The Hour of Death Page 7

  Sister Agatha tapped a key on the Remington Rand portable that Father Selwyn had left on the table next to the teacups. Probably the last functioning manual typewriter in the county. In the North. In all of Wales. Maybe in the entire UK. Father Selwyn claimed that a great-aunt, office secretary to the Dunlichity parish in the Church of Scotland and a daunting church lady in her own right, had bequeathed it to him, and that the typewriter regularly inspired his sermon-writing. Which was why his sermons leaned toward the Presbyterianism of the Scots. Although a deft typist on his laptop, for some reason on the portable he typed with only two fingers. And if you ever received a note from Father Selwyn, you needed to fill in the blanks on half the words because the letter e didn’t work.

  “How do you know Vonda Bryson is lying?” Father Selwyn sat up at the sound of the teakettle. He didn’t seem to realize he had fallen asleep.

  “Her neighbor,” Sister Agatha said, not mentioning his snoring. “You know him, George Myers. He said she was out all night. At least until eleven, when he went to bed.” She pulled out her notebook and opening it scanned the notes she had copied off the cocktail napkin. “Which means that she wasn’t home the night of the murder and that she lied about it.”

  “Or maybe she just didn’t want to tell you what she was doing, which is a long way from lying about something due to the fact you committed murder.”

  “Of course. But it does make her a person of interest. People never lie unless they need to keep something secret.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true. I think sometimes people simply lie. And it could be that Vonda is just being private, not secretive.” Father Selwyn leaned forward and with two fingers typed a few words onto the Remington Rand portable. “There’s a difference,” he said, concentrating on the keyboard. “And anyway, didn’t George wonder why you were inquiring about the whereabouts of the Brysons? Especially the day after a death so close by?”

  “I was subtle.”

  “Sister,” he said, continuing to stab rapidly at the well-oiled keys of the Remington. “You are the least subtle person I know. But then, lucky for you, George Myer is the least likely to hold back on a bit of gossip if given the opportunity to share it.”

  “Exactly. The question is, why was she lying? Even if it was simply to be private about something.” Sister Agatha had to admit that the clacking typewriter sound was comforting. Not at all like her laptop keyboard. She had looked into buying a keyboard that made the same clacking noise that an old typewriter like the Remington made, thinking it might inspire her writing. The cost had deterred even her. Reverend Mother had reminded her that her vow of poverty was actually still in effect.

  “It’s hard to imagine Vonda Bryson killing anyone.” Father Selwyn ripped the sheet of paper out of the roller and, after perusing it for a moment, slid it on the bookshelf to his right. “Sorry to be distracted but the bishop has asked for our annual membership reports. And I need to get information to Bevan to send off.” He sighed. “The bishop’s office is getting more demanding with Suzanne Bainton in charge.”

  Suzanne Bainton was the relatively new bishop of St. Asaph, one of the five dioceses of the Church in Wales. She had replaced a much beloved bishop, who had run the diocese in a pastoral manner, paying far more attention to church social events than to budgets and growth projections. The new bishop had taken the diocese in hand, and not everyone was thrilled with her leadership. Sister Agatha had an especially tenuous relationship with her. Probably because, during her last murder investigation, the Reverend Suzanne Bainton had been at the top of her list of suspects.

  Sister Agatha watched as Father Selwyn finished typing. He leaned back in his chair and faced her. “Vonda Bryson doesn’t seem the kind of person that would murder.”

  “No one ever seems the kind that would murder.”

  “True.” They sat in silence, remembering that dark day not long ago when someone they both knew very well had, indeed, committed murder. The electric log in the fireplace glowed and crackled. Father Selwyn had recently replaced the small electric grate that had been in the fireplace of the St. Anselm’s vicar’s study since the late 1950s. The new log not only gave off heat but crackled like a real fire. Sister Agatha had thought it a bit foolish. But now she liked it. It was comforting. Maybe a fake crackling fire is no different from a fake manual typewriter keyboard. She watched as Father Selwyn poured steaming, fragrant tea into her teacup and then added sugar and cream exactly as she liked it.

