The Hour of Death Read online

  Emeric was still a suspect, though not a very strong one. At the moment, focus had shifted away from the choir director. Which was a good thing considering it was a few days before Christmas and there was a cantata to perform. Although Emeric had lied to the police and did have a questionable background, the only thing that tied him to the murder was a dried-up plant in his back garden.

  What about Kendrick? He certainly had motive to kill Tiffany as he was next in line to inherit her share of their parents’ wealth. He was also the only other person who knew about the art fraud, although when Millicent reached out to him, he put her off. He and Millicent had one thing in common—they had both been abused by Tiffany. Sister Agatha couldn’t shake the image of Tiffany clutching Kendrick by the throat. But would it have driven him to kill her? Also, there was the fact that Kendrick seemed to be an extraordinarily nice person.

  Sister Agatha’s turned the page to her second column, Weird Events: The Dogs, People, Objects, and Movie Stars Involved, and next to Judy Garland wrote “Millicent.” Did her flying monkey comment indicate that she was the one targeting Lucy? Whoever was harassing Lucy was also obsessed with The Wizard of Oz. Was Millicent obsessed? And would Millicent steal the little dog? Or leave a sinister note? Whoever did those things had to have access to the abbey. And how could Millicent have chased down the minivan and run it off the road? What if she was working in tandem with someone else?

  But if Millicent was the one threatening Lucy, then why? Perhaps she felt threatened by Lucy, a talented art school graduate. Maybe Millicent had projected her anger at Tiffany onto Lucy. Was that enough reason to threaten her? And to do it in such a whimsical and weird way—through references to The Wizard of Oz? Which was a bit strange. But then, Sister Agatha had to admit, it could be said that Millicent was a bit strange. And did Millicent have the means to kill using an extract from Wolfsbane? Sister Agatha wrote, Open copy of 4.50 From Paddington on bed table. She needed to reread that book. Who knew what Agatha Christie still had to teach her?

  She flipped back to her suspect list.

  Ben Holden. Aside from being someone who didn’t like small dogs, Ben was pretty much off the suspect list. There was one anomaly, though, that could possibly tie him in. He was Millicent’s great-uncle and had a small painting of hers in his workshop in the back of the cheese barn. Sister Agatha had seen it before—many times, in fact—whenever she was out giving Bartimaeus his weekly currycomb. It was a little canvas propped up on his worktable. At the time she had thought nothing of it—a slightly faded and crude painting of a bird. But that morning after the long night in the abbey kitchen, Sister Agatha remembered it and had gone back for a closer look. She realized that it could have been done by Millicent, but years ago, when she was a child. When asked, Ben was very open about it. “My grandniece, Millicent, painted it when she was at school,” he had said with some obvious pride, while dumping feed into Luther and Calvin’s trough. So Ben was Millicent’s great-uncle. But would that link him to Tiffany’s murder? Maybe. Ben was an enigma. He seemed like a quiet elderly gentleman who kept to himself and worked with sheep. On the other hand, his taste in reading material ran to romance. She left his name on the list of suspects.

  It was the Lucy connection that was really puzzling Sister Agatha. Kendrick certainly had no connection to Lucy. Millicent’s connection was more obvious—they were both artists. Perhaps the insecure Millicent resented Lucy. But to systematically scare her with weird Wizard of Oz references? Also, whoever was threatening Lucy was very good at sneaking around. They had been on the abbey grounds at least three times: the dognapping, the poison-pen note, and the article left in her desk. And then whoever it was also had the ability to run them off the road. Which didn’t sound like Millicent but did sound like Kendrick. Or at least possibly. The problem with Kendrick was if he killed Tiffany for the money why was he so exceedingly charitable in every other aspect of his life? Don’t you need to be greedy and feel entitled to kill someone to keep an inheritance all to yourself? And with everything she uncovered, Kendrick Geddings had been proven over and over again as nothing but generous and kind.

  Sister Agatha tossed her Sharpie on the desk. She had no idea. The moon broke through the clouds and she took this as an encouragement. She turned back to her notes.

