Blood on the Bones (12 page)

‘It's not funny, Abs,’ he rebuked as her giggles threatened to turn to hysteria.

‘Oh, but it is,’ she contradicted, once she'd got herself back under control. ‘I hate to sound unfeeling and I admit it's clearly not funny from the dead man's point of view. But, that apart, I wish I'd seen your face when you got the news. Maybe I'll manage to witness it when you tell your ma all about it and how you're probably, even as I speak, plotting to fit one of those poor nuns up for the murder. Wouldn't want to miss such treats twice in one week.’

Aghast, Rafferty stared at her. He'd been so busy and preoccupied all day, between the blackmail letter and their religiously located corpse, that he hadn't given a thought to that aspect of the case.

But Abra was right, as he now realised with a sense of dismay. Sure as eggs were eggs, he could guarantee that his ma would have plenty to say when she heard the news. And when she discovered he regarded each and every one of the convent's community as a potential suspect none of her words was likely to be encouraging. And that wasn't even to bring her parish priest into the equation as another suspect.

The thought that an unkindly God had just given the knife another determined twist ensured that he was still awake long into the night.

The next morning,
Rafferty was out of the flat early, filled with a zeal so unusual that he hoped it wasn't an indication that the Catholic Church really was gaining an unwanted influence over him. Though he suspected that his zeal was at least partly to do with his desire to take himself out of his ma's reach before she read her morning newspaper.

OK, he knew he would be unable to long avoid hearing her inevitable championing of the sisters, but as he could guess the likely content of his ma's comments, any delay was to be welcomed. He was certain to receive sufficient ear-bashing from the media on this case, without his ma joining in. And a delay would give him a chance to prepare a few arguments of his own.

He just wished he could come up with a defence against the blackmailer. Or at least manage to figure out his or her identity and how he should proceed against the threat the blackmailer represented. On his arrival at the police station, he spent an hour and a half working his way through the reports he should have read the previous evening. Then he glanced at his watch, thankful to find that if he went along to see Mother Catherine now he wouldn't be interrupting anything vital. The general domestic and other chores started at nine and Rafferty thought it unlikely that even the Prioress would object to his interrupting the dusting.

Behind
the heavily tinted spectacles that protected her burn-damaged sight, Mother Catherine stared at Rafferty and repeated his question back at him. 'What happened to the man who visited us in August? I'm not sure I understand what you mean, inspector. Of course, I apologise for forgetting to mention him and his visit when you spoke to me before. I admit it slipped my mind. I suppose because I didn't think his visit relevant. As you said Father Kelly confirmed, this visitor left the premises at the same time he did.

‘But, certainly, I can tell you what the visitor wanted. He came to see me about poor Sister Clare. He told me she was a relative of his and that he had recently taken up an interest in researching his family tree.’

She almost faltered then and Rafferty felt a twinge of guilt that he was forcing her to again relive her undoubtedly tragic experiences. But, to his relief, she continued bravely on.

‘I broke the sad news that she had died – been murdered – many years ago in Africa. Then he left.’

She shrugged. 'I really don't know what else I can tell you. Sister Rita, who was escorting Father Kelly to the entrance as I opened my office door, showed my visitor out and, as far as I'm aware, he left with Father Kelly. As I didn't walk him to the front door myself, I can't swear that he actually left the premises, though I can't imagine that Sister Rita would have any reason to detain him. And she can't have done. As you've already said that Father Kelly confirmed she did escort this man to the gate and he left our premises, so I'm at a loss as to why you think I'm able to tell you any more about him.'

‘Well no, I don't particularly,’ Rafferty replied. ‘But you must understand, Mother, that if I'm to discover the identity of the dead man and find his murderer, I need to check out visitors to the convent who are of the same age range and gender.’

‘Yes, of course, I can see that. But surely his watch will be a help in identifying him? It looked expensive.’

‘We're looking into that aspect.’

He had already arranged for a picture of the watch to be circulated to the media later today. He was hopeful some sharp-eyed member of the public might recognise it.

