The Hour of Death Page 6

  Sister Agatha sat back. Well, there was something that the murderer might have taken out and its absence was obvious. The painting. But what did the murderer bring in?

  She smoothed out the ink-blotted cocktail napkin and then began to transfer the information written on it into her purple detective notebook. It might come to her if she just focused on the information that she did have. Small nail, broken tea cup. What else? She made a note to search the kitchen, which, like most church kitchens, opened out to the parish hall. Who knew how many people had walked through the kitchen by now? In a real investigation, the perimeter would have been cordoned off with yellow police tape and the public kept out.She did realize that might have included her. Although Sister Agatha didn’t often think of herself as one of the public.

  She gazed out the window at the night sky. As far as she could tell, the painting was the only thing that had been taken out. A burglar would have stolen the diamond from Tiffany’s finger, but only the painting was missing. Why? She remembered that Lucy had said that an art dealer from Cardiff was interested in the painting. But dealers don’t steal paintings. Or do they? She made a note to check.

  Taking a sip of tea and a bite of a ginger snap, she closed her eyes and pictured the crime scene. Tiffany’s body slumped against the wall, arms at her sides, palms turned upward. Her mouth slightly open. What else?

  Sister Agatha reached into her jumper pocket and took out the tiny nail she had withdrawn from the wall, then opened the middle desk drawer and pulled out a sandwich bag from the stash she kept there. You couldn’t be too careful with evidence. She dropped the nail in the bag and then tore off a piece of tape from the dispenser on her desk. She put the tape on the outside of the bag—just as Inspector Rupert MacFarlane had instructed—and carefully labeled it #1 “little nail.” It was pretty obvious that it was a little nail, but the inspector had been very insistent about labeling evidence properly. She was determined to conduct this investigation meticulously. Her last murder case had been very catch-as-catch-can. More Stephanie Plum than Inspector Barnaby. Sister Agatha smiled. She definitely was more Stephanie Plum than Inspector Barnaby.

  Opening the book bag that sat on the floor next to her desk, she lifted out a bundle wrapped in last week’s copy of The Church Times. The broken teacup. She unwrapped the two pieces and, using a tissue, carefully placed them into another plastic bag, this one a quart-size ziplock that Sister Gwenydd used for freezing elderberries. She felt a pang of guilt for having removed such crucial evidence from the scene. But then, Constable Barnes had not declared it a crime scene and so nothing was off limits. And, she reminded herself, if no one else cared to collect evidence, then she was obligated to. Tearing off a piece of tape, she placed it almost reverently on the bag’s right corner, and with her Sharpie wrote, #2 “broken teacup.”

  Without removing the cup from the bag, she fitted the two pieces together and carefully turned it over. Wedgwood of Etruria & Barlaston Made in England Embossed Queens Ware. She quickly googled it. A somewhat rare antique teacup, and expensive. Of course, Tiffany could never have used the porcelain mugs that everyone else in the church used. She had to have her own teacup, and the very same kind that Buckingham Palace had been drinking from for nearly a century. It also meant that Tiffany had made the tea herself, since she had used her own, special teacup. Sister Agatha laid the two evidence bags on the desk.

  She closed her eyes as she imagined Tiffany Reese in the church kitchen. She had probably stopped by Saint Anselm’s just to make sure everything was in order—in Tiffany’s mind, only Tiffany could be trusted to do things right. Then, as she walked around, checking each painting, she decided she needed a cup of tea. Sister Agatha imagined her putting the kettle on and scooping tea out of the tea canister—no teabags for Tiffany Reese.

  Sister Agatha opened her eyes and made a note to take a look at the tea in the church kitchen. She knew that Father Selwyn made his tea with tea bags. But then, he had been known to stir his tea with a number 2 yellow pencil. Eraser end, of course. Bevan, on the other hand, made tea with loose leaves, which he spooned into a silver tea strainer. She had seen him do it. And he insisted it was better. Sister Agatha was a teabag person. The nuns at Gwenafwy Abbey were divided down the middle. Sister Callwen, loose leaf. Sister Harriet, teabag.

