen just as Vincent was stolen. Too much of a stretch? Maybe. Then, less than a week later, a poison-pen letter left in Lucy’s studio, Tiffany’s murder, the kidnapped dog, the note, the wicked witch, poison, a church organist in jail, a mysterious article left in Sister Agatha’s desk.

  That article was especially puzzling. She had asked the other sisters, and no one claimed to have left it. Sister Gwenydd had shown the most interest. But if Sister Gwenydd had wanted her to read the article, she wouldn’t have mysteriously left it in her desk. Someone from outside the convent left it. She was sure of that. But why? And who?

  Suddenly she shivered. What if the same person who left her the article was the writer of the poison-pen letter? And the same person who kidnapped Vincent van Gogh? And maybe even the person who poisoned Tiffany? If that were true, then the murderer was slipping unnoticed into the abbey grounds and knew the nuns’ schedule. Which meant the person was watching them. She shivered again and glanced at the closed door of the library. Between her and everyone else in the abbey was a long, dark stairway followed by a long, dark hallway.

  She closed her eyes, her heart racing. Lord, in Your mercy, she finally whispered. Protect all who dwell in this house.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sister Agatha breathed deeply as she stepped through the door of the Buttered Crust Tea Shop. Monday morning’s baking had just come out of the large convection oven at the back of the kitchen. The fragrance of warm bread, mixed with the cheerful banter of the early morning crowd, was heartening. She had read an article in the Huffington Post saying that just the smell of freshly baked bread has such a profound effect on a human being that it has the power to make someone a nicer, kinder person. She believed it. The aroma of the Buttered Crust always left her with a small glimmer of optimism. And there was nothing like optimism to make you a better person. She pushed her way across the crowded room to the back booth, where Father Selwyn sat staring at an untouched cup of tea.

  She had left Gwenafwy Abbey as soon as morning prayers were over and headed for the village to pick up supplies for Sister Gwenydd at Lettuce-Eat-Vegan. Walking into the village had always been a refreshing way to start the day, but now it was ruined by the devastation she felt as she walked past the construction site—mud frozen in jagged ruts, a deep gaping hole. The words of Devon Morgan came back to her every time she walked past it. “Development is just what North Wales needs,” he had insisted in his smooth, politician’s voice. Again reading the sign, DRM Industries, she had stopped at the edge of the Lane and, pulling off her mittens, made a note in her purple detective’s notebook: Check on DRM.

  Sister Agatha pulled off her hat and mittens as she slid into the back booth. Christmas music floated over the cheerful buzz of the breakfast crowd.

  “My apologies,” Father Selwyn said. “I didn’t even order your usual.”

  “That’s OK. Keenan just automatically brings it over when he notices that I’m here.”

  “Well, with Keenan, noticing a customer could be the problem.”

  “How are you?” she asked. He didn’t look good.

  “Worried. The constable is so set on
the killer being Emeric he won’t listen to reason. Or consider anyone else.”

  “I haven’t given up on Kendrick. He seems guilty. Truthfully, Emeric and Kendrick both seem guilty. Constable Barnes is probably hoping to get a confession out of Emeric that will lead everyone to a discovery of hard evidence.”

  Keenan ambled over and they stopped talking as he slid a cup of tea and a Welsh cake in front of Sister Agatha. She smiled her thanks and scooped sugar from the sugar bowl into her tea. She liked it that the Buttered Crust Tea Shop still used sugar bowls and spoons. No little paper packets for them. She poured cream from the little pitcher. And none of that powdered business for cream either. Sister Gwenydd had tried to get Sister Agatha to switch over to soy milk for her tea. No chance.

  Father Selwyn turned to the young waiter. “You know, Keenan, I think I will have a cranberry scone. With extra butter. A morning like this calls for pastry.”

  Keenan glanced at Sister Agatha then down at his shoes. They watched as he didn’t move. Next his gaze went out the window. Finally he cleared his throat.

  “What is it?” Father Selwyn said. “A cranberry scone. Don’t tell me you don’t have any today?”

