Blood on the Bones (7 page)

Rafferty's interest sparked at this admission. ‘Could you tell us, precisely, when you last walked there and might reasonably have noticed that the ground