  “Vonda’s comment about wanting Tiffany dead might have seemed like a joke, but you have to ask—was it? Or did it start as a joke and upon reflection the idea began to take shape?” She took a sip of tea. “A seed planted in a killer’s mind?”

  “Vonda Bryson hardly has time for murder. She has four boys under the age of ten and a husband who travels. My guess is that she spends her day checking homework, doing laundry, and making lunches.”

  “Which, as we all know,” Sister Agatha pointed out, “would be enough to drive anyone to murder.” Sister Agatha watched as Father Selwyn slid a sheet of paper into the roller and began to type again. He suddenly looked up.

  “What did you mean, the tea was disappointingly nonpoisonous?” His eyes opened wide. “You didn’t try it, did you?”

  “Of course not. I’m not stupid.” Sister Agatha didn’t mention how close she had come to sampling the tiniest amount just to see if she experienced the smallest of symptoms. Not enough to harm herself of course, but enough to make it clear that there was poison in the tea. She had opted instead for carefully sifting for an hour through every last bit in the canister using a very fine strainer from the cheese barn, a bright lamp, and an old magnifying glass from Sister Matilda, who used it in her greenhouse to identify leaf mold. She had found nothing amiss. It seemed the only substance in the canister was Welsh Brew.

  As she told Father Selwyn about her latest evidence collection and examination, she pondered aloud about Tiffany Reese drinking Welsh Brew. “You would think she would go at least for Glengettie or something high-brow like Earl Grey.”

  “You never can tell about people. Just when you think you have them pegged, they surprise you.”

  “Maybe,” she said without conviction, making a note to ask Vonda about Tiffany’s taste in tea.

  “I’m more worried right now about the housing development. Have you had any more thoughts about last night? About Devon Morgan?”

  “No. Just that I don’t feel optimistic about saving the meadow.”

  “I hope the village doesn’t give up the fight. Devon Morgan seems crooked to me. In a very charming way.”

  “A politician. And not even a Welshman. Did you know that his family is from Ireland?”

  “Sister, there is nothing wrong with being from Ireland.”

  “I’m not saying there is. I only meant that he’s not Welsh.” Sister Agatha took a dim view of anyone who wasn’t Welsh. “No self-respecting Welshman would destroy a fairy field, that’s all.” She ignored Father Selwyn’s gentle smile at her mention of the fairy field.

  “How do you know he’s Irish anyway?”

  “You saw that red hair.”

  “Red hair doesn’t mean you’re Irish. Not anymore.”

  “Well, in his case it does. Red hair, blue eyes, pale skin. And anyway, I heard him going on about it on North Wales Live. How his ancestors left during the famine and emigrated to Wales to work in the slate mines and all. He plays the poverty card and I don’t like that.” She took one last long drink of tea and stood, slipping the purple notebook back into her jumper pocket and pulling on her blue woolly hat. She was grateful to Sister Winifred for designing the jumper with pockets large enough to stash her notebook, Sharpie, Girl Guides knife, and latest Agatha Christie. She looked around for her mittens, which Sister Winifred had also knitted to match her blue hat. “As disgusted as I am with Devon Morgan, I have other irons in the fire. Which I cannot ignore. In addition to Vonda Bryson, I think Lucy, our young artist-in-residence
could be of interest as well. And anyway, I’m due back at the abbey for evening vespers.”

  * * *

  Evening vespers had been emotionally stirring for Sister Agatha. The sisters had sung an Advent hymn that never failed to move her. “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.” The last verse was particularly powerful.

  O come, Thou Day-Spring, come and cheer

  Our spirits by Thine advent here

  Disperse the gloomy clouds of night

  And death’s dark shadows put to flight.

  As the last note lingered in the chapel, Reverend Mother had stepped into the pulpit and delivered a short but thrilling homily, as only she could, on darkness and light in the first chapter of Genesis. Following her words, Sister Harriet’s impassioned voice read the haunting words of scripture as their benediction: “And in the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep.”