  Blue Subaru. Nothing. The car looked familiar for some reason, but she couldn’t place it anywhere. She started to cross it off and then left it, placing a question mark after it. She couldn’t quite bring herself to eliminate it altogether.

  Looking up from her notebook, she saw the door to the dovecote open. Reverend Mother slipped out and walked across the garden. Her step was slow, and she bent her head into the cold wind. Sister Agatha watched her until she was out of sight. Closing her eyes, she said a quick prayer.

  Several minutes later, her mobile pinged. A text from Sister Gwenydd.

  Saints and Sinners pub. ASAP.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sister Gwenydd and Lucy sat across from Sister Agatha at a small table near the fireplace where a fire burned. Christmas music played in the background. Each had pint in front of her.

  “Tell me again exactly what Reverend Mother said.” Sister Gwenydd took a long sip of her pint.

  “She said that Suzanne Bainton wasn’t interested in meeting me.” Lucy’s voice trembled.

  “Why not?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “I guess she told Reverend Mother that the past is the past and she doesn’t want to stir things up.”

  The three sat in silence for a moment. Then Sister Agatha spoke up. “Maybe she just needs time to get used to this. I mean, it would be a lot to take in.”

  Lucy nodded. “Yeah, I know. I just thought that she would be more interested at least in meeting me. It’s sort of like she’s rejected me twice.”

  “But think about it. Your coming back is a total shock. The bishop was only twenty when she got pregnant, which means she was younger than we are now. For her, it was another lifetime,” Sister Gwenydd said. “And if she was only twenty, she must have been in seminary. That would have been more than awkward. Pregnant and training for the priesthood.”

  “Especially as women were just entering the priesthood back then. The first woman wasn’t ordained until 1997, which was almost exactly twenty years ago,” Sister Agatha added. She didn’t like how miserable Lucy looked.

  “So the year she entered seminary and found herself pregnant was the first year a woman had ever been ordained?” Lucy asked.

  “Every woman would have been heavily scrutinized and judged,” Sister Agatha said, shaking her head. “They probably had to be better than any man around.”

  “And then the future bishop—unmarried—gets pregnant.” Sister Gwenydd took another drink of her pint. “But she stuck it out. And now she’s the first woman bishop in the Church in Wales. Your birth mother might not be the artist you wanted her to be, but she’s pretty amazing. Although I’ve met the bishop. She’s a little scary too.”

  “If nothing else, I wish she would talk to me just so I could hear her story. As it is, I’m never going to meet my birth mother. I came all the way to Wales for nothing.”

  “You’re not giving up, are you?” Sister Gwenydd asked.

  “What else can I do? Even Reverend Mother told me to stay away. That it was a very painful time for Suzanne and that it wouldn’t be respectful of her needs. And she’s right. I guess. I’m just super-disappointed.” They all sat in silence for several minutes. Frosty the Snowman came over the speaker.

  Finally Sister Gwenydd spoke up. “I’m not saying that I disagree with Reverend Mother entirely. And she is usually right in these kinds of situations. However, you really can’t come all this way and not at least see your birth mother.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that it’s time to stalk her.”

  “Stalk her? Reverend Mother seemed very serious about not doing that.”

  “Reverend Mother isn’t your authori
ty. You’re not a nun, remember?” Sister Gwenydd took another long drink of her pint.

  “And I never will be.” Sister Agatha noticed that Lucy’s miserable mood lifted for one moment. “That cop finally asked me out.”

  “Parker Clough? Are you going?” Sister Gwenydd said.

  “I don’t know. I’m thinking about it. This whole thing with my birth mother seems more important.”

  “Now you really can’t leave Wales,” Sister Gwenydd said. “You have to go out with him at least once.”

  “He asked me to go to a Christmas concert. A highbrow sort of choral event at a church.”

  “Really? How very Welsh of him. Whatever happened to grabbing a pint together?”

  “I told my parents. They got all excited.” Lucy rolled her eyes. “I was dragged to that kind of thing all my life.”

