The Hour of Death Read online

  Although the online cheese sales and sheep production were off to a slow start, the landlord idea was immediately lucrative. A monthly rent check for previously unused space made perfect sense. Reverend Mother had conceived the idea of turning the dovecote into a studio.

  The nuns sometimes shook their heads at Reverend Mother’s ideas, but everyone had to admit, she had seen the abbey through its worst times and she had always kept them on track. The starting center for St. Mary’s College, she stood six feet one in her socks. She kept a basketball in her desk, which she tossed from hand to hand as a stress reducer, and a poster of LeBron James hung between a framed portrait of Archbishop of Canterbury Justin Welby and Barack Obama on the night of his inauguration. When Reverend Mother had a sticky bit of theology to sort out or a budget she couldn’t seem to balance, she could be found making free throws at the hoop outside the abbey kitchen. Many nights the nuns would awaken gently from their sleep to the thud of a basketball hitting the backboard.

  The sisters advertised the sunny room above the dovecote as an “artist’s studio” in Church Times, The Parish Circular, and finally, on Craigslist. Sunny and cozy, the dovecote was the perfect artist’s studio. In addition to studio space, the total package for the potential renter included a small dormitory room in the nun’s quarters and three meals a day plus snacks. The sisters had labored over the photos and description for the advertisements and were pleasantly surprised at the almost immediate and enthusiastic response. They had settled on a young woman from Providence, Rhode Island, who had recently graduated from art school—the Rhode Island School of Design. There had been some disagreement on how much vetting of the final candidate should be done—Sister June advocating for a full background check while Sister Harriet thought a sample of her art was all that was needed. In the end, Reverend Mother talked with the young woman on Skype and a contract was signed.

  Young Lucy Pennoyer had arrived at Gwenafwy Abbey the week after All Saints’ Day, moving her easels, paints, brushes, and tiny dog, a miniature pinscher named Vincent van Gogh—he had lost a piece of his left ear in a fight with a poodle—into the studio above the dovecote. As far as the sisters could tell, the two had settled in nicely.

  “I’ve met her,” Lucy said, spooning lamb stew into an earthenware bowl and then reaching for a piece of warm bread. Lucy, thin as a rail, seemed able to eat endlessly and never gain a pound. Sister Agatha watched her with admiration and a twinge of resentment. Youth is certainly wasted on the young. “In fact,” Lucy continued, her mouth full. “I was at last night’s meeting.” Chewing, swallowing. “Of the Art Society.”

  “You were there? Last night?” Sister Agatha said.

  “Actually, late afternoon. As the guest speaker. They wanted me to talk about my art and my journey to becoming an artist. I told them all about my childhood of wanting to paint and about going to art school.” Lucy paused and then added, “They seemed very nice.”

  Sister Agatha noticed a slight change in Lucy’s voice and a tiny hesitation. Then it was gone. She made a mental note to follow up with the young artist. She wondered if the Art Society meeting went as smoothly as Lucy described. “When exactly was the meeting?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “They asked me to get there at four o’clock. At that old church in the village. But the committee had been there all day it seemed. You know, setting up for the show and everything. They asked my advice on how to position some of the paintings. I’ve done a few gallery showings in school, so I felt I was at least a little helpful.”

  “That’s the best part about leaving graduate school,” Sister Gwenydd said, a recent graduate herself of the prestigious Leith’s School of Food and Wine in London. “Before you graduate, it’s like you’re just a wannabe who knows nothing. Then you walk across that stage and suddenly people think you’re an expert.”

  “Tiffany was killed about six or seven hours later.” Sister Agatha pushed her bowl aside. “Did you notice anything unusual?”

  “Killed?” Reverend Mother broke in before Lucy could respond. “Why do you think she was killed, Sister Agatha?” Reverend Mother took the basket of warm rolls from in front of Lucy and passed them down the table. “Sister Gwenydd, your fresh bread is a treat. As always.”

  “Well, it’s conjecture, of course, at this point. Especially as there won’t be an autopsy. Dr. Beese thought it was a heart attack,” Sister Agatha said, taking a roll from the basket. Reverend Mother was right about the bread. It was wonderful. It could have been a meal in itself.