To Rafferty's surprise, given his suspicion that this case had been created by the Almighty solely as a means to punish one of his back-sliding children, the dead man's watch did have an inscription on the back. Unfortunately, it was a simple one with no mention of surnames or dates. All it said was: 'To our dear son, Peter, on the occasion of his twenty-first birthday. From your loving parents'.

Rafferty suspected that God was merely teasing him. He might have given him a watch with an inscription, but He'd made sure that the wording was no help at all.

But he hadn't given up on it yet. The dead man's twenty-first birthday might well have occurred years earlier, but with such a pricey watch, there was still a chance they would get a lead on where it had been bought. They might even discover who had bought it. But he didn't allow himself to dwell too much on that possibility.

‘What about other visitors?’ he now asked the prioress. Although he felt another guilty twinge that he should seem to imply that she could have had a memory failure about this as well, he couldn't let such scruples deter him. ‘The sisters’ families, for instance. Have any of them visited recently?’

She shook her head. 'You asked me that before and the answer's still 'No'. We have a sort of open day at Christmas and another at Easter. Those are the only occasions that families can visit. We don't encourage them to turn up out of the blue. It's too distracting. We all chose this life away from the world for its peace and contemplative aspects. If the world kept turning up on our doorstep whenever it chose, the whole point and meaning of our lives would be diminished.'

Rafferty nodded and drew her back to their previous conversation. ‘This August visitor, I presume he had a name?’

For the first time, Mother Catherine looked flustered, embarrassed even. ‘Yes, of course, but I didn't quite catch it. He had one of those quiet voices and my hearing isn't what it was. Maybe, as Sister Rita opened the front door to him and was told his business here, she will be able to tell you that?’

Rafferty nodded. ‘Did he make an appointment to see you or did he just turn up on the off chance?’

The Mother Superior's normally smooth brow puckered in thought. ‘I'm fairly sure he just turned up. Wait a moment. Let me check the diary. If he made an appointment, it would be in there.’

She began rummaging in her desk, found the appointments diary and riffled through the pages till she reached the month of August. She shook her head. ‘There's nothing here.’

Rafferty reached for the diary and checked through it himself. But she was correct. There was nothing.

‘I'm sorry I'm unable to be more help,’ she told him. ‘But I really don't think this chap can be one and the same as the dead man. How could he be, when our August visitor left? I'm sure that Sister Rita will be able to confirm it.’

‘Did he say why he had come here, specifically?’

Mother Catherine nodded. ‘He wanted to speak to me personally, he said. To question me about Sister Clare. And although he admitted his earlier enquiries had revealed that she had died, I got the impression he hadn't really believed it. It was at his insistence that the diocesan offices told him where to find me so I could confirm the facts of her death.’

‘Did this visitor say what his relationship with Sister Clare was? Or why he was searching for her only now, thirty years after her death?’

Mother Catherine shook her head. ‘He didn't tell me what the relationship was,’ she explained. 'And I didn't like to pry. But, given his age, which must have been around the mid to late forties, as well as his general demeanour, I suspected he might have believed himself to be an illegitimate son of another family member. He seemed disinclined to believe that Sister Clare was dead. I suppose he assumed that, as one of the nuns who was in Africa at the time she was killed, I would be able to confirm the facts and maybe help him to accept them.'

Rafferty, prompted into bluntness by what he considered Mother Catherine's careful skirting around the details, asked, ‘Is it possible that he could have been Sister Clare's illegitimate son?’

Mother Catherine seemed shocked at this blunt suggestion. It took her a few seconds before she replied. The reply was an emphatic, ‘No. Certainly not. Whatever makes you think such a thing?’

Rafferty apologised. ‘I'm sorry if I've offended you. It's just that Father Kelly told me this man seemed upset when he left. If, as you suggest, he was merely checking out his general family tree, and Sister Clare was his aunt, cousin, or whatever, I can't see why he should be so affected when her death was confirmed. But thank you, Mother, for your help.’ He stood up. ‘I'll have a word with Sister Rita as you suggested. I imagine I'll find her in the garden?’