  So Tiffany Reese had made tea and walked back into the hall with her teacup. She had gone to her painting and stood there, no doubt admiring it. She sipped her tea and then had a heart attack? She staggered backward, leaning against the wall. She slumped down, falling to the floor. Her heart stopped. Murdered? That was the question. If nothing at all had been touched in the parish hall, Sister Agatha would have been less inclined to think that there was foul play. But the painting was missing. Lochard’s principle. The murderer took something out. But what did he bring in? Whatever it was, it had killed Tiffany Reese.

  Chapter Three

  The Monday evening village meeting to discuss the new housing development was about to convene, and already Sister Agatha could feel a growing animosity in St. Anselm’s parish hall. Very few people in the village supported the idea of houses being built on land that had belonged to Pryderi sheep farmers for centuries and was thought by many to be a known fairy field. The Labor Party representative, Devon Morgan, was attending to answer questions.

  By the time Father Selwyn slid into the chair next to Sister Agatha, the parish hall at St. Anselm’s was packed. Every folding chair that the church owned had been set up in neat rows, and now villagers crowded into the back of the long hall, leaning against the wall, sitting on the table from last night’s meeting of the diaconate. The paintings from the art show had been quietly removed by the Art Society ladies in deference to Tiffany, and there was no sign that a woman had been murdered in this very room. Sister Agatha looked around. The room smelled of furniture polish and floor wax. It could possibly be the most compromised crime scene in the history of crime scenes.

  “Do we really want to sit in the front row like this?” Father Selwyn asked. “I feel a bit on display.”

  “We need to be right in front so we can make that slimy Devon Morgan as uncomfortable as possible.”

  “That’s the Christmas spirit,” Father Selwyn said, glancing around the parish hall, now full of villagers. “Although I can’t argue that Devon Morgan is of questionable reputation. I don’t know how he got appointed as minister for the environment, planning, and the countryside.”

  “He only wants to develop the North country with expensive houses for his own political benefit. All this nonsense about it benefiting the community and improving the economy is just poppycock.”

  “He has his sights set on first minister, which is how Carwyn Jones did it. He was minister for the environment and climbed his way pretty quickly to first minister.”

  “But I like Carwyn,” Sister Agatha said. “He’s a good Welshman. One of our oldest families. I can’t believe he’s allowing people like this Morgan fellow to be in charge of something as crucial to Wales as the environment.” Sister Agatha glanced around and spotted Sister Gwenydd and Lucy coming in the back door. She waved them forward. Lucy was hard to miss. Her flaming red hair made her stand out in any crowd. She claimed to be Welsh, but she looked every inch Irish to Sister Agatha.

  “Well, it certainly affects the whole area of the diocese of St. Asaph.”

  “Some are in favor of it though—you know, the fiscal benefit. A more progressive agenda.”

  “A more progressive agenda? Is that what you call tearing up an ancient pasture land to build expensive houses that no one in Pryderi can afford?”

  Lucy and Sister Gwenydd claimed the two empty chairs that Sister Agatha had been saving for them. The rest of the nuns were scattered around the room. Sister June was up front near the podium. Sister Agatha was proud of her for representing Gwenafwy Abbey so competently. The president of the parish council took the microphone. He spoke for a few minutes about the housing development. Sister Agatha cou
ld tell he was trying to present both sides. In her way of thinking, there were not two sides. Not at all. Decided rumblings went through the audience.

  Unenthusiastic applause broke out as the mayor finished his introductions and Devon Morgan, Labor Party representative, stepped up to the microphone. Sister Agatha, sitting next to Lucy, felt the young woman stiffen and sit up straight. She also noticed that Lucy leaned over and whispered to Sister Gwenydd.

  “What?” Sister Agatha asked quietly.

  “I know him. He offered me a ride the other night. At the Art Society meeting.”

  Sister Agatha took out her notebook out and made a note. Father Selwyn looked at her, eyebrows raised.

  “I’ll tell you later.” She closed the notebook and turned her attention to Devon Morgan. Devon Morgan was tall and had reddish blonde hair, graying now but probably flaming red in his youth. He was expensively dressed, which wasn’t the greatest idea for a politician in Pryderi. The villagers were sheep farmers, teachers, and shopkeepers. They distrusted anyone who displayed wealth—a wealth that they seldom saw. His expensive Mercedes parked out front with his driver waiting in it didn’t help.

