The Hour of Death Page 8

  Lucy sat silently for a long moment, staring at the oil brush in her hands. She looked up. “I guess I’m looking for someone. And I always think I might find them if I paint enough people.”

  “Who are you looking for?” Sister Agatha asked. Vincent van Gogh stood, stretched his tiny torso, walked over to Lucy, and then, with a grunt, lay down on top of her feet.

  Lucy reached down to pet him, and when she looked up her blue eyes were bright with tears. She shook her head. “I can’t tell you that,” Lucy said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Our art is personal. And not every little bit can be shared.” She debated giving the young woman a hug but decided against it. Lucy seemed private. And as Sister Callwen was known to say, not everyone hugged at the drop of a hat.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning dawned cold and snowy. At least the cheese barn is warm, thought Sister Agatha as she looked around the room that bustled with activity. She loved her Gwenafwy Abbey sisters, but they were so infernally cheerful sometimes. Thanks to Sister Gwenydd, who had tuned her iPod to Evensong for Advent: Nunc Dimittis in D Major by the choir of King’s College, Cambridge, music filled the room. Sister Agatha noticed that she had connected the iPod to a tiny Bluetooth speaker, which was about the size of a Welsh oatcake. It blasted the voices of the boy choristers as if they were in the next room. Advent music, a sudden winter storm pinging ice crystals against the window panes, and the common task of producing cheese seemed to have sent the sisters into a near frenzy of contentment and holiday joy.

  But as she stood there, stirring the thickening wax and fiddling with the thermostat on the old range, Sister Agatha felt, instead of holiday cheer, her own personal slow boil of frustration—a mixture of boredom with all things cheese and a nagging stab of guilt for neglecting both her mystery novel and the real-life mystery that she faced—all this angst to the backdrop of her happy sisters and the King’s College Boys’ Choir.

  She gave the vat of red wax a determined stir and went over the events of the last few days in her head. The murder of Tiffany Reese was now seventy-two hours old, and absolutely no progress had been made in the search for the killer. Tiffany Reese’s funeral was tomorrow morning and half the village would be there. And although she did have some leads she needed to follow up, none of them seemed terribly encouraging. She needed to interview Vonda Bryson again, and she was still processing her conversation with Lucy. It hadn’t really revealed much. The worst development of all: there would be no autopsy. Tiffany’s brother, Kendrick Geddings, had been located—he had left on a business trip to Kenya the morning of Tiffany’s death—and he had not consented to an autopsy. The body had been moved from the morgue to the funeral home, where it was probably being embalmed at this very moment, and so any potential evidence to be gleaned from the body would be gone—there would be no chance for a telling toxicology screen.

  Sister Agatha felt discouraged even thinking about it. Inspector Rupert MacFarlane would have never allowed the body to have been embalmed without an autopsy. She could hear him now: The dead will tell you things the living never could. Think of that corpse as your most revealing and crucial interview! She shook her head. Too late now. And yet, she thought, looking around the cheese barn, here at the abbey, the only crisis in people’s minds was cooling wax; a cold body in the morgue awaiting the embalmer didn’t seem to bother anyone.

  “Sisters,” she said in the direction of the others standing at the long cheese table carefully brushing red wax across rounds of Gouda. “Time for a break, don’t you think? A nice cup of tea perhaps? It’ll give the wax time to settle down.”

  “Wax doesn’t settle down like a flock of agitated sheep,” Sister Callwen said, never taking her eyes off the round of Gouda that she was covering with slow, even strokes. “The wax has to be immediately brushed on, otherwise the cheese will dry out. And you’ve got to get that ancient stove to regulate the heat better or we’ll never get the order ready in time for Saint Grenfell’s Christmas Market. Wax that goes cold is of no help.” They all knew that the wax had to stay hot while they brushed it on, then cool slowly, hardening around the cheese. Sister Callwen liked to say that cheese-making was both an art and science, and she loved the entire meticulous process, from the first starter culture to the last moment of ripening.

  Sister Harriet walked over to the range and squinted at the thermometer. “The temp is holding at a hundred and twenty. Remember, Sister Agatha, it has to be hot enough to brush on the cheese, but not so hot that the vat explodes.”