  “Let me guess,” Sister Callwen said. “A woman’s tragic medical condition is now a murder that you need to jump in and solve?” She looked at Sister Agatha, her eyebrows raised. “Isn’t writing a murder mystery enough? Do you have to see murder everywhere?”

  Sister Callwen had not quite recovered from Sister Agatha’s recent brush with death when she solved the murder of Jacob Traherne, the abbey’s beloved sexton. The table fell silent as all the nuns looked at Sister Agatha. Their glances then went to Reverend Mother. Reverend Mother was always a bit hesitant about Sister Agatha’s interest in murder.

  Reverend Mother cleared her throat. “Sister Agatha will certainly not jump into anything. There is no actual evidence to think it was anything other than a heart attack.” She fixed Sister Agatha in her steady gaze. “Right, Sister?”

  “Of course,” Sister Agatha said, taking a quick sip of tea. “Right.” A decided snort could be heard coming from the direction of Sister Callwen.

  “I had hoped you would take the weeks of Advent to spend in prayer and contemplation, not chasing down murderers,” Reverend Mother continued, “real or fictional. And I need you here. It’s all-hands-on-deck to get ready for Christmas. Between the holiday jumble at Saint Anselm’s, the potential uptick in sales of Heavenly Gouda, and the live nativity scene with Luther and Calvin, I need everyone present and focused. And it’s not just Christmas. I am especially worried about the housing development. You can see that they have already started digging the first site. We can only pray to win some time if the weather turns bad.”

  The nuns nodded, several frowning. The threat of development in North Wales had been sobering, but when the nuns awakened one morning to the sound of earth-moving equipment in the meadow on the other side of Church Lane, things had gotten serious. The abbey, along with many in the village, planned to intensify their protest.

  Sister Winifred leaned over toward Lucy. “Luther and Calvin are our pot-bellied pigs. The stars of the abbey’s live nativity scene. Although I dare say this year we can have actual sheep as well.”

  “And don’t leave out Bartimaeus,” Sister Agatha said. She was very fond of the blind Shetland pony that the sisters had rescued from a petting zoo several years earlier. “He makes an awesome camel.”

  “Two pot-bellied pigs, a blind pony dressed up like a camel, and a few Welsh Mountain sheep.” Sister Callwen sighed. “Now that’s authentic.”

  “What we lack in authenticity, Sister, we make up in enthusiasm.” Sister Harriet loved Christmas and wouldn’t allow any nay-saying.

  “Back home there are all these arguments and public outcry over nativity scenes,” Lucy said. “Especially if they’re placed in a public place like a town square. Is it really such a big deal?” She looked around. The room had fallen silent. Only the quiet clink of forks against bowls could be heard. “Sorry, but I’ve never been to church.”

  “Never. Not even once?” Sister Harriet asked.

  “Our Girl Scout troop used to sell cookies in front of a mosque. It was the perfect spot. Does that count?” Sister Agatha watched as Lucy filled her bowl a second time. Youth.

  “It certainly does not count,” Sister Callwen said. “Going to a mosque is a very good thing, but not if you are there to sell cookies.”

  “Come by the kitchen this afternoon,” Sister Gwenydd said. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know about the nativity.”

  “The blind leading the blind,” Sister Callwen whis
pered to Sister Agatha.

  “Could we get back to our conversation about what happened to Tiffany Reese, Sisters?” Sister Harriet said. “I have poinsettias to arrange and take to the Care Center. I need to get moving.”

  Sister Agatha launched into a description of everything she had seen at the parish hall. The sisters had much to say about the teacup, the missing painting, and the possible ways that Tiffany could have died. Lucy was particularly disturbed about the disappearance of the painting. “I saw it yesterday. Stunning detail. Do you have any idea where it went? Would it have been stolen?”

  “I don’t know.” Sister Agatha looked directly at Lucy. “It’s simply gone.”

  “That’s terrible,” Lucy said. “I don’t always like traditional nature paintings. But it had a spontaneous feel to it. I was impressed. Of course, she wasn’t as modest as most amateur painters are. We must have heard twenty times that an art dealer in Cardiff wanted the painting for a show he was doing. She worked that into every conversation.” Lucy selected another roll from the basket.

