The Hour of Death Page 19

  “Especially considering the difference in your ages.” Father Selwyn interjected. “I am particularly appalled at that aspect. We should be nurturing the young talent in this village.” He shook his head. “Despicable that a prominent member of our community, of the parish, would do something like that. Bugger off indeed.”

  “Millicent,” Sister Agatha said. “Keep going. I want to hear all of it. Right up until last Friday night.”

  “You think I killed her, don’t you?”

  No one spoke.

  “I didn’t. Not that I didn’t think about it a hundred times. She never did tell anyone that the painting was mine. She won first place with it. And then, this year, she wanted another one.”

  Millicent paused and took a breath.

  “This time she came into my apartment and chose it herself.”

  Lucy rose to her feet suddenly, eyes blazing. Sister Agatha thought that Tiffany was lucky she was already dead. Everyone watched as Lucy took a deep breath and then sat back down again.

  After a minute Millicent continued.

  “So when she wanted to choose the painting for the next show, I reminded her how she had said that she would tell everyone I was the artist.”

  Millicent picked up her teacup, but her hand was shaking so much that she set it clattering back on the saucer.

  “She stood in this apartment, and I remember looking at her thinking that she was so stylish, everything about her was perfect. Her hair, nails, clothes. I remember feeling dowdy and … and fat.” Millicent paused. “Anyway, she laughed. And said that it was too late to tell anyone because no one would believe me. And that I couldn’t go back on my commitment.”

  Millicent stopped. No one spoke.

  “She looked around the apartment and then just plucked a canvas off the easel. I had worked on it for weeks. ‘Melyn yr Ei thin,’ Yellow Bird of the Gorse. I managed to capture it just as it landed on the beach, wings outspread, toed-claws touching down and creating the tiniest puff of sand. Tiffany slid it into her bag and left.”

  Those in the room sat in stunned silence. Lucy frowning, Sister Gwenydd sitting perfectly still, Father Selwyn as grim as Sister Agatha had ever seen him.

  Millicent took a breath. “The problem also was that, even though she was usually really nice—especially in public—she had an ugly, angry side. Scary, like a flying monkey.”

  “A what?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “A flying monkey. You know, from The Wizard of Oz. I’m just saying that she could be really intimidating.”

  “You like The Wizard of Oz?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “Doesn’t everyone?” Millicent said.

  “Lots of people like The Wizard of Oz, Sister Agatha.” Father Selwyn said, shooting Sister Agatha a wide-eyed glance.

  Millicent stood up and went into the tiny bedroom. Through the doorway Sister Agatha could see an easel and paints and canvases stacked on the floor. She watched as Millicent rummaged around for a moment and then selected four paintings. She lined them up along the kitchen counter, leaning one against the wall, another propped up by the toaster, another against the teapot, and the fourth against a stack of cookbooks. They all stared at the detailed and exquisite paintings of birds in the wild. One of the birds was brilliantly yellow and was shown landing on the sand. Sister Agatha let out a breath. The missing painting!

  “They are all taken from life somewhere in North Wales. I only paint wildlife, and always in Wales. My dream is to be an illustrator for nature books.” Millicent blushed with pride as the room sat in admiring silence.

  “And you will be!” Father Selwyn exclaimed. “They are amazing. Lovely.” He leaned forward. “Lucy, give us your professional opinion.”

  “They’re good. Really good. You’re both an artist and a craftsman. Which is an awesome combination in today’s market.” Lucy walked over to the paintings and leaning closer, examined each one. “You could certainly be an illustrator.”

  Sister Agatha cleared her throat. “You have the painting that was in the Art Show?”

  Before Millicent could respond, Lucy jumped in.

  “Good for you!” she said. “I’m glad you got it.”

  “After more than a year of her stealing your art, you stole it back. What gave you the courage?” Sister Gwenydd asked. She poured tea into Father Selwyn’s teacup and held the teapot up in Sister Agatha’s direction. But Sister Agatha was too stunned at Millicent’s admission even to respond.

