As Death Draws Near (25 page)

“However, the longer we investigate, the more I'm reminded they were just people. Perhaps they'd devoted themselves and their lives to the service of the Lord and the church, or were about to, but that didn't mean their problems went away. I suspect whoever killed them, whatever their motive, we will find it is just as common as any other murder. Anger, jealousy, money, fear . . .”

“Love or hate,” I finished for him.

“Yes.”

“It seems the key lies in truly understanding what Miss Lennox, and consequently Mother Mary Fidelis, were doing. Was she helping or harming the protest?” I exhaled, feeling
my frustration return. “Or does this have nothing to do with that at all?

“I don't know. But the cattle fair is tomorrow, and I suspect one way or another it will provide us with some answers.” His arms tightened around me. “I just hope they're not answers we would rather not have.”

E
arly the following morning I stood staring at the back of the phaeton as it receded down the abbey drive, feeling rather like an unwanted parcel dropped at its destination. Gage and I had argued since before sunrise about his intention to leave me and Bree at the abbey while he and Anderley ventured to the cattle fair. I was not pleased to again be left behind simply because he feared for my safety should the protesters turn violent if the constables raided the fair to confiscate property in order to collect unpaid tithes. It seemed a rather poorly kept secret they would. There were bound to be numerous opportunities to observe some of our chief suspects, and I would not be there to do so.

“Ye ken it's for the best,” Bree murmured as the carriage slowed for the gate.

“Yes. But that doesn't mean I have to be happy about it.” I whirled away to climb the stairs, trying to dismiss Gage from my thoughts. I only hoped he heeded his own advice, and refrained from jumping into the fray should the protesters and the constables clash.

The morning at the abbey passed quietly, though not serenely. It was almost as if the entire building were holding its breath waiting for something to happen, tensing its bricks and mortar for the next barrage. It was partially to do with the cattle fair and everyone's uncertainty over what
would happen there, but that could not account for it all. Some of the sisters and students seemed naïvely unaware of what was happening outside the abbey walls, and yet the strain was still evident on their faces. I hoped the stress might compel someone to come forward with some previously unknown piece of information, but no one sought me out. In fact, a number of them still refused to meet my eye, as if I were the source of their ill fortune and not the person trying to remedy it.

The tension finally snapped around ten o'clock when a wagon came clattering up the drive. I had been seated in the parlor—hiding from the others' anxious stares for a few moments, if truth be told—but at the sound, I hurried toward the window. I could see Davy at the reins, and then as the wagon turned, Mrs. Scully in the back, leaning over someone. I dropped the curtains and hurried toward the door. At the banister, I leaned down to see Mr. Scully lying in the bed of the wagon, his eyes closed.

I rushed down the steps just as the door to the old servants' quarters and the kitchen burst open. At the sight of me, the women moving toward the wagon stopped short.

“What's happened?” I demanded to know as I rounded the wagon and pulled myself up onto the bed.

“The constables. Some o' 'em opened fire,” Mrs. Scully shrieked through her tears.

I could see now that Mr. Scully's lower leg was soaked with blood, though someone had been smart enough to tie a tourniquet below the knee. He seemed unconscious, hopefully only having swooned from the pain the ride in the back of the wagon must have caused.

“Someone . . .” I glanced toward where Davy kneeled beside me. “Davy, will you fetch the surgeon?”

He nodded and leapt down to unhitch one of the horses from the wagon.

“We need to get him inside. Bring out one of the cots from the infirmary. We'll use it to carry him.”

A few people scrambled to follow my orders as Sister
Bernard peered over the bed of the wagon at the man. “I'll gather the supplies we'll need,” she declared before hurrying back inside.

An audience of sisters and students had gathered on the balcony and stairs above us, but I could not spare them a thought for Mr. Scully began to stir. He turned his head from side to side, groaning as his wife crooned to him.

“You're at the abbey now, Mr. Scully. We're going to move you into the infirmary and see what we can do about your leg until the surgeon arrives. Is the bullet still inside him or did it pass through?” I asked Mrs. Scully, but she shook her head unhelpfully. “Do you know if he's hurt anywhere else?”

