The Hour of Death Page 24

  Father Selwyn nodded. “A wise decision. All around.”

  “Thank you. A hard decision.” Suzanne Bainton paused again. “There’s something that I am not telling you. That I am ashamed of.”

  “Why ashamed?” Sister Agatha said. “You were brave. And you did the right thing.”

  Suzanne Bainton snorted. “You say that because you don’t know.”

  “Know what?” Father Selwyn asked.

  “That I accepted money from him. He paid me to lie about his name. I feel that was shameful. It’s as if I made money off the baby and now …” Suzanne Bainton looked at Father Selwyn, her eyes bright with tears.

  “My dear,” he said. “We all regret our younger selves. Extend to yourself the grace and forgiveness that you so readily extend to others.”

  Sister Agatha wasn’t sure that Suzanne Bainton did extend grace and forgiveness readily to others, but nonetheless her heart broke for the bishop.

  “Look what you have made of yourself?” she interjected. “The life you have lived has more than made up for any lack of judgment you had as a twenty-year-old. I for one would not like to be held accountable for everything I did in my youth.”

  Suzanne Bainton plucked two tissues from the box on her desk and wiped her eyes. Sister Agatha noticed that the bishop even cried with self-control. And her mascara didn’t smudge.

  “I suppose. And there is certainly nothing I can do now to change the past.”

  “What did C. S. Lewis say? ‘No one can change the past, but anyone can change the present.’ Or something like that,” Father Selwyn proffered. He could always be counted on to pull out a good C. S. Lewis quote in a moment of crisis.

  “And it’s the present, not the past, that I’m worried about,” Sister Agatha said. “I’m certain that somehow Devon knows about Lucy. And has some weird Wizard of Oz guy out to get her.” Sister Agatha still couldn’t get her head around the idea that it might be Lewis Colwyn.

  “Did you say, ‘Wizard of Oz guy?’ ”

  “A guy in a blue Subaru keeps doing increasingly dangerous things to Lucy. And he seems to be channeling Judy Garland. Listen, do you think Devon would murder someone if he thought they knew about his past with you?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “I think he might. He has his eyes on being First Minister of Wales. And nothing stands in Devon’s way. He gets what he wants. Imagine if his constituents found out that their candidate for First Minister had paid a woman to keep his name off the birth certificate, washing his hands of his newborn daughter? Especially now with his ridiculous family-values campaign. What if I leaked to the press that he pressured me to have an abortion? His political aspirations would be ended. Or at least seriously threatened. It’s not a chance he would be likely to take.” Suzanne looked from one to the other. “Why are you asking about murder?”

  “I’m not certain, but I think he murdered Tiffany,” Sister Agatha said. “Tiffany somehow knew about Lucy. Or at least I think she might have. And she was in an intimate relationship with Devon. Maybe he told her about Lucy. And then Lucy shows up at the Art Society meeting.”

  “Let’s go,” Father Selwyn said, getting to his feet. “We have to find Lucy before Devon does.”

  * * *

  Suzanne Bainton rose in Sister Agatha’s estimation when she wordlessly and without hesitation—in high heels, pencil skirt, and cashmere coat—climbed into the tiny backseat of Father Selwyn’s 1968 BMC Mini.

  “You ride shotgun, Sister Agatha.” she said. “I’ve driven with him before. The people in the front die first.”

  Sister Agatha nodded. Turning back around, she clutched the dashboard as Father Selwyn, palming the wheel, shot out of the diocese car park.

  “The Christmas evensong at the abbey starts in twenty minutes,” Sister Agatha said, as she checked her seatbelt. “The good news is that Lucy should be there. Not much harm can come to her in a chapel full of nuns. She’s planning some sort of surprise for us, and whatever it is, I know she was going to spend the afternoon getting it ready.”

  “I feel so responsible. I should have gone straight to Constable Barnes as soon as I knew Lucy was in the area,” Suzanne said, clinging to the backseat as Father Selwyn careened around a lorry. “Selwyn, please. It won’t help Lucy if we meet our end on the A5.”

  “Sorry,” he said, laying on the horn and then going into the breakdown lane to pass a car that was merely observing the speed limit. “I’ve never gotten a speeding ticket yet.”