  “Wait a minute, Millicent. Are you saying …”

  “It was the art dealer, wasn’t it?” Lucy said, cutting her off. “Tiffany had been going on and on about an art dealer being interested in her work. She must have mentioned it ten times at the Art Society meeting. And it was that particular painting that had caught his eye—the yellow bird.”

  Millicent nodded. “Tiffany didn’t tell me, but I heard about it from someone in the florist shop.”

  Millicent stood up and walked over to the canvases on the counter. She picked up the one of the yellow bird and gazed at it.

  “And so, I confronted Tiffany and told her that entering my stuff in the village show was one thing but telling a dealer that it was hers went too far.”

  “How did she react?” Father Selwyn asked. Sister Agatha wondered if he was hoping Tiffany might have shown some remorse. Fat chance, she thought.

  “She laughed at me. And said that if I told everyone now, I would be implicated in fraud. That I had used her and her reputation to make it this far. That I owed her. So I went down to the parish hall at night and stole it back.”

  Father Selwyn set his teacup down and sat up very straight. Sister Agatha looked at him and then back at Millicent.

  “So when you saw us that morning in Father’s office, you knew all about Tiffany having died?”

  “Sorry,” Millicent said. “But it was my painting. I had a right to it. Tiffany was already dead when I went down there.”

  “Are you telling me you stepped over her body to remove the painting? You didn’t think to call the constable or an ambulance? I mean, did you know for sure she was dead?” Father Selwyn was straying toward his pulpit voice.

  Or did you kill her yourself? Sister Agatha and Father Selwyn exchanged a glance.

  “I honestly didn’t notice her at first. I thought the room was empty. You know, except for the paintings that were hung there for the show. I didn’t turn on a light. I was just going to take the painting off the wall and then deliver the flowers upstairs. And leave.”

  “You had the flowers in your hands?”

  “I came straight into the hall from the van. The floral delivery van. I parked it outside.”

  “So let me get this straight. You’re standing in the parish hall, flower vase in hand, then what?”

  “Like I said, I didn’t turn on any lights, that’s why I didn’t see Tiffany at first, I suppose. You know, until I was right there. And then I just … well … I just let her lie. It was pretty obvious she was dead.”

  “Pretty obvious?” Father Selwyn said. “You didn’t check? Feel for a pulse? Drop everything and call an ambulance?”

  All four of them stared at Millicent, no one wanting to say what they were thinking: Did you kill her or simply help her die?

  “I wanted my painting. More than anything. I wanted to take it to the dealer and show him that it was mine.”

  Millicent turned to Lucy.

  “You’re a real artist. Do you think he’ll still be interested? You know, now that Tiffany is … out of the picture.”

  Lucy appeared speechless. “Uh … sure,” she finally replied. “I don’t see why not.”

  Sister Agatha had a sudden thought.

  “You left the article in my desk drawer, didn’t you? Were you hoping I would investigate?”

  Millicent looked genuinely perplexed. “What article?”

  “About the art fraud in the 1960s?”

  “The sixties? Sorry. Before my time.”

  Sister Agatha co
uldn’t even write in her notebook for a moment. If Millicent hadn’t left the article, then who had? She had another sudden thought.

  “Do you think anyone else knew about the fraud?”

  Millicent turned red. “Yes. One person.” She reached forward for her teacup but put it back down without drinking.

  “Who?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “Tiffany’s brother. Kendrick.”

  Millicent didn’t seem to notice that Father Selwyn and Sister Agatha went completely still at hearing this.

  “I went to him for help. I thought he would—you know—would stand up to his sister and get my paintings back.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said to leave him out of it. That his sister was difficult and he didn’t want to get involved.” Millicent looked up. “He was nice, but he didn’t help me at all.”

  Father Selwyn turned to Millicent.

  “You are aware of how this looks, right?”

  Millicent stared back at him, her large eyes unblinking.

  “What do you mean? It was my painting. I had every right to take it.”

  “Did you touch the crime scene at all?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “No. I don’t think so. I mean, I didn’t think of it as a crime scene at the time. I figured that Tiffany had just keeled over.”