  “Did you notice if that bothered anyone? Annoyed someone in particular?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “No. People seemed happy for her. Proud, sort of, that one of their own was going to be in an art show. That’s what is so tragic. A chance to be noticed by a well-known dealer is rare for most artists. It’s your dream. Tiffany Reese finally gets the chance, and then she dies and her painting disappears.” Lucy sat back in her chair, her blue eyes wide. “Sad.”

  “It is sad,” Reverend Mother said, looking thoughtful. “And wrong.” Reverend Mother had a strong sense of justice and was known for supporting the underdog. She looked down the long table to where Sister Agatha sat between Sister Callwen and Sister Matilda. “I am rethinking my earlier idea, Sister Agatha, that you should take a break from murder. We all have our calling. And when God beckons, one must respond. If you keep your inquiries gentle, I see no reason why you cannot do a little sleuthing. Just to see if things couldn’t be set right for Tiffany. I’m not saying that I think she was murdered. But the disappearance of the painting seems suspect. Something is not right. And even though I won’t pretend to have really liked Tiffany Reese, she certainly deserves better.” Reverend Mother put a spoonful of stew into her mouth and chewed slowly. “Sister Gwenydd,” she said, swallowing, and looking at her youngest nun. “I hope you never abandon your calling. This stew is superb.”

  * * *

  The clock in the village bell tower chimed eleven times as the moon rose over the orchard. It had been a long Saturday, but finally, Sister Agatha could sit at her desk in the attic library with a teapot of steaming Welsh brew, her favorite teacup—the one she always used when she was writing—and a plate of Sister Gwenydd’s ginger snaps. The ancient pipes in the walls had begun their comforting clanging, giving hope that they were about to pump out heat and steam in comforting bursts. Everything was in place for a long night of writing and thinking about murder. She poured the hot, fragrant tea into the teacup and leaned back to think. Didn’t Inspector Rupert MacFarlane say that for every hour spent chasing down the criminal, a detective should spend three hours sitting and thinking?

  The attic library was at the top of the world—or so it seemed to Sister Agatha—the rolling valley spread out below, the moonlight breaking through the clouds. The long room under the eaves had been recently remodeled by the sisters and turned into a functioning library. Sister Agatha loved her desk there in the third-floor attic library. An old teacher’s desk rescued from the St. Anselm’s jumble was positioned in front of the north window, which gazed out over the sweeping valley.

  The desk was a place of refuge where she could be found busily working on her mystery novel—a private-eye detective story with a street-savvy investigator named Bates Melanchthon, who never darkened the door of a church but seemed to find himself in a lot of bars, brothels, and dark alleyways. While roaming the streets of London’s East Side, Bates managed to bring to justice some of the worst criminals the city had seen. At least that was the plan. So far Sister Agatha had written feverishly to the middle of the novel and was deeply mired in a murder that had even Bates stumped. She expected the muse to return and a burst of inspiration to strike any day now.

  Sister Agatha had always been a voracious reader, but only relatively recently had she embarked on writing. When each nun at the abbey turned sixty years old, the other sisters did whatever was needed to allow that sister to fulfill her lifelong dream—no matter what it was. Sister Harriet had hopped a plane to Rome and immersed herself in a study of sacred art at the Vatican. Sister Winifred left for the Shetland Islands and six weeks of weaving native wool. Sister Callwen, to every one’s surprise, made the journey to India and attended a yoga retreat at the Himalayan Yoga Center.

  When Sister Agatha had said that she wanted to write a mystery novel, the abbey paid the tuition for her to pursue a master of fine arts in writing at the University of St. David. In the year since graduation, she had been working busily on her Bates Melanchthon mystery, spending all of her free time researching historical murders, reading forensic manuals, and perusing mystery-writer blogs. She tested out dialogue on her sisters and scribbled into her detective notebook every idea the minute it came to her—even if a brilliant thought did overtake her during Holy Communion.

  Her desk in the attic was where she disappeared every evening after Compline to write late into the night, but it was also her work station. Sister Agatha’s love of books and adeptness at using the Internet had made her the obvious choice for abbey librarian. She ordered books online, shopped in used bookstores, and consulted her colleagues at the tiny Pryderi library.