  “That’s only because your collar has gotten you off the hook.” Sister Agatha twisted around in her seat again and faced the bishop.

  “Tiffany Reese was found dead the morning after the Art Society meeting. The meeting where Lucy was the guest speaker. It’s possible that she told enough of her story that Tiffany figured it out. Would Devon have told someone like Tiffany about you and the baby?”

  “I wouldn’t imagine that he would.” Suzanne thought for a moment. “On the other hand, I do remember that Devon was a very chatty drunk. Enough bourbon, and he blurts out anything.”

  “We have reason to think that he was having an affair with Tiffany Reese. So it’s possible that she had at some point heard him say something about Lucy and then let him know that Lucy had resurfaced.”

  “She would have to be a horrible person to do that. Anyone who knows Devon Morgan knows that he’s ruthless.”

  “Lucy offended Tiffany about her art,” Father Selwyn added. “And you didn’t do that to Tiffany Reese.”

  “Art that wasn’t even hers,” Sister Agatha interjected.

  “So she outed Lucy to Devon just because she was offended? She sounds as unethical as he is.”

  “I doubt she really thought it through,” Father Selwyn said.

  “I don’t know about that,” Sister Agatha said. “Tiffany was pretty nasty when she wanted to be. Flying monkey, remember?”

  “You think that Devon had Tiffany killed because she knew about Lucy?” Suzanne asked.

  “It’s possible. I think he hired someone—who drives an old Subaru—to kill Tiffany and to scare Lucy off. You have to give Devon a little credit. He did balk at killing his own offspring, only scaring her. Although Lucy doesn’t scare easily.”

  “So he hired someone to kidnap her dog, send her a threatening note, and run her off the road?” Suzanne Bainton paused. “I’m sure you see the pattern here, don’t you Sister Agatha?” she asked.

  “That each action against Lucy has grown progressively more dangerous and frightening?”

  The two women looked at each other. Suzanne Bainton leaned forward. “Selwyn, I never thought I would say this to you, but … drive faster!”

  * * *

  Father Selwyn skidded to a halt in the driveway of the abbey. The three piled out and began to run toward the chapel. Sister Agatha noticed how very silent the evening was. Just past twilight, not quite pitch dark, that gentle, hushed moment on a winter evening as the light fades from the sky. But there was nothing gentle or peaceful this evening. Where was everyone? Why were all the lights off? Father Selwyn pulled open the heavy door of the chapel and the three of them tumbled in. It was then that she remembered, it was Christmas Eve and the nuns were about to start the candlelight service.

  “Good heavens!” Reverend Mother said from the pulpit. “What’s going on? Bishop Bainton, why are you …?”

  “Lucy,” Sister Agatha interrupted her. “Where’s Lucy?”

  “Sister Gwenydd just left to find her. We didn’t want to start without her. Or you, for that matter.” Reverend Mother gestured toward the large veiled canvas that sat off to the side of the chancel. “Apparently we are to sing ‘Away in the Manger’ as she pulls off the sheet.”

  The other sisters already in the pews turned and looked inquiringly at the three of them. Sister Callwen stood up. “Has there been a development?”

  “You can say that.” Father Selwyn said hurrying to the front of the chapel. “If Lucy is fine, then all is well. However …”r />
  All heads turned as Sister Gwenydd pushed through the chapel door. “Call Constable Barnes. Now! I saw Lucy.” Sister Gwenydd was gasping for breath. “A man in a car. Blue. Shoved her in the trunk. And Vincent van Gogh.”

  Reverend Mother grabbed Sister Gwenydd by the arm. “Take a deep breath and tell us exactly what you saw.”

  “Lucy was out by the lane walking Vincent. One last time, you know, before the service. And I started down the drive to meet her and tell her to hurry, that we were waiting for her. And that dented blue car pulls up and a man jumps out and he … and he …” Sister Gwenydd seemed suddenly overwhelmed.

  “What? What happened?” Reverend Mother asked.

  “He opened the trunk of the car and just pushed her in. She had Vincent van Gogh with her too. I saw her shove him under her parka, and then the man tried to grab the dog and, like half in and half out of the trunk, she kicked him in the … well, you know where she kicked him. But he shoved her back in and slammed the trunk shut.”

  “Did you see which way they went?”

  “Down Church Lane. Toward the village.”