  “What’s the event exactly?” Sister Agatha wondered about how quickly the mood could shift from devastated to optimistic. All because of a possible date. Youth.

  “Handel’s Messiah.” Lucy took a sip of her beer. “It’s kind of romantic. In a way. On the other hand, do you know how long the Messiah is? It’s hours, and the only really good part is the Hallelujah Chorus. Which actually does make all the sitting there worthwhile.”

  “Never been,” Sister Gwenydd said. “Until I became a nun, Christmas meant paper crowns, crackers, and drinking a Buck’s Fizz for breakfast.” Sister Gwenydd munched on some crisps from the bowl between them. “It sounds sweet though. Christmas music and all.” She thought for a moment. “Where’s the concert?”

  “I don’t know,” Lucy said, digging into the crisps. “It’s put on by the Saint Asaph Choral Society. I didn’t ask Parker. I didn’t want to look too interested.”

  Sister Gwenydd took out her phone. “If it’s at Saint Asaph Cathedral, you can bet Suzanne Bainton will be there. It’s just the kind of thing she would go to.” She looked up from her phone. “It’s Saturday. As in tomorrow. You should go. Parker seems like a nice guy—you could do worse. And he’s cute enough. Especially in his uniform. And if you just happen to run into Suzanne Bainton while you’re there, it’s not your fault, right? You’ll be on a date.”

  Sister Agatha just hoped Reverend Mother didn’t ask her too many questions.

  * * *

  Lucy realized that she hadn’t been on an actual date in almost a year. Between finishing graduate school, tracking down her birth parents, and moving to Wales, she hadn’t really had time for men. And much as she loved the art community in Providence, it didn’t really offer the kind of men she wanted for a long-term relationship. As she had tried to explain to her parents, being a starving artist was one thing, marrying one was quite another. And now, her first real date in forever was in church.

  She breathed deeply and only half-listened as Parker explained how the St. Asaph Cathedral was built in the thirteenth century and was the smallest ancient cathedral in Great Britain. She nodded and scanned the front pew for anyone who looked like a bishop.

  “It’s the home of the William Morgan Bible,” Parker said, pulling at his tie. “Which interconnects Welsh religion with Welsh literature.”

  “Right,” she said. She had almost told him the real reason for wanting to go out with him—to get a glimpse of Suzanne Bainton. But he had seemed so happy when she called and said she would accept his invitation to the Choral Society’s concert that she couldn’t bring herself to tell him. And Reverend Mother had asked her to be very discreet in whom she talked to about the bishop.

  As Parker continued his history and architecture lecture, she looked around. The cathedral was resplendent with evergreens, purple and white candles, gold bows. It would have been nice to sit here, to finally perhaps feel the nostalgic pull of Christmas. Even though her family wasn’t at all religious, they always attended Christmas Eve Lessons and Carols at the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine. The songs, the incense, the candlelight—for her that was Christmas.

  Even the nativity story tugged at her imagination and heart. She was hoping perhaps to recapture a bit of that Christmas feeling tonight. But the fact that she was on a date with a man she was pretending to like so that she could catch a glimpse of the woman who had given birth to her—well, that put a damper on things.

  She smoothed her short wool tunic and looked down at her tasseled high-heeled leather boots. She had carefully selected her outfit for the event. Attractive and sharp yet a little casual. But what was the event? A date with a guy who was cute, even if he did talk too much. Or was the event finally meeting her mother? She harbored a fantasy that she would see Suzanne Bainton and somehow intercept her. But how would the bishop react?

  “St. Asaph Cathedral is the mother church of the diocese of St. Asaph,” Parker was saying. “Although since you live at the abbey, you probably already know that.” He looked at her and she knew that he probably wanted her to say something, but she was more preoccupied with watching the empty chair in the front row. At the top of the program were the words Opening remarks, the Right Reverend Suzanne Bainton.

  “And as I am sure you know,” Parker continued, “St. Asaph is one of the six dioceses of the Church in Wales.”

  “Interesting,” she said.