  “No. It’s not that.” Keenan heaved a great sigh. “You know, Father Selwyn, that Bevan is my cousin.”

  “Yes, I knew that.”

  “And that makes his mother my mother’s sister.”

  “Keenan, I know your family tree. What are you getting at?”

  “Bevan told me you’re off scones and I could only bring you fresh fruit. So … today, it’s banana slices with pineapple.”

  Father Selwyn sighed and, closing his eyes, slumped back in the booth. “Bananas with pineapple it is then.”

  Keenan turned and sauntered back to the counter, seemingly unaware of the customers still waiting to be noticed. Sister Agatha slid her oatcake across to Father Selwyn. He took half of it.

  “Bevan’s the best thing that ever happened to that church office, but I think it’s time he and I have a talk about boundaries. Sicking the wait staff at the Buttered Crust on me is a bit over the line.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you well supplied with all things made of butter and cream.” Sister Agatha did not believe in diets. “I have to tell you, I’m growing increasingly worried about the abbey. I mean, think about it. In order to kidnap the dog, leave the note, and stick the article in my desk drawer, you would have to know when the sisters are at prayer, or meals, or all working together in the cheese barn. The dog was stolen during breakfast and the note left during noontime prayer. I don’t know exactly when the article was left in my desk.”

  “I hate to ask …”

  “No. It can’t be. What member of the abbey would do any of these things?”

  “Ben?”

  “Maybe. But I don’t think so. I can see why he might not like the little dog. Though an act of cruelty seems way out of character. But why would he care that Lucy is here at the abbey? And would Ben ever leave a note quoting the Wicked Witch of the West?”

  “That is pretty preposterous, I agree.”

  “This whole thing has gotten way out of hand. A week ago, everybody but me thought that Tiffany had simply had a heart attack in the parish hall—upsetting and tragic, but not dangerous. A week later, the abbey is being threatened and it is pretty clear that Tiffany was murdered.”

  Keenan walked up and slid a bowl in front of Father Selwyn. It contained six or seven rather pale-looking pineapple chunks.

  “I thought you said you had bananas.”

  “Out of bananas.”

  “These pineapples are from a tin.”

  “They say tinned’s just as good as fresh. Only it’s … you know … tinned.”

  They watched as Keenan turned and walked away. Father Selwyn sighed and picked up his spoon.

  “And if all of that isn’t bad enough,” Sister Agatha went on, “DRM Industries seems intent on continuing to dig up the meadow. It’s on a temporary shutdown, but there were several guys out there yesterday walking around with clipboards. It didn’t look like they were planning on moving out.” Sister Agatha took the last bite of oatcake and stood up. “I saw that snake-in-the-grass Devon Morgan on the news last night. He was talking all about his family values campaign.”

  “I saw it too. I hate these candidates who go on and on about the moral decay of society. It’s as if they just discovered man’s sinful nature and somehow electing them to office will change everything.”

  “I thought Sister June was going to implode when he said that he was bringing family life into accord with biblical law.”

  “He said that?” Father Selwyn frowned into his teacup. “I don’t mind a values-driven campaign. We need values in Wales. But not his so-called values.”

  Sister Agatha squashed her hat over her short gray hair. “He’s not even Welsh.”

  “So you’ve said,” Father Selwyn looked into his fruit bowl and sighed.

  “I need to get back to the abbey,” Sister Agatha said, pulling her mittens out of her coat pockets.

  “And I’m going to have some lovely tinned pineapple.”

  “Go easy on Bevan,” she said, smiling at her old friend. “Good help is hard to find.”

  * * *

  Sister Agatha set off toward the abbey, walking quickly in the bright, late morning sun. She had to get back to help out with the cheese orders. With Christmas four days away, yet more orders had poured in.