  “Sister Gwenydd, do you think the man saw you?” Sister Agatha asked, and was only slightly relieved when Sister Gwenydd shook her head and said, “No.”

  Reverend Mother turned to Sister Agatha. “Where do you think they’re taking her? Do you have any idea?”

  Sister Agatha forced herself to think calmly. Inspector Rupert McFarland always said that hiding a dead body is far trickier than you think it will be. Kill your victim as close as possible to the site of disposal was his advice. What better place to kill someone and hide the body than where there are lots of holes, earth-moving machines, and piles of dirt?

  “Let’s go,” she said, running toward the door. “We can’t wait for the constable.”

  “Go where?” Sister Callwen said.

  “The housing development. It’s the perfect place to dump a body.”

  * * *

  “All I can say is that it’s a good thing Sister Agatha crashed the van,” Sister Winifred said from the driver’s seat of the luxury tour bus, on loan from the insurance company, as she headed out onto Church Lane. The development site was less than a half-mile from the abbey, but it seemed better and certainly faster to load into the tour bus than for the entire contingent to take off running. “Or we wouldn’t be able to transport the entire abbey to save Lucy and Vincent van Gogh. We could never have all fit into the minivan.” Fortunately, Sister Winifred was comfortable with a stick shift, multi-person vehicle. In fact, Sister Agatha thought, she looked right in her element.

  “For the record, I didn’t crash the minivan,” Sister Agatha said. “It was driven off the road by the same crazy man who is now holding Lucy hostage.” She looked in the big rearview mirror at her sisters sitting in rows behind her. Pale, but determined. Even in her incredible fear, she had to admit that if you need rescuing there is nothing better than a group of determined nuns.

  “I just hope you’re right, Sister Agatha, and Lucy is at the development site.” Suzanne Bainton said, her voice shaking. “Reverend Mother, did you reach Constable Barnes?”

  “Officer Clough is on his way to the church to pick him up. He’s at St. Anselm’s at cantata practice.”

  “Oh, right. I had forgotten the cantata in all of this,” Father Selwyn said. “Most of the police force is singing,” he said to Suzanne. “It’s an all-village ecumenical choir.”

  It only took a minute for them to reach the development site. Sister Winifred cut the wheel hard and bounced them over the frozen ground. In the shadows, the drills and earth-moving equipment looked like hulking monsters. The whole area was silent and apparently shut down for the holidays. There were a few spotlights scattered about, but no one seemed to be in sight. Maybe the security guard had been dismissed by Devon, Sister Agatha thought. Which couldn’t mean anything good for Lucy.

  Sister Winifred pulled the big coach to a halt. She looked up into the long rearview mirror, made eye contact with Sister Agatha, gave her a small smile, and then held crossed fingers up to her heart.

  “Sisters,” Reverend Mother said, standing and facing them. “Be careful. And stick together. But remember, we have God on our side. Of all nights of the year, this is the night we must remember the words of the angels, ‘Fear not.’ ” And anyway, there are only two of them and twenty-two of us.”

  “It’s my fault all this happened,” Suzanne said. “I’m finding Lucy.”

  And with that, the bishop of St. Asaph hurried down the steps of the bus and jumped down onto the rough ground. The rest of the sisters followed. They moved as quickly as a solid group of nuns could across the meadow toward the earth-moving equipment and the giant, gaping hole.

  Then Sister Agatha stopped them. “We need to think for a moment,” she said. “If I were a criminal, where would I be?” Just at that moment, Vincent van Gogh came shooting across the field like a bullet.

  “Vincent!” cried Sister Gwenydd. She knelt next to the little dog. “Where’s Lucy?” she said in a high-pitched voice. “Where’s Lucy?”

  “Does she expect him to answer?” Suzanne said quietly to Reverend Mother. “You’re so not a dog person, Suzanne,” Reverend Mother quietly replied. They all watched as the little dog twirled around twice, barked once, and then shot off again.

  Come on,” Sister Gwenydd yelled, and in one motion all the nuns of Gwenafwy Abbey picked up their habits and began to run, streaming after Vincent van Gogh and Sister Gwenydd.