  They all sat in silence. The bell in the clock tower chimed, and down the street a dog barked. Father Selwyn took a deep breath and looked straight at Millicent.

  “My dear,” he said. “I’m going to ask you a question, and whatever your answer is, we will go from there. As your vicar I will stand by you. But I need to know. Right now. Did you kill Tiffany Reese?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m not sad that she’s dead. But I didn’t kill her.”

  * * *

  “I don’t believe her,” Sister Agatha said, stepping off the curb and walking toward the van parked under the elm tree. Lucy and Sister Gwenydd had gone on ahead and were waiting for Sister Agatha in the van. They had missed compline. Reverend Mother would understand. She hoped.

  “I don’t know what I think,” Father Selwyn said. “At least not for sure. But I am certain that if we don’t take this new evidence to the constable, we will be considered accessory to murder.”

  “Agreed.” But Sister Agatha noticed that neither of them made a move.

  “We should go immediately to the police station.” Father Selwyn said, buttoning his long coat against the cold.

  “Yes. Absolutely.” They still didn’t move. “Or, we could sort things out a bit first. There are a few missing pieces that I want to find.”

  “And for some reason, I want Millicent to be innocent.” Father Selwyn shoved his hands down into his pockets.

  “You want Emeric to be innocent. And didn’t you just say you didn’t believe her?”

  “Well, I know. But hope springs eternal.” She watched as he turned and walked toward the rectory.

  * * *

  As soon as Sister Agatha got into the van, Sister Gwenydd, who was riding shotgun, reached into the apron pocket of her habit and handed her a small paperback. Sister Agatha held it up to the dome light. 4.50 From Paddington by Agatha Christie.

  “When I excused myself to use the bathroom, I saw it. On her night table.”

  “You took it from the apartment?” Sister Gwenydd would make a good detective. Although her methods might need a little refining.

  “Is that bad?”

  “Constable Barnes might have some problems with it,” Sister Agatha said. “But I don’t particularly. This is the book in which Agatha Christie kills off her victim with monkshood. Also known as wolfsbane. Also the poison that killed Tiffany Reese.”

  Lucy leaned forward. “4.50 From Paddington was the first Agatha Christie I ever read.” She paused, her brow furrowed. “The active component in the plant was aconite And it makes its victim go into cardiac arrest.”

  “A lot of people have read 4.50 From Paddington. It’s never gone out of print since 1938.” Sister Agatha said slowly, thumbing through the book.

  “Yeah, but don’t you think it’s a little weird that it just happens to be her bedtime reading?” Sister Gwenydd said from the backseat.

  “Did you happen to notice what page it was open to when you picked it up?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “Page 137.”

  Sister Gwenydd would indeed make quite the amateur sleuth.

  “Excellent. I’ll check it out as soon as we get home.”

  Sister Agatha drove slowly. She needed a few minutes before she got back to the abbey to think through her next actions. She and Father Selwyn had left it that they were not going to call Constable Barnes that night. Neither felt completely convinced, however, that that was the right decision. On the other hand, what solid evidence did they have that Millicent had killed Tiffany? True, she stole the painting, which was certainly a crime that Constable Barnes would be interested in. But as it was her painting, could she really be said to have stolen it? Sister Agatha knew the answer to that was yes, at least in the eyes of the law, especially as Millicent had stepped over a dead body to get to the painting. But did that make her a murderer? She also harbored great resentment toward the victim. OK, that was troubling. Throw in the fact that she loved The Wizard of Oz—though of course, as she said, who doesn’t? The two attacks on Lucy seemed to have involved someone who had watched the movie one too many times. Things were not looking good for Millicent. But call in Constable Barnes? She wasn’t ready yet to see Millicent behind bars.

  “What did you make of that Wizard of Oz comment by Millicent?” Lucy asked, almost as if she could read Sister Agatha’s thoughts.

  “It bothered me.” Sister Agatha said, slowing as she took the curve heading up Church Lane.

  “But it was pretty generic,” Sister Gwenydd said. “I worked with Tiffany on the parish dinners—it’s probably not the first time she’d been called a flying monkey.”