  The chapel had been dark except for a few lights and several candles. “And darkness covered the face of the deep.” She had never noticed that the story of the Creation had such spooky imagery. It gave Sister Agatha chills and made her think of murder. And with murder on her mind, she had hurried straight from the chapel to Lucy’s art studio and knocked on the door.

  Ever since talking with Father Selwyn that afternoon, Sister Agatha had wrestled with the idea that Lucy knew more than she was saying. Not that she was a strong suspect. Just a person of interest. However, the young woman had been with Tiffany not six hours before she died. And in the same place where her dead body was found. Something about Lucy gave Sister Agatha a frisson of doubt—a familiar feeling that she had learned during her last murder investigation not to ignore. Of course, she had to admit, nothing tangible about Lucy’s behavior made her a potential suspect. But she was a newcomer to the abbey and you couldn’t be too careful.

  Sister Agatha knocked again and listened as Lucy, on the other side of the door, shushed her tiny dog’s barking. “Do you have a minute?” Sister Agatha asked as the door opened.

  “Sure. Come in,” Lucy said. Sister Agatha stepped into the small work space and caught her breath as she saw the several canvases placed around the room.

  “Don’t look at my paintings, they’re really preliminary.” Lucy grabbed a sheet and tossed it over one before Sister Agatha had gotten a close look at it. As far as she could tell, it was a group of people huddled together and looking down.

  Sister Agatha ignored her and took a step forward, peering at one painting that seemed to be finished. It was a stunning portrait of Ben Holden, the abbey’s sheep farmer, standing on the hillside above the orchard. Lucy had captured the essence of the old man perfectly. The way his one leg bent in at the knee, the slight crook in his back. His head lifted, eyes gazing with the look that Sister Agatha had often seen him have, though it had never registered with her until now. Ben looked as though he was always searching for a lost sheep. “Wow. I love this one. You’re good.”

  “You sound surprised.” Lucy said, pulling up a decrepit canvas chair and offering a matching chair to Sister Agatha.

  “Not surprised as much as …” Sister Agatha couldn’t finish her sentence. She was surprised. “It’s just that I sort of thought you would paint more like the women in the Art Society.”

  Lucy smiled. “No. There’s nothing wrong with their art. But I did go to art school. Which makes a difference. Or at least it should.”

  The ladies of the Pryderi Parish Art Society were as interested in perspective and shading as they were in tea and cakes, and Sister Agatha was glad Lucy had not thrown them under the bus.

  “What did you want to talk about?” Lucy asked. She had pulled her normally messy red hair back into a ponytail. There was a smudge of yellow ochre on her left eyebrow.

  “I was wondering if you could tell me about the Art Society meeting. You know, did you observe anything that might have seemed out of the ordinary?” Sister Agatha opened the purple notebook and uncapped her Sharpie. “Tell me anything you think of. It doesn’t have to seem important.”

  “Well,” Lucy said, yanking out the ponytail holder, shaking out her hair, and then pulling it back all over again. Sister Agatha had watched other young women do this and found it annoying, but then, she had worn her own hair short for so many years that ponytails hadn’t been an option. Lucy glanced out the small window over her table. The day had grown dark, and the little studio was cozy with the smell of acrylics and the warm colors of the paintings. Vincent van Gogh, with a sigh and a grunt, had curled up on the rug at Sister Agatha’s feet. Normally she would have petted such a personable little dog, even taken him on her lap, but she didn’t want to distract Lucy. She took a page out of Father Selwyn’s book and waited. He was an attentive and focused listener and she had noticed that he always waited, silence never bothering him. She needed to work on her listening skills. Especially if the person she was listening to had something to say about murder. “I did a presentation at their meeting,” Lucy said. “Like they asked for, you know, about my art. I do mostly portraits, though that’s not at all trendy.”

  “What do you mean? Trendy?”

  “I mean, in art school, portraits in oil aren’t considered cutting edge. I tried forever to break out and do pop minimalist or … or something like Frank Shepard Fairey … or anything. But I kept coming back to portraits. So now, it’s what I do.”

  “I know how you feel.”

  “You do? Do you paint?”

  “No. I write. And for years, I tried to write the Great Welsh Novel, but I kept coming back to the murder mystery. In fact, the hardcore, gumshoe detective.”

  “Really? I’d think a nun would write characters like Miss Marple or Father Brown.”

  “You read mysteries?” Sister Agatha had to admit she was a little surprised. She had thought the twenty-something crowd didn’t really care for the mystery novel. Maybe there was hope for the world yet.

  Lucy grinned and, reaching under the table, dragged out a box of paperbacks. “I paid an extra fee at the airport to bring along my favorites—Christie, P. D. James, G. K. Chesterton, Evanovich. They’re old friends. I couldn’t leave home without them.”

  Sister Agatha was feeling better about Lucy every minute. “What about Louise Penny?”

  Lucy’s face lit up. “Are you kidding? I love Louise Penny. I want to meet a young version of Armand Gamache and marry him.”

  “Ah,” sighed Sister Agatha. “Don’t we all? Well, I don’t want to marry him, of course. But I wouldn’t mind sharing a chocolate latte and a licorice pipe with him.” They both laughed, and then Sister Agatha brought the conversation back to where it had started. “Tell me more about the Art Society meeting. What was their reaction when you shared your story with them?”

  “It was fine. Except …” Lucy paused, glancing out the window again.

  “Except what?”

  “Well, I could just be imagining this. Or reading something into it that isn’t there. But Tiffany started off all excited about me being there—I mean, she was the one who invited me—but then, well, when she showed me her painting of the yellow bird—which really was beautiful—I offered some criticism. I’m only a few months out of Art School and for four years I’ve been critiquing art. And having mine critiqued. I forgot for a moment that I wasn’t with my peers. Some of the paintings were good. Especially Tiffany’s. But I think I was supposed to gush, and instead I gave her some pointers. It was really clear that was not what she had expected.”

  “No, Tiffany wouldn’t appreciate criticism about her art. Or anything. No matter how constructive.” Sister Agatha smiled just thinking about it. Tiffany would have assumed that she would be a mentor to the young artist. “So she didn’t take an immediate shine to you. That’s not unusual for Tiffany. She was mostly all about herself.”

  “It was more than that, to be honest. There was this sort of, I don’t know, this vibe from her. Not at first, but at the end of the meeting.�
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  “What do you mean? Vibe?”

  “It’s hard to say. I gave my talk, but before I had even finished Tiffany left the room and I could hear her on her mobile in the hall. It felt rude, but maybe it was an emergency or something. She sounded a little weird. Wound up. It’s hard to say because I’d never met her before.”

  “What was she saying on the phone?”

  “I didn’t hear any actual conversation. Just the tone. There was definitely a tone. Almost …” Lucy stopped and thought for a moment. “Gloating. I know that sounds strange, but it just seemed that way.”

  “And then what, when she finished on her mobile?”

  “Then she came back in and seemed fine.”

  “Anything else happen?”

  “No. The meeting ended and I came home.”

  “Are you sure that’s everything? I feel like there’s more.”

  “No. That’s it.” Lucy looked directly at her. “You never answered my question.”

  “What question?” Sister Agatha closed her notebook and leaned forward to stroke the silky ears of the little dog.

  “Why do you write about a gumshoe detective in the city and not a genteel woman from an English village? Or a bumbling priest?”

  Sister Agatha thought for a moment. She realized that no one had asked her that question before. Reverend Mother had expressed some concern about Bates Melanchthon, her protagonist. He had the mouth of a sailor, a brutal left hook, and a decades’ long absence from attending Mass. “Well, I live in a world where kindness and forgiveness are the order of the day. And as right and good as that is, sometimes it’s nice to throw a punch first and ask questions later.” Sister Agatha paused, impressed that Lucy didn’t laugh or look astonished but instead simply nodded, her face thoughtful. “How about you? Why portraits? Even though they’re not “trendy,” as you say?”