“I . . . I don't know.”

I patted her arm. “Mr. Scully, are you . . .” I broke off, already able to tell he couldn't answer me. Not yet.

The cot arrived and I urged several of the lay sisters and day women up into the bed to help me lift him, taking as much care as we possibly could with his leg. Regardless, he howled with the pain, almost making one of the youngest women drop the top left side of this body. Once he was on the cot, we slowly slid it from the wagon bed, and six women hefted him between them. The outside stairs were far easier to navigate than the narrow interior ones, so they carried him through the main door and through the corridors to the infirmary, sending onlookers scattering before them.

At the infirmary, Sister Bernard was ready and waiting for him, taking over the situation with such skill and aplomb that I was content to stand back and watch. She had a postulant to assist her, shooing the curious out the door, and pouring Mrs. Scully a glass of water. I crossed toward the basin of water to wash the blood from my hands, sparing only a forlorn glance at the stains on the cornflower blue fabric of my skirt.

I sat down next to Mrs. Scully where she perched on the edge of her chair, watching Sister Bernard and the postulant attend to her husband. Her hands clutched the glass so tightly I worried it might shatter.

“Why on earth did the constables fire?” I asked as much to
myself as her. After what happened in County Wexford, I felt certain Chief Constable Corcoran would have given them strict instructions not to shoot unless ordered to do so by him.

“I don't know,” she sniffed. “One moment they were tryin' to seize a pair o' cows and the men were shoutin' at 'em, and . . . and the next they were shootin' 'em.”

There must have been more, but I did not press her. Not like this. “Mr. Scully was one of the protesters?”

“Against dose odious tithes? Aye.”

“Was anyone else injured?”

“To be sure.”

“Do you know who?”

She shook her head. “Once I saw my Sean go down, I couldn't tink o' anyone else.” She flicked a distracted glance at me before turning a more thoughtful one my way. “But yer tinkin' o' yer own husband an' his man.” This time she was the one to reach over and pat my arm in comfort. “They be fine, lass. Yer man be the one who tied off Sean's leg and hefted 'im into the wagon.”

I exhaled the breath I hadn't known I was holding and offered her a tight smile of gratitude. She looked as if she wanted to say more, but then the postulant approached to say she could speak to Mr. Scully if she wished. I stayed back, allowing her to talk to him alone. From the mellow tone of his voice, it was evident they'd dosed him with some form of morphine, likely laudanum.

There was little Sister Bernard could do except keep the wound clean, his blood from draining out of him, and attempt to minimize his pain. The surgeon would have to decide what was to be done next—whether the leg could be saved, or if the lower portion would have to be amputated. If he didn't arrive soon, there might not be much of a choice.

“The Englishman's wife. Where is she?”

I glanced up in surprise.

“Mrs. Gage?” Mrs. Scully asked her husband. “She's right here.”

I slowly rose to my feet and crossed to where he lay.
“Mr. Scully, how are you feeling?” I asked politely, curious what he had to say.

“Forget that.” He waved his hands as if to bat it away. “Ye need to know that they was one o' us. Do ye understand?”

I nodded. The few remaining hairs on his head stood on end, and his pupils were large black dots, dilated from the laudanum, and making him look wild.

“The tree 'll tell ye.” His eyes fell shut. “For sure, it will.”

I stared at him in consternation, uncertain how to respond, or what he even meant. If he meant anything at all.

Mrs. Scully's eyes were wide with the same confusion. “Sean, perhaps you should—”

“Remind Davy those bushes won't prune demselves,” he snapped suddenly before beginning to ramble about roses and beetles.

“Laudanum will do that to people sometimes,” Sister Bernard murmured in a low voice, trying to reassure us both.

“Of course,” I replied. “I'll go see if Davy's returned with any word from the surgeon.”

I slipped away, grateful to escape. In any case, I wanted to think, for Mr. Scully's words were not as odd as they sounded. There was only one tree I could think of that would mean anything to Miss Lennox, kingfisher's nest or no.