  She listened, nearly grinding her teeth at Devon’s polished presentation. She had heard that he stood for family values. In her experience, if you had to talk about your values all the time, you didn’t have any. A good Welshman lived his values. She shook her head and Father Selwyn gave her a look. It was almost painful to sit and listen. She glanced toward the side door of the parish hall just in time to see Lewis Colwyn slip out. Well, good for him, she thought. We should all walk out and not listen to this drivel.

  According to Devon Morgan, the new housing development would change nothing in the village or countryside and bring in loads of money. He was too charming for Sister Agatha, and perhaps for anyone in the room. He explained how seventeen new homes were planned to be built at the north edge of the village—in the field between the abbey and the village. “Let them build,” he said, “and we will pave that pokey gravel road.” Sister Agatha looked in horror at Sister June. Pave Church Lane? Never.

  As it was, DRM Industries had made some exploratory projections, and according to Devon Morgan the results demonstrated that the housing development would be very good for the village economy. To her horror, she saw a few people nodding and smiling. The meeting continued, with Devon pushing hard his belief in the value of development to the prosperity of the local community. Sister Agatha wasn’t buying it. A few others didn’t either.

  Devon smoothly turned any question of his political ambitions to a statement about how much he wanted a bright future for Wales. Murmurs of assent and dissent went through the room. He fielded question after question with deft, political charm.

  “Do you feel like a cup of tea?” she whispered to Father Selwyn.

  “Well, yes. But I didn’t see any. I dislike a meeting without tea.”

  “Me too.” Sister Agatha waited until the next round of applause—this time for Sister June—and she stood up and, slipping into the side aisle, made her way over to the kitchen door. She put the kettle on and then pulled out her notebook. She had seldom made tea in the St. Anselm kitchen, so she wasn’t especially familiar with it. But like most church kitchens it was neat as a pin, with every drawer and cupboard meticulously labeled. Church kitchens were generally ruled over by a loving though tyrannical group of ladies who kept the place running like a ship in the British navy.

  She noticed a cupboard labeled “Tea: WI Only!” and opening it, she found among the boxes of tea, creamers, silver strainers, and plastic stirrers a tall, ceramic tea canister. The label on it, printed in perfect calligraphy, read “Property of Tiffany Reese. Do not touch!” Good Heavens! No wonder the WI was having trouble attracting young people. Who would join if just making tea was such an issue? Probably too late to dust for fingerprints, Sister Agatha thought, lifting down the canister. She recognized the lavender-blue grape-leaf design on the white porcelain. It matched the teacup, now in an evidence bag and stashed in the library desk. But the teacup was lightweight and delicate, its edge thin and nearly translucent. The tea canister of the same design was heavy and sturdy, though nonetheless lovely, and it was almost completely full, in fact the ceramic top barely sat comfortably on the top. Sister Agatha made a note in her detective’s book and then, setting the canister on the counter, she took a quick photo of it with her phone.

  On an impulse and with a glance behind her, she found the drawer labeled “plastic bags” and, rummaging for a minute, withdrew the largest one she could find, a gallon-sized ziplock. With another look over her shoulder—she could hear Devon Morgan’s smooth voice coming through the door—she upturned the tea canister into the bag and shook out all the tea. She replaced the canister in the cupboard just as the kettle began to sing. She would make Father Selwyn his tea, but certainly not from the tea found in the canister. It needed to be entered in her evidence log. And most important, tested for poison.

  Sister Agatha stepped back and looked hard at the bag of tea. She assumed that it was both exotic and expensive—Tiffany Reese could hardly be expected to have drunk anything else. The question was how to find out if it had poison in it without dying first? Agatha Christie might be her only help here. Sister Agatha made two cups of tea—one for herself and one for Father Selwyn—using the Welsh Brew teabags she found in the cupboard labeled “Tea: Church Use Only.” Good heavens, the WI and the church ladies had certainly squared off over tea. Pouring cream and sugar generously into the teacups and taking a sip, she shook her head. Welsh Brew. Now that’s real tea.

