As Death Draws Near (12 page)

I offered a weak smile of apology, blinking my eyes wider. “I'm fine. Just a bit drowsy in this summer heat.”

She shook her head in gentle chastisement. “My dear, you traveled a great distance, and have been running to and fro since you arrived. Of course you're tired.”

“Yes, maybe a little,” I relented with a soft laugh.

“Do not drive yourself too hard. The Lord does not wish us to toil without ceasing. He did create the Sabbath after all.”

“I won't,” I assured her, and she nodded in approval.

“Now, I know I promised you tea, but I think perhaps you would be best served by having a rest. We will still be here when you return.”

I smiled at her jest, but when I opened my mouth to demur, she stopped me.

“I insist.” Her eyes were kind, but I could tell she meant what she said.

I sighed in resignation. Who was I to argue? What she said was true. None of the sisters were going anywhere, for they could not, and if someone local had committed the crime and not yet fled, they weren't likely to. It would draw too much attention. On the other hand, if the killer was not local, they were already long gone, and so there was no urgency there. The same was true of the evidence. There was little risk of it disappearing in the next few hours. If it still existed, we probably would have already found it. There could be no harm in saving the remainder of my questions for the next day, except to our peace of mind.

“You are frustrated,” she added in sympathy.

“Only because we still have far more questions than answers.” My lips twisted wryly. “Trust me. It's not an altogether uncommon state to find myself in at the beginning of an inquiry.”

Her eyes sparkled, appreciating my attempt at levity. “It
is not a comfortable way of life you have chosen. But then again, comfort does not often best serve the Lord.”

I did not hear condemnation, only commiseration, in her voice, but her words pressed heavily on my chest all the same. Whether or not she'd realized, she was probing far too close to a topic I was not prepared to talk about.

The clatter of a carriage on the drive outside the window saved me from further conversation. She tipped her head to listen. “Ah, and I suppose this is your husband.”

She was a very perceptive woman, and I knew she must have sensed my disquiet, but she let me go easily. “We will discuss whatever we need to in the morning, and then see what is to be done. The rest will keep 'til then.”

If only that had been true.

I
t did not require a great deal of my skills of perception to realize Gage's morning had been fruitless. Lines of irritation creased his forehead and the corners of his mouth. Lines so tight that even the exhilaration of galloping steeds and the phaeton's swiftness could not dash them away.

“No luck?” I murmured, reaching up to straighten his windblown hair.

“Absolutely none,” he grunted, taking my arm to escort me down the steps. “And you?”

“Limited. I did learn some interesting things from Sister Bernard and Mother Paul.” I relayed the pertinent details of both discussions, including the bruises on Miss Lennox's arm and the mud and manure on her shoes, as well as what I found, or rather didn't find, in her room.

He paused next to the horses, their heads bent to chomp on the stray tufts of grass growing between gaps in the gravel, and turned back to stare up at the edifice of the abbey. “Yes, I suppose that is something.”

I ran a hand down the flank of one of the Friesians, grateful to have a moment alone with Gage before Bree joined us. Particularly with what I had to relay next. “What might be most interesting, however, is what Mother Mary Fidelis refused to tell me.”

Hs gaze turned to meet mine. “What do you mean?”

I explained about my frustrating interview and her serene lack of emotion. “I don't know whether she truly does feel the need to pray about what she reveals to us or if she's being deliberately evasive.” I scowled. “But either way, I'm certain she knows something.”

He leaned one arm against the phaeton and glanced toward the abbey door, his eyes narrowed in thought. “Do you think you can persuade her to tell you? Or ask the mother superior to convince her?”

“I don't think any amount of threats or coaxing is going to make Mother Mary Fidelis talk unless she wants to. She's strong, self-possessed, and extraordinarily perceptive.” So much so that I could only surmise she'd suffered her own interior trials for her to be able to so quickly read them in others.

“Yes. I observed something similar earlier when she told us about finding Miss Lennox.”

I glanced at him, having forgotten for a moment he had already met her. “She is not someone I would care to challenge to a game of piquet. Not that she would ever play such a heathen game.”

“Oh, don't sell yourself short, my dear.” His voice was warm with affection. “I would back your keen eye any day.”

I knew he was offering me a compliment, but there were days when I would have traded my observant nature for an ounce of his charm. I wondered if Miss Lennox had ever felt the same way. Thus far, I'd heard many people describe her kindness and sweet spirit, but never her charisma and wit. Kindness and sweetness were all well and good, but they also seemed to be easily overlooked.