  “Good Lord, it could explode? You never told me that.” Sister Gwenydd wielded her brush like an expert and had hardly any wax spatters on her apron. When Sister Agatha covered the rounds with wax, she usually covered everything else with wax. Including her hair. Which was why she was now in charge of the vat. “That sounds dangerous.”

  “It is dangerous. Very. That’s why we need a new stove in here so badly. And we could have a flash fire if we’re not careful. Remember what happened to the Blackthorne Dairy three years ago?” Sister Callwen dipped her heavy brush into the pan of wax in front of her and began on the next round of Gouda. Blackthorne Dairy had nearly lost their entire production to a hot-wax mishap.

  “I like the red wax,” Sister Gwenydd said. Today was her first day working on a big order. “Is it red for Christmas?”

  Sister Callwen’s sigh could be heard across the room. “Gouda is brushed in red wax because it is a soft cheese. Very soft cheese is yellow or orange. A hard cheese would be in a black wax. And red is not an Advent color.” Sister Callwen looked up from her brush. “Perhaps it’s time to offer another cheese class for everyone.”

  Sister Agatha noticed that suddenly, the only sound in the room was the King’s Choir. Sister Callwen’s cheese class came with a lengthy quiz at the end and remedial work was required of those who didn’t pass it. She glanced out the window and saw Reverend Mother hurrying across the garden toward the cheese barn. She had a look of pure joy on her face and a slip of white paper in her hand. In her rush, it appeared that she had forgotten to put on a hat and coat and the fast-falling snowflakes were covering her short gray hair and the blue jumper knitted by Sister Winifred. Reverend Mother didn’t seem to notice that she was getting covered in snow and probably catching her death of cold. Sister Agatha frowned. Whenever Reverend Mother appeared that happy, something was afoot that would most certainly translate into a lot of work for someone. Sister Harriet called it her “Rodgers-and-Hammerstein look,” and it was always a bit dangerous.

  The door banged open and Reverend Mother fairly flew in, bringing with her a gust of cold wind and a swirl of snowflakes. “Sisters, I have the greatest news,” she said, holding up the slip of paper and pushing the door shut against the cold. “Glad tidings of great joy!”

  Sister Agatha cringed. This was possibly worse than she had thought. “What is it? An early Christmas present from the archbishop?”

  “Almost as good,” Reverend Mother said. “It’s a cheese order.”

  “Good heavens!” Sister Harriet said. She had grabbed a tea towel and was brushing snow off Reverend Mother. “Is it really coming down that fast out there? I hope Ben is working on the walks and the drive.”

  “Is that all?” Sister Agatha said. “A cheese order?”

  “An online order. Our first. At least since we started our big social media campaign. Listen to this, my sisters.” Reverend Mother looked down at the page in her hand and read aloud. “A Mrs. Stevens in Pembrokeshire wants three rounds of Heavenly Gouda shipped immediately!” Sister Agatha watched as Reverend Mother dug her phone out of her jumper pocket. She thought she had seldom seen her so enthused. “I actually got the order off my mobile from our app. Then I printed it in the office.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Sister Harriet said, looking at Sister Callwen. “We can add three rounds to this batch if need be. We have just enough time, I think, to do it.”

  “Certainly.” Sister Callwen said. �
�And well done, Sister Winifred. For getting us online. As you know, I was not a proponent at first, but this is wonderful.” Sister Callwen, who still used a flip phone, picked up her brush and went back to making careful, sure strokes. “And it does make one feel rather clever—to be getting orders from an app on a mobile. Not that I plan to start using apps or anything.”

  “Reverend Mother? Is there something wrong?” Sister Agatha asked. Reverend Mother’s face had gone from jubilant to ashen. She was staring at her phone.

  “We’ve just gotten another online order.” All the nuns stopped what they were doing and looked up. “Another order?” Sister Harriet asked slowly.

  “Fifty rounds of Heavenly Gouda for a country store in London.” No one moved or spoke. “And they’ve already paid. With a credit card.” Reverend Mother looked up, speechless. Her phone vibrated and she clicked on the screen.

  “Don’t tell me,” Sister Harriet said. “Please.”

  “Twenty rounds for the Wine and Rind Specialty Shop in … in …” Reverend Mother laid her phone carefully on the table, staring at it while the nuns waited. She looked up. “Dallas.”