  The ten-minute walk back to the abbey was the perfect time to really think through the case. The most significant and troubling piece at the moment was that someone was targeting Lucy. But why? Who even knew the young artist from America? She realized with a start—how well did any of them really know Lucy? She was sure that Reverend Mother had done at least some vetting of the new tenant. But she also knew that the abbey was fairly desperate to bring in revenue and that Reverend Mother might have taken anyone with decent credit and the promise to put the abbey on auto-pay. On top of that, the nuns at the abbey were notoriously trusting. Hadn’t they blindly embraced Sister Gwenydd even after she’d told them that she thought she had killed her boyfriend? In any case, she needed to talk to Lucy again, and sooner rather than later. And maybe digging deeper into the events at the abbey would shed some much-needed light on the events in the village.

  As she started up the long gravel drive that led off Church Lane to the abbey, she felt her phone vibrate. Reluctantly pulling off her mitten, she fished the mobile out and read the text. It was from Reverend Mother. Where are u? Cheese barn! ASAP.

  * * *

  Sister Agatha had barely stepped through the door of the cheese barn before Sister Winifred thrust a dustpan into her hands. “Wax explosion,” she said shortly. “Start scraping.” The orderly cheese barn with its gleaming stainless-steel counters, shining tile floors, and meticulously organized shelves looked like a war zone. Spatters of red wax covered nearly everything, including a patch on the ceiling above the stove. Even the small crucifix on the east wall was covered in red wax. Wielding every sort of metal object to serve as scrapers, the sisters were tackling walls, floor, and cheese equipment. Peeling off her hat and mittens and tossing them in a corner, Sister Agatha stepped up next to Sister Callwen, who was busy applying a metal spatula to the wall closest to the outside door. “Good heavens! What happened?”

  “What does it look like? That cantankerous stove finally lost it. The heat must have shot up and the entire vat of wax exploded like Vesuvius.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” Sister Agatha began to vigorously scrape the dustpan along the wall. She felt as she had in primary school when she had had to help scrape chewing gum out from under the desks.

  “Amazingly, no. Sister Gwenydd was supposed to be in here, minding the wax as it melted. She says she had turned the heat down and then left just for a moment—to go into the aging room. At least that’s her story. She ran back in when she thought she heard gunshots. I guess exploding wax is pretty loud.”

>   Sister Agatha was horrified. “What if all the nuns had been in here?”

  Sister Callwen stepped back and looked at the wall. “Well, it would have been bad. But they weren’t. So that’s something to be thankful for. Reverend Mother has everyone in here scraping and cleaning up. We’ve been at it for nearly an hour and it still looks just the same as when we started.”

  “Are you sure that the temperature just shot up on its own?”

  Sister Callwen sighed. “I’ve said for years that that ancient stove was going to do this. And now it has. I only hope we can get cleaned up and back to making cheese. We have sixty-three more orders to fill this week.”

  “Sixty-three? Holy Mother!” Sister Agatha surveyed the red spatters that seemed to cover everything. “Can we do that? Fill that many orders?”

  “Oh, we’ll do it,” Sister Callwen said. “And we might just bring in enough revenue to buy a new stove.”

  The door opened, letting in a gust of cold wind. Lucy slipped in and, shutting the door behind her, looked around, her eyes wide. She pulled off her ski jacket and accepted a scraper from Sister Winifred. “Good God!” she said to Sister Agatha and Sister Callwen. “When Reverend Mother texted me that you needed help with the wax, I didn’t know she meant this.”

  “Can you work here beside Sister Agatha while I see how Sister Gwenydd is doing?” With that Sister Callwen hurried across the room where Sister Gwenydd was toiling away on the stove top, which seemed to be one solid layer of hardened wax.

  Sister Agatha and Lucy fell into sync with one another, scraping the wall around the door to the aging room. Sister Agatha wondered if this wasn’t a good time to bring up her concerns about Lucy. The other sisters were occupied, and the room was loud with the noise of scraping. She and Lucy might actually be able to talk without anyone noticing.

  “So how have you been?” Sister Agatha asked, wanting to break the ice without diving in completely. She usually just dove, but something told her Lucy was more reticent than most.

  “You mean since the note? That was only yesterday. No more notes, if that’s what you mean.”