I lifted a hand to finger my mother's amethyst pendant, which she had given me just before she died, thinking of all that Mother Paul and Marsdale had said. “She must have been very lonely.”

Something in my voice must have alerted him to the seriousness of my contemplation, for he turned to search my face. “Who? Miss Lennox?”

“Having to keep all those doubts to herself, away from her
family and friends. Or most of them. Presumably someone introduced her to Catholicism. One's faith and religion are not easy things to grapple with. But to do so alone, and then make the astonishing decision to not only abandon the beliefs of her family, but also to give up the possibility of marriage and children, everything she'd been raised to hope for, and join a convent.” I shook my head in admiration. “That takes courage, conviction, and audacity.”

“Yes, I suppose it does. Especially knowing the religion one is choosing is rather belittled if not outright despised among your peers.” His left eyebrow arched in mocking. “Though, at least as a Catholic, she would be worshipping the same God, studying the same scripture. Or nearly. I can't imagine what her family would have done had she chosen to turn Turk.”

I remained silent. I knew next to nothing about the Turkish people or their religion, but Gage had spent time in Greece fighting for their independence from the Ottoman Empire, so I suspected he knew a great deal more than most. In any case, he didn't elaborate, instead returning to the matter at hand.

“But wouldn't Miss Lennox have found herself among friends here, like-minded women devoted to God?”

“Perhaps, but that doesn't mean it was any easier to confide in them. It's not always easy to unlearn the habits one has adopted for one's survival.” I felt his eyes on me, and turned to meet them. He would recognize I spoke from experience. “She might have felt more welcome to unburden herself, but that does not mean she was able to do so. Remember, the reverend mother told us she was quieter than most.”

“Some people are naturally quiet.”

“That's true. And I assume she was.” I narrowed my eyes up at the top floor of the abbey, where the nuns' cells were located. “But I think this was more. I think this was very deliberate. I think she was keeping a great deal locked inside her when she was supposed to be purging all and becoming one with Christ.” I turned to Gage suddenly. “Why? I can't
imagine she made the drastic choice to join a convent without doing a thorough amount of research. She can't have been unaware of what was involved. So why the odd behavior? Why the secrecy?”

“Maybe she was having a change of heart,” he suggested. “After all, imagining something is never the same as actually experiencing it. Perhaps she was worried she'd made a mistake.”

I frowned, admitting he could be right. But somehow I felt there had to be more to it. The question was, what? And had it had anything to do with her death?

I was still considering this as Bree emerged from the door below the stairs. She shook her head to our looks of query, so we did not waste further time with discussion. If she had anything to share, she did not want it done here. We all climbed into the carriage to set off down the drive. We'd been given permission to come and go as we pleased from the abbey, so there was no need to trouble any of the sisters to let us out of the gate.

Gage slowed as we neared it and leaned closer. “Are you still willing to pay a visit to the Scullys?”

I assured him I was and he passed me the reins as he jumped down to manage the gate. Once we were through, and Gage took control of the horses again, he turned the phaeton back toward the village. A short distance up the road, he turned into a narrow lane which led along the outer perimeter of the abbey's wall.

A grove of dark cedars hid what lay beyond, but once we passed the trees, we emerged into a small clearing which sheltered two cottages—a larger one near the road and a smaller one tucked back near another line of trees. It was a charming little spot, and for a moment I felt I had stumbled into a German fairy tale. There was the woodcutter's cottage, and the tree stump with its ax sunk into it. The small plot of a garden over which a woman toiled. Except for the stone wall of the abbey running along its southern flank, grown thick with moss in places, we could have been deep in the Bavarian forest.

The woman in the garden turned to stare at us as we disturbed her pleasant idyll in our smart yellow phaeton. It was no stretch of the imagination to think this was the first time she'd ever had visitors such as us, and she seemed momentarily stunned. Gage took his time as he set the break, climbed down, and turned to help me and then Bree out, giving her a chance to recover and make her way toward us.

He offered her his most appealing smile. “Mrs. Scully, I presume?”

She bobbed her head, her dark eyes watchful as she wiped her hands on an apron tied about her waist. Her gaze met Bree's, and it was clear they were familiar with each other, probably from belowstairs at the abbey, where Mrs. Scully helped out.

“May I say what a lovely prospect you have? One expects to see the seven dwarves emerge at any moment.”