  “You don’t mean … Texas, do you?”

  “Texas. Express shipping.” The nuns stared at each other as the Reverend Mother’s phone buzzed again. No one moved for a moment, then she slowly picked it up. “I’ll get the others from the kitchen,” Sister Callwen said, untying her apron. “The parish food baskets can wait. Sister Agatha, you find Lucy. We’ll need every sister … or tenant … in the cheese barn before this is over.”

  * * *

  The door to the dovecote-cum-art-studio was closed and Lucy wasn’t answering her knock. Sister Agatha stepped back and thought for a moment. Lucy was always easy to find. She was either in her studio above the dovecote like she was last night when they talked or in her room in the dormitory section of the main building. Sister Agatha wondered if she was walking Vincent van Gogh across the orchard as she was known to do, but she couldn’t imagine that the young woman was out and about in this weather. Sister Agatha called her name, knocked again, and then tried the door handle. No answer from Lucy or bark from Vincent.

  She hurried down the steps from the studio and out the door to the dovecote. She checked Lucy’s room in the dormitory—empty. Wrapping her parka around her, she headed out and started across the open meadow, stumbling a bit on the rutted frozen ground. Off to the east, she could see the abbey’s flock of Welsh Mountain sheep huddled at the edge of the apple orchard. Ben stood in the middle of it with the flock gathered around him. She remembered him saying at breakfast that morning that he would start polling the young ewes. Sister Agatha, who had grown up on a sheep farm, explained to Sister Gwenydd that “polling” meant taking the horns off the females. The breakfast conversation launched into an enthused discussion of why the male sheep got to keep their beautiful curved horns and the females lost theirs. She noticed that Ben had left the room when the conversation turned from attitudes toward female horned sheep to female ordained priests. There was seldom a dull moment around the abbey breakfast table.

  The snow let up and a cold wintry sun broke through the clouds. Over the hill appeared a lonely figure, scarf blowing and parka wide open. It was Lucy, waving frantically. The young American girl never seemed to care about the cold. She kept assuring the sisters that “Providence was much worse,” but Sister Agatha couldn’t quite believe any weather was worse than that on a Welsh highland five miles from the Irish Sea. But the young were hardy.

  Sister Agatha waved back and began to hurry toward her when she saw Lucy turn and run in the opposite direction. Sister Agatha stopped and, cupping her mouth, shouted Lucy’s name. Her shout died in the fierce wind. Had she even heard her? Then Lucy was running back toward her again, stumbling on the rough terrain of the field but not falling. As far as Sister Agatha could tell, the young woman didn’t even slow down.

  Sister Agatha felt a moment’s annoyance, mixed with concern. What in the world could be so important that they were in an open field on a cold December morning, two weeks before Christmas? “Lucy,” she shouted again. “What?” She watched as Lucy reappeared above the hill and waved both arms again, then turned and ran back down the slope, out of sight.

  “Oh, good heavens,” Sister Agatha said. She picked up the skirts to her habit and walked as fast as she could in the direction of Lucy. All she wanted was to get Lucy and herself out of the wind and back to the cheese barn, where no doubt chaos had broken loose as the twenty women of Gwenafwy Abbey tried to fill the biggest order for Heavenly Gouda they had ever hoped for. Be careful what you hope for, she suddenly thought.

  Sister Agatha crested the top of the hill breathing a little harder than she liked to acknowledge, scanned the horizon for Lucy, then saw her kneeling next to a large wooden crate. Sister Agatha ran to her. Lucy was simultaneously sobbing and swearing as she tried to pry the crate open. A small whimpering came from inside.

  Sister Agatha felt her blood run cold. Hiking up her skirts, she sprinted over to Lucy and the box. “Holy Mother, what’s going on?” The wind whipped around them and the sun had gone back under the clouds. A snow squall blew up and pinged icy crystals against the crate. A sharp bark come from inside.

  Sister Agatha felt a surge of anger. “That’s not Vincent, is it?” Even as she said it, she knew the truth.