  “And what is a really interesting tidbit of history is that Saint Kentigern built the church here originally in AD 560 and then, right before he died, made Asaph his successor. That was in 573. Which is why the cathedral has been dedicated to Saint Asaph and the diocese has his name.” Parker’s voice trailed off. “I can quit talking if you’re getting tired of history,” he said with a weak smile.

  Lucy felt like a jerk. He really was a nice guy. And he had gone to a lot of effort tonight. She found out that tickets to the event were expensive. So the fact that she was completely preoccupied and anxious really wasn’t fair to him. And she hated women who led men on. But she wasn’t really leading him on. It was more like she was using him. She felt a rush of guilt, but it was quickly replaced by a staggering anxiety.

  She had just reassured Parker that she was truly interested in the history of the cathedral when she heard high heels clicking down the long aisle in the middle of the sanctuary. She turned and saw her—as tall and strikingly beautiful as she looked in the photos that Lucy had found on the Internet. Her birth mother had perfect posture, perfect hair, and perfect poise. Her chic black dress, mid-length and close-fitting, was both elegant and simple, and it all somehow worked with the clerical collar. Certainly expensive. Lucy watched as Suzanne Bainton brushed past, laughing on the arm of none other than Father Selwyn, who twisted around and looked at Lucy, his eyes wide and his normally ruddy face pale. Lucy gave a little wave and then watched as Suzanne took her seat in the front row.

  “That’s the bishop of St. Asaph,” Parker said. “She always says a few words at these things. Have you met her?”

  “Met her?” Lucy squeaked.

  “I’ll introduce you at the reception after.” If he noticed her dumbfounded look he didn’t let on.

  “Sure,” she said, “that would be nice.” Holy mother! as Sister Agatha would say. She looked up just as Suzanne Bainton stepped into the pulpit.

  “Croesus,” she said. “Welcome to our annual Advent Choral Society Concert. Advent is both somber and joyous as we journey to Bethlehem. Part of my journey every year is this wonderful concert just a week before Christmas.”

  Lucy could barely focus on what she was saying. She hadn’t expected the rush of emotion that she felt. Suddenly, with her birth mother standing in front of her—in a thirteenth-century pulpit no less—she realized fully why she had come to Wales. Not just to find out if her parents were artists, not to feel “real,” as she told Reverend Mother and Sister Agatha. It was more than that. She had always felt as if a part of her was missing. And yet, her real parents, the ones back in New York City who were probably worrying about her right now, had been so good to her that she never could really explore that feeling of emptiness. But now, as she sat here in this bea
utiful cathedral listening to the woman who gave birth to her, it hit Lucy. She felt as if a question had been answered. This was her mother. And yet, she wasn’t. All at once, she needed air. She felt dizzy and overwhelmed and suddenly glad that Parker was there. He seemed like the kind of guy who could handle anything.

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” she whispered. The bishop had stepped down from the pulpit and taken her seat. The conductor walked to the front, tapped his baton on his music stand.

  “Are you ill?” he whispered back as the choir launched into the opening lines of Comfort Ye My People.

  “Yes,” she said, unable to explain. She barely understood it herself. When she and Sister Gwenydd planned this evening, it had seemed like an adventure, not an emotional onslaught.

  “Follow me.” Parker stood up and, taking her arm, guided her down the crowded row and into the middle aisle where he hurried her toward the back door. They stepped out into the clear winter night. “The car is right over here,” he said. “Get in and I’ll turn the heater on.”

  “No,” she said. “I need to breathe.”

  And then to her horror, she began to cry—not small, sniffling crying, but deep sobs that wracked her body, making breathing hard and talking impossible—tears flowing, nose running. She noticed that Parker stood perfectly still, with one hand placed gently on her arm. He didn’t make a big deal or even insist that she tell him why she was having a meltdown in the car park of St. Asaph Cathedral. He simply waited, offering her a neatly folded, pressed handkerchief from his pocket. A man who carries a handkerchief. She was astounded, and for one moment jolted out of her crying jag.

  “I can’t believe you carry a pocket handkerchief,” she gasped between hiccups. “That’s so nice.”