‘Yes. She and Sister Benedicta are busy with the last of the fruit harvest in the orchard.’

He bid her good morning and went in search of Sister Rita. As Mother Catherine had told him, she was hard at work in the garden with Sister Benedicta, collecting apples and pears and boxing them carefully for storage.

Once she had hitched up her habit and climbed down the ladder, Sister Rita confirmed what the Mother Superior and Father Kelly had already told him. Like Mother Catherine, Sister Rita was also unable to recall their visitor's name. Rafferty hadn't even bothered to ask Father Kelly the same question. The old priest had enough trouble remembering his own name most of the time.

‘Here, inspector. Catch.’ Sister Rita took a shiny red apple from the box at her feet and threw it towards him. ‘There's no need to wash it. All our produce is grown organically.’ She laughed. ‘Which sometimes means I'm out in the vegetable plot in the evening with a torch, picking off the slugs by hand. I'd set a competition to encourage the other sisters to lend a hand with the task, with a dish of garlic snails prepared by Sister Perpetua as the prize, only, apart from myself and Sister Benedicta, most of the other sisters, being born and bred city types, are too squeamish about touching such slimy things to be willing to enter.’

‘They're in good company,’ Rafferty told her. He bit into his apple. It tasted as sweet and juicy as he imagined the one that Eve had tempted Adam with must have been. ‘Do you sell any of your produce?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. Along with the sales of our brochures, crafts and other handiwork, it brings in a useful income. I'll add your name to the list if you like and send you details of our available seasonal produce.’

Rafferty did like. He thanked her and added, ‘You can send it to me care of the station.’

After Sister Rita had abandoned her labours for long enough to escort him from the convent, he stood on the street as the traffic rushed past him with its usual noise, exhaust fumes and bustle to get somewhere else. He was suddenly struck by the contrast between the two worlds. And for the first time, life inside the convent walls didn't come off second best in the comparison. In fact, he realised that he was beginning to find the cloistered life held a strange and growing appeal.

Yesterday, when the body had been found, the community had been shocked and subdued which had naturally depressed the atmosphere.

Yet today, the convent's normal aura had returned. With the sisters now over their initial shock, an atmosphere of joy and love permeated the place. It was there in the ready smiles of the sisters and in their care for one another. Completely immersed in the murder and its solution during the first day of the investigation, he had failed to notice these things. But he had noticed them now.

Even though he had only been enclosed by the convent's walls a couple of times, he realised how sharp was the contrast with ‘real life'. It was, he realised with a shock, a contrast not to the world's advantage. The nuns’ world was like a completely different planet. A soothing, loving place. In fact Rafferty, although feeling sheepish at the realisation, would have been increasingly less willing to leave the place at all – even for Abra – if it wasn't for the embarrassment he felt that although the murder investigation impinged on their lives and disrupted their holy routines, the nuns mostly accepted it with a patient serenity that was an example to all. They simply offered their bizarre experience up to God and asked Him to help them deal with it, much as they asked His help in dealing with their threefold vows of poverty, chastity and obedience.

Rafferty had found his initial expectations of convent life had been wrong on every count. One of these expectations had been the presumption that the general atmosphere within the community would be one of bitterness at life from these ‘failed’ women. A bitterness overlaid with sexual repression. In short, he had expected a total lack of joy and laughter.

But joy – sheer, unbridled, radiant – shone from nearly every face. Most surprising of all was the discovery that convents didn't lack sensual pleasures of the simpler sort.

Sensuality was there in the sun-warmed scent of lavender and beeswax on the floor and the smooth wooden pews in the chapel. It was there in the pleasing slap of leather sandals on the stone floors in the rest of the convent. In the beauty of sunlight through the chapel's stained glass that cast its glorious glow on everything, lighting up the dancing dust motes that no amount of vigorous polishing could entirely remove. It picked out and enhanced the rich hues of the flowers and the deep and vivid green of the leaves in the vases which were filled to bursting with colours from a rainbow spectrum of flowers.