  * * *

  The shadows had already grown long and the late afternoon air bitingly cold when Sister Agatha left the public library and her research on poisons to walk over to St. Anselm’s church. She hadn’t been able to discuss her latest thoughts after the meeting last night—she had hurried back to the abbey with the other nuns—and was anxious to recap the whole thing with Father Selwyn. Plus, she had rifled through Agatha Christie for all of her references to poison and had been unable to nail down any safe ways to determine if there was poison in the tea. But to her surprise, the tea was not exotic or expensive at all, it was indeed Welsh Brew. A workingman’s tea. The cheapest—though in her opinion, the best—tea in all of the United Kingdom.

  Sister Agatha had been given her own key at the library, along with a small desk and computer stashed in the corner of the reference section. She enjoyed the privilege of working at the village library and relished the collegiality of the other librarians. The library was a subscribing member of the WorldCat database. When she had first logged on to the 170,000 libraries across the world, she had been like a kid in a candy store—a kid about to go into diabetic shock in a candy store.

  Today she needed to do some research for the abbey: a book on Karl Rahner, a mid-century Catholic theologian, for Sister Callwen’s book group on the Eucharist; a journal on textile crafts for Sister Winifred, who was considering making a shift from knitting to quilting as the abbey was already entirely outfitted with scores of mittens, scarves, hats, and prayer shawls; and finally, for herself, a book on poison. She needed to know more.

  * * *

  “We have a lot to talk about,” Sister Agatha said as she pulled off her blue woolly hat and plopped down on the sofa in Father Selwyn’s office. If Father Selwyn was to be her sidekick, she really had to find a more efficient way to keep him updated. They had just recently started using Snapchat, but it wasn’t going well.

  “First, Vonda Bryson’s alibi doesn’t check out. Second, the tea in Tiffany Reese’s tea canister is disappointingly nonpoisonous. And third, Devon Morgan is a snake in the grass.”

  The last of the bit of sunlight filtered through the stained-glass window, but a cheerful fire crackled in the grate in the pleasantly cluttered study. Also, there was the scent of cinnamon. She had always wondered if the tiny whiff of cinnamon, always present wherever Father Selwyn was, was because Bevan kept Father Selwyn
supplied with plates of baked goods or because Father Selwyn used cinnamon soap. She had never asked. Inquiring about his soap seemed a bit intimate, even if they had been friends for nearly fifty years. But cheerful and pleasant as the study was, it failed to comfort her as it usually did. There were too many unanswered murder questions for her to relax.

  Father Selwyn sat down in the wingback chair and, slipping off his size-twelve brogues, put his feet up on the ottoman. She noticed his socks didn’t match. “I was hoping for something inspiring from you. But it sounds like you are as tired as I am.”

  “Sorry,” she said. Usually Sister Agatha enjoyed her back-and-forth conversations with Father Selwyn, but today it seemed they were both a bit overwhelmed.

  “Long week.” Father Selwyn stretched out his long legs. Under his cassock he was wearing yoga pants. “And it’s only Tuesday.”

  “Senior Yoga?” she asked. Father Selwyn led the older citizens in the village every Tuesday in a class Sister Agatha called “hot yoga for the old-age pensioner.” Sister Harriet never missed it and could do the eagle pose like a twelve-year-old gymnast.

  He nodded. “Generally, a little vinyasa restores me. But not so much today. A death in the parish hall. That horrible meeting last night.” Leaning back, he closed his eyes. Sister Agatha waited. He was either praying or sleeping. The slight whiffling snore ruled out prayer.

  She got up quietly, put the kettle on the electric burner, and placed a teabag in each of the two cups that sat at the ready on the little coffee table between them. Cream and sugar. No spoons. She sighed. It was number-two pencils again.

  The meeting last night had been disheartening. The sisters had sat up late in the warming room discussing it. Devon Morgan had come across as charming and intelligent. And he made a smooth defense of the building development. Sister June, who had worn her litigators’ hat the whole evening, was adamant that Devon Morgan was not on the side of the small village and could not be trusted.