I glanced sideways at him, not surprised he'd had the same impression of this little glade.

But it was clear Mrs. Scully had no idea to what he referred, though her pink cheeks proved she wasn't immune to his allure or good looks. “No dwarves here,” she replied uncertainly. “Though we do be visited from time to time by a pair o' troublesome fairies.”

For a moment he seemed nonplussed, unable to form a reply, but then he beamed brighter. “Yes, I can imagine.”

Bree's head bowed, hiding a smile. If we had forgotten we were in Ireland, here was all the reminder we needed.

Gage cleared his throat. “We've come from the abbey, and we wondered if you and your husband might have a moment to speak with us.”

“Yer here about Miss Lennox?”

“Yes.”

She nodded her head briskly, the brim of her floppy hat bobbing before her. “Then come an' settle yourselves. Mr. Scully'll be up shortly.”

The creak of a hinge alerted us to the presence of someone else, and we turned to see there was an actual wooden door
nestled among the moss and overhanging ivy covering the stone wall. It had opened to emit a man with stooping shoulders and a craggy face, followed by the redheaded lad we'd seen picking brambles earlier. This was Mr. Scully, I presumed. He barely spared us a glance. Davy Somers, however, was obviously flustered, for he allowed the door to slip from his fingers and slam shut. The sound was overloud in the quiet clearing filled with birdsong. The older man gave him a sharp glare.

Introductions were made by Mrs. Scully, as her husband seemed incapable of emitting any sounds beyond grunts and Davy remained mute. A more welcoming pair I'd never met. I noted that from time to time Davy would also cast longing glances toward the smaller cottage on the other side of the glade, which I quickly surmised must be his own dwelling. That he did not, in fact, live with the Scullys. This seemed to be proven when Mrs. Scully ushered him after us toward their cottage.

“Why don't ye join us, Davy? Ye knew Miss Lennox, too.”

“Not well,” he murmured, but followed us without further argument.

The first floor of the cottage was divided into two rooms separated by a set of stairs. The door opened into a spotless kitchen, which smelled of herbs, onion, and the scent of meat cooking for their dinner. We were hurried through into the parlor and offered the few cushioned seats spaced about the room, while Mr. Scully and Davy carried in chairs from the table in the kitchen. Because of the shade of the overarching cedar trees outside, very little light filtered in through the small windows, which necessitated Mrs. Scully ordering Davy to light a few of the candles in the room.

We made awkward small talk, or rather Gage did, while Mrs. Scully bustled about in the kitchen, toasting bread and making tea. I didn't even think of refusing her hospitality, even though I would rather not have partaken of their meager resources. It would have been unconscionably rude to rebuff their kindness, so we all endured the discomfort of
Mr. Scully's and Davy's limited conversation, and then fell on Mrs. Scully's offerings with an enthusiasm that made the old woman's eyes gleam with pleasure.

Once everyone was settled, cradling their cups of warm, watery tea, as there was only one table in the room positioned between me and Bree, Gage decided it was best not to waste any more time with idle chitchat. “As I'm sure you know, my wife and I are investigating the matter of Miss Lennox's death, and we'd like to ask you a few questions. I assume you were all acquainted with her?”

I studied each of their faces as they glanced at one another, perhaps uncertain who should answer first.

“More or less,” Mr. Scully replied gruffly. Upon entering the house, he'd removed his hat to reveal thinning gray hair that stuck up in little clusters about his head, a bit like a tufted titmouse.

“As I understand it, the reverend mother sent you to the constabulary after Miss Lennox's body was discovered,” Gage asked, urging him to say more.

“I was snorin' here afore the fire wit the missus when they come a-knockin'. Would've sent Davy.” He turned his glare on the undergardener. “If he coulda been found.”

Davy flushed, his already pink complexion turning to red.

“Oh, now, ye can't be blamin' the lad for goin' to have a pint on an evenin',” Mrs. Scully protested more forcefully than seemed warranted. “You'd have been up at the Yellow House yerself, if'n ye hadn't fallen' asleep, sure ye would.”

It was clear she felt some responsibility for the boy, motherly or otherwise, perhaps because he was an orphan. But it was just as apparent, Mr. Scully did not.

“The lad's never around when I've need of him,” he groused.

“Dat's not true.”

He leaned forward to yell at her. “Don't be tellin' me ye forgot about dat great branch fallin' on the roof? You was yellin' like a banshee den.”

“One other time,” she scoffed. “Dat doesn't mean never.”