  “True,” Lucy agreed. “Assuming that the same person who poisoned Tiffany is doing all the scary stuff to me—you know, stealing Vincent, leaving the note—then it doesn’t really make sense that it’s Millicent.” Lucy paused. “Although I can see that she had reason to hate Tiffany and even cause her harm, but why would Millicent hate me?”

  “Well, you’re an artist. It could be that she has transferred her anger at Tiffany onto anyone or anything artistic,” Sister Gwenydd said.

  “Did it bother either of you when she said that …”

  Suddenly Sister Agatha clutched the steering wheel and pulling hard on it swerved to the right as another car slammed into the side of the minivan. Both young women screamed, and for a moment all went black as the van toppled sideways and bounced to a halt in a ditch.

  They spent the next few moments reassuring each other that they were all right and untangling themselves from their seat belts. Sister Agatha felt a sharp twinge in her left shoulder.

  Then they heard gravel crunching as a vehicle backed up alongside the van. A man’s voice shouted: “There’s no place like the ditch, Dorothy! There’s no place like the ditch!” And with a squeal of tires and spray of gravel, he sped away. Sister Gwenydd had just gotten the window open and was able to lean out and watch the car leave.

  “Did you see the license plate?” Sister Agatha called from the depths of the front seat where she was still trying to unfasten her seat belt.

  “No, I think it was a Subaru though. An old one, like my dad had.” Sister Gwenydd turned back and, giving Lucy a hand, added, “But you know what?”

  “What?”

  “That guy is one creepy dude.”

  * * *

  Reverend Mother poured tea for Sister Agatha and Sister Gwenydd.

  “I’m sorry, Lucy,” she said when she got to where the young woman sat at the long kitchen table. “I know you prefer coffee. But I’m afraid I make a terrible cup of coffee.”

  “That’s OK. I’m fine.” But Lucy’s hands trembled as she pulled her hair out
of her ponytail and then stuffed it back again. Sister Agatha added sugar and cream to her tea and then cupped the tea mug in both hands. The kitchen was warm as toast, but she still couldn’t stop shaking. Only Sister Gwenydd seemed unfazed by their roll in the ditch. Sister Agatha had always admired the young nun. Nothing was ever too much for her.

  “It is a miracle that no one was hurt,” Reverend Mother said, pulling a bag of frozen peas out of the freezer and handing it to Sister Agatha. “Put that on your shoulder and see if it helps.”

  “I’m fine. I just fell against the door when the van went down. Sorry I lost control of it like that. Between getting hit from the side and then spinning on the gravel, I couldn’t get it back on the road.”

  “It was a good thing you were driving so slowly, Sister Agatha,” Sister Gwenydd said. Sister Gwenydd was known to complain that Sister Agatha drove like an old-age pensioner. To which Sister Agatha replied that it was in reaction to riding with Father Selwyn, who zipped around in his BMI Mini as though it was the last lap on the international raceway.

  “The driver really yelled, ‘There’s no place like the ditch, Dorothy?’ ” Reverend Mother asked.

  “I know, right? How creepy was that?” Sister Gwenydd took a long gulp of tea and glanced around. Sister Agatha hoped she was about to bring out a cake tin.

  “First, they kidnap Vincent van Gogh, which is the min-pin-stand-in for Toto. Sister Agatha smiled into her tea. Min-pin-stand-in. Only Sister Gwenydd.

  “Then the note, ‘Surrender Dorothy,’ and now, ‘There’s no place like the ditch,’ which, of course, is, ‘There’s no place like home.’ ”

  Sister Gwenydd stood up and, turning around, reached up to the top kitchen shelf. Bingo. Cake tin. “The guy is deranged.”

  Reverend Mother poured Lucy a cup of tea. “Try it, dear. With lots of cream and sugar, tea can be very comforting. A good cup of tea has seen the Welsh people through everything since the Norman invasion.”

  “Or the guy just really loves the cinema,” Lucy suggested. “A hit man who loves old movies.”

  “A hit man? In Pryderi?” Reverend Mother looked skeptical.