  Sister Gwenydd, who had gotten ahead of the others, suddenly screamed and ran toward the large blue storage tank. The others quickly saw why she had screamed. Vincent van Gogh was standing in front of the tank. He had both front paws on the metal wall and was barking frantically. Sister Gwenydd started pounding on the outside of the container. It was about twenty feet long and five feet high and had a large white pipe coming out of it. The pipe was more like a huge hose, and it was sealed off at the end. As far as Sister Agatha could tell, it didn’t have any other opening.

  “Good God!” Father Selwyn started pounding and calling Lucy’s name. From inside came a faint voice. “Father Selwyn, is that you?”

  “I’m here, my dear. We are all here. We will get you out. Are you injured?”

  “I’m tied up. I can’t … breathe.”

  “Oh my God! Where is that constable? I’m going in!” Suzanne Bainton ran to the white pipe. “Lift me up, ladies,” she said. Sister Winifred made a step out of both her hands, and two other nuns hoisted Suzanne Bainton up. She hovered there for a moment, held up by nuns, and then said, “It’s no use. We can’t get in this way. This pipe is sealed to the opening.”

  “There has to be a way in,” Father Selwyn said, as he skirted around the storage tank.

  Sister Agatha frantically wracked her brain for what Armand Gamache or Inspector Barnaby or even Stephanie Plum would do. Nothing. She began to panic. She knew that Armand Gamache would never panic. “Dear God,” she prayed aloud. “Please. In your mercy.”

  “I think you’ll need more than mercy, Sister Agatha.” Devon Morgan stepped out from the shadows of the earth-moving equipment. Sister Agatha turned, and when she saw the Sig Sauer P226 pointed directly at her, slowly raised her hands.

  “Sisters,” she said not taking her eyes off the gun. “Reverend Mother. Everyone. He has a gun.”

  “That’s right,” Devon said. “And, if I chose, I could kill every one of you.”

  “Actually, you couldn’t.” Sister Agatha thought she could hear a slight groan from Sister Callwen. “A Sig Sauer P226 has fifteen rounds in the magazine. And as we are twenty nuns, one bishop, and a vicar, there is no way you could ever kill all of us.”

  “Everyone against the tank,” Devon yelled, waving the Sig. “Your little Christmas Eve rescue is over.”

  “Let her out, Devon.” Suzanne Bainton stepped forward out of the shadows.

  “Suzanne Bainton. Well. Long time no see.”

&n
bsp; “Do you think you can get away with this? There are witnesses. Twenty-three of them in fact.”

  “Witnesses to what?” Devon asked. “What did you actually see me do?”

  “Sister Gwenydd saw you shove Lucy into the trunk of your car.”

  “Sister Gwenydd? Do you mean the one arrested for killing her boyfriend? Who faked being a nun?”

  “I didn’t actually kill him,” Sister Gwenydd interjected. “And I am a nun, truly.”

  “Let her out, Mr. Morgan,” Reverend Mother interrupted. “I assure you nothing will happen to you if Lucy is OK. But if she’s not, if she … if she dies, then this will be something from which you will never recover.”

  Father Selwyn began to pound on the side of the tank. “Lucy!” He turned, his eyes wide with fear. “She’s not responding.”

  Suddenly, Devon grabbed Sister Agatha by the back of her habit. He forced her to her knees and put the gun to her head.

  “Now all of you need to turn slowly and walk toward that bus of yours. When I see you on it and headed out the drive, I’ll let Sister Agatha go. If not, then I’ll do with her what I have already done to Tiffany and, pretty soon, Lucy.”

  “Tiffany?” Father Selwyn said, and he looked around wildly. “Where is Lewis Colwyn?” Sister Agatha noticed he was using his pulpit voice. “You were at the tea shop with him.”

  “Lewis Colwyn? He’s safe at home with his family.” But Sister Agatha thought that, in the spotlight of the construction site, Devon Morgan wavered for one second. “Don’t worry about him. He’s the least of your problems right now.”

  Devon pushed Sister Agatha down on her face. “All of you, go. Get in that stupid bus.”

  Sister Agatha heard the sirens coming up Church Lane. Stall him, the voice of Inspector Rupert McFarland said in her head. When you’re in the weeds, stall the bad guy and see what you can make happen.

  “You know, Devon,” she said, twisting her neck and shoulders upward. “On Christmas Eve it is said that animals can talk. Do you believe that? Because I …”