  Although the year at St. David’s had been an amazing time, the most valuable gift from the abbey, the gift that really said to her “we believe in you as a writer” was the desk in the attic. Sister Harriet had found the desk at the jumble sale and carted it home. The other sisters had refinished it and supplied an ergonomic desk chair. But it was Sister Callwen who placed the desk at the north window so that on a very clear day, she said, Sister Agatha could glimpse a silver ribbon glinting in the sunlight—the Irish Sea—and take inspiration from all the Irish writers who had made their way in the world writing. Late at night, when the moonlight was exceptionally bright, she could indeed glimpse the sea, and the spirit of George Bernard Shaw or Oscar Wilde or Maeve Binchy seemed to beckon to her across the waves.

  She took a long sip of tea. A new investigation. Where to begin? Well, for starters, no more cocktail napkins—time to choose a new notebook from the stash in her desk. First things first. Inspector Rupert McFarland was quite a stickler about one’s detective notebook. “Your notebook is your best friend,” he always said. “Keep your notes shipshape in Bristol fashion at all times!” For last summer’s murder she had used a lizard-print, moleskin, slimline, pocket-sized notebook in a splashy orchid blue.

  But this was a new day and a new murder, which obviously called for a new notebook. She opened the bottom desk drawer and considered her stash. Sister Agatha, generally very pragmatic about everything, did have to admit to one embarrassing weakness—she loved a new, fresh notebook. But not just any notebook—the expensive, cloth-covered, hand-bound ones that could be found at Smythson of Bond Street in London or the Stamford Notebook Company in Cambridge. She loved each watermarked page, every handmade binding, the carefully stitched spine that made just the slightest snap when first opened, the gentle aroma of paper and ink. Every page was gilt-edged and the covers were always of elegant cloth or smooth leather. Just opening a new notebook from Smythson’s or Stamford’s sparked her creativity like nothing else, and when she put her Sharpie to the first clean, empty page of a clean, empty notebook, the possibilities felt infinite. Luckily for her, Reverend Mother approved of the pricey notebooks as long as Sister Agatha didn’t get too carried away. Reverend Mother believed that everyone—even nuns—should be allowed to indulge on occasion.

  This particular notebook wo
uld need an Advent theme. Sister Agatha was a big believer in liturgical correctness—so nothing bright or perky. This murder had happened in Advent and one’s notebook needed to reflect the somber mood of the season.

  She thought for a long moment and then, reaching into the drawer, withdrew a recent acquisition—a lovely notebook, bound in purple lambskin, handcrafted in Bethlehem, with 192 leaves of Smythson’s signature gilt-edged, cream-colored featherweight paper. Both practical and luxurious, the advertising copy touted, “This mid-size notebook transitions effortlessly from your desk to your travel bag.” She hoped it would also transition from desk to apron pocket. Or, as it was winter in North Wales, from desk to oversized-red-jumper pocket. And purple was the perfect color for an Advent murder.

  Sister Agatha placed the purple lambskin notebook on the top of her desk and uncapped a new Sharpie. Time to get serious. First, a description of the crime scene. She thought for a moment and pulled out her notes from a podcast from at least a year ago by Inspector Rupert MacFarlane. She remembered that he had a lot to say about the integrity of a crime scene and about collecting evidence. “Once the lead investigator arrives at the crime scene, laddies, he is in control!” She sighed. Inspector Rupert MacFarlane was very old school and his only fault—if he had one—was a bit of sexism. In his mind all detectives were men, and he frequently referred to them as “laddies.” Sister Agatha had occasionally considered writing to Inspector Rupert MacFarlane about this one deviation from an otherwise flawless podcast. But so far, she hadn’t.

  She read her notes again and sighed again. Not only wasn’t she the lead investigator—although in her mind, she certainly was—the official lead, Constable Barnes, had not even determined Tiffany’s death a crime. Which was a crime in itself! Sister Agatha knew from her many podcasts that if Tiffany Reese was murdered, the crime scene itself would demonstrate it.

  She remembered something the inspector had recently discussed. It had a funny name. Tapping her Sharpie on the notebook, she thought hard. Lochard’s Exchange Principle. Inspector MacFarlane had gone on and on about it. She scanned the podcast notes. “In every crime, the murderer brings something in and he takes something out. Figure out what those things are and you’re halfway to a solved murder!”