Eager to test my theory, I turned toward the mother superior's office to discover if there was any news and almost collided with Davy. I pressed a hand to my chest over my pounding heart. “Mr. Somers,” I gasped. “So sorry. Were you able to locate the surgeon?”

His hand lowered from where he'd gripped my arm to steady me. “On his way, m'lady. 'Twas stitchin' up a wound. Said he'd be comin' here when he finished.”

“Good.”

“And Mr. Scully?”

“Is resting as comfortably as Sister Bernard can make him until the surgeon arrives. He's being well cared for,” I assured him.

He nodded, shifting from foot to foot.

I studied his young face, the darting shyness and evidence of strain, wondering if he was part of the protest as well. “Mr. Somers,” I began slowly. “Did you see what happened?”

He hesitated and then gave another nod, lowering his eyes to the floor. “Ole Mr. Devlin started wavin' his cane. Angry, he was, the constables was tryin' to take one o' his herd. Startled one o' the horses, which bumped into Kelly, who bumped into Mrs. O'Brien. And some school lads threw a few rocks, and . . .”

“So it was general chaos?”

He inhaled a quick breath and bobbed his head. “Everyone was yellin' at everyone else, and afore we knew it, the Peelers was shootin'.”

I shook my head at the senselessness of it all. “Was anyone killed?”

“I don't know, m'lady, sure I don't.”

I pressed a hand to my stomach where it clenched in dread, sending up a little prayer that no one had paid the ultimate price for today's inanity. “Thank you, Mr. Somers.” I began to turn away, but his voice stopped me.

“M'lady. If I may?” He cleared his throat. “I've somemat other to tell ye.”

I turned back to face him, some new tension in his already anxious disposition telling me this wasn't a passing comment. “Of course.”

“I . . . I saw yer husband at the fair.”

“Yes. Mrs. Scully mentioned he helped load Mr. Scully into the wagon.”

“Before dat. Before the trouble. I . . . I saw him speakin' wit a man. A gentleman.”

I waited patiently for him to work his way around to making his point.

“He's the man I saw in the field, out by the pond.”

“Then he must have been talking to Mr. LaTouche. He's tall, with dark hair, dresses impeccably?”

“That's him,” he confirmed.

“He admitted to us that he'd been in the field near the
pond.” I decided it was best to keep his confessed reasons for that to myself for now. “Did you see anyone with him?”

He ran his fingers back and forth along the brim of his hat. “Once.”

My eyes widened at this new information.

“I . . . well, I remembered after ye asked dat I might o' seen him earlier dat day Miss Lennox died. I didn't mark it at the time. Seemed almost like anotter day after all dat happened later. But I tot ye should know.” He paused. “An' I know I saw him the evenin' afore Mother Mary Fidelis . . .” He inhaled. “I saw 'er speakin' to him.”

“Mother Mary Fidelis was speaking to Mr. LaTouche?” I reiterated in surprise.

He nodded. “Right near the wall. Where . . .” He stopped, the words seeming to stick in his throat.

“Yes. Quite.” I frowned. “But why didn't you say anything about this earlier?”

He hunched his shoulders. “I didn't know who he was. And I tot ye was already lookin' for him.”

Seeing the way he squirmed just talking to me now, I suspected it had more to do with his wanting to avoid any discussion of the matter whatsoever. I sighed heavily. “Well, thank you for telling me now.”

He scurried toward the door leading belowstairs while I waited, not wanting to follow him directly and cause him more discomfort. Fortunately, one of the lay sisters bustled past at that moment, carrying an armful of sheets, and I asked if she would be good enough to ask Bree to meet me in the gardens. She dipped her head, and I set out toward the back door.

A light rain had begun to fall, though the sun still shone through the wispy clouds to the east. It was the type of weather it was foolish to hide from, sunny one moment and misting the next. Particularly if one was prepared for it. I slipped my arms into the sleeves of my blue pelisse with scalloped trim and wrapped it about me, before adjusting my bonnet on my head. Bree appeared in similar attire, handed down from me and altered to fit her slighter figure.