  “Yes,” Lucy gasped. “He’s been missing since breakfast. I came out here, finally thinking he’d taken out after the sheep. And I found him here. In this horrible crate. Just help me.” Sister Agatha saw that Lucy’s fingertips had begun to bleed as she tore at the boards holding the crate shut. Maybe she had underestimated the young woman.

  Digging in her apron pocket, she pulled out her Girl Guides knife and began to pry at one of the boards. In one part of the box only a few thin laths held it shut, as if whoever put the little dog in there had done it in a hurry. Getting one of the laths off with the knife, together they managed to yank off two or three other boards, and Lucy reached in and pulled Vincent van Gogh to safety.

  Sister Agatha rocked back on her heels and watched as the young woman cradled the tiny, shivering dog as he squirmed and licked Lucy’s face. She felt sick. What kind of person traps a dog in a crate, nails it shut, and leaves it out in an open field in the middle of winter? And on the grounds of the abbey? She could barely let herself think that no one had been on abbey grounds all morning except the nuns and Ben. Had it been an inside job? Impossible. She thought hard. They had all been so caught up in the activity in the cheese barn that perhaps no one would even have noticed if someone had come or gone in the past two hours. Maybe one of the sisters making the food baskets had seen someone. Or did the culprit take the dog while the nuns were sitting at the breakfast table arguing about horns on ewes? Of course, that also meant that Ben had an alibi. Or did he? He had left the dining room a good thirty minutes before anyone else.

  “Come on Lucy,” she said. “Let’s get the two of you back where it’s warm. The little pup will be just fine with a bowl of warm milk and bit of lamb stew.” Lucy didn’t move but just sat on the frozen ground, her face buried in the dog’s fur. Sister Agatha waited a moment. “Come on,” she urged. “Let’s go. It’s brass monkeys out here.”

  “Brass monkeys?” Lucy said, looking up at her.

  “It’s a phrase. ‘Cold enough to freeze the …’ Never mind. It’s cold and we need to get inside.”

  “I shouldn’t have come here,” Lucy said. “I’m going home. First thing tomorrow, I’m getting a plane ticket back to Providence.”

  * * *

  Ben Holden gave Sister Agatha a wordless nod as she closed the door behind her. She loved the sheep barn. Warm and filled with the fragrant smell of sheep and clover hay, it reminded her of her childhood and all the time she had spent following her father and brothers around the farm. Ben stood in the dimly lit interior, the sheep milling around him, quiet except for the soft sounds that a relaxed flock made. The sheep barn was
more of a long, low shed at the far end of the meadow than it was a barn. The abbey had not used the old dwelling for nearly fifty years, but when the nuns decided to increase their revenue with sheep and to hire Ben to take care of the flock of Welsh Mountain ewes and their offspring, they made some repairs and repurposed the old building. Now it served as a warm spot out of the wind for the sheep. Ben looked up from the ewe he was inspecting—the ewes were all newly pregnant—and, letting her go, stood up. “Prynhawn da, Sister.” Good Afternoon.

  “Prynhawn da, Ben.”

  “Come to see the new ewes?” Ben gave the impression that he was an unsympathetic old farmer who saw animals as strictly for-profit, yet Sister Agatha wondered. Their welfare and even happiness seemed important to Ben. But then, his concern could be just to make sure they remained healthy and productive.

  “Have you been out here all morning?” she asked.

  “Aye. In and out. Why?”

  “I just wondered if you saw anyone on the abbey grounds? I mean anyone you didn’t recognize?”

  “No.”

  As always, Ben was a man of few words. She watched as he dabbed ointment out of an old jar and rubbed it gently into the leg of a young ewe, all the while murmuring softly to the animal. Sister Agatha was having a hard time envisioning Ben shutting a tiny dog into a crate and leaving it out in the bitter cold to die. She sat on a bale of sweet-smelling clover hay and watched as Ben moved from lamb to lamb. She had liked Ben from the time they hired him. He reminded her of her own father and brothers as they worked the sheep when she was a child.

  “By the way, Reverend Mother was wondering, is Lucy’s dog bothering the sheep any?”

  “Nay. But I don’t like a dog that doesn’t earn its keep.” Ben moved on to the next lamb.

  “Has the dog been a problem?”

  “Nowt so far. But I’ve told the lass to keep it away from the ewes. I don’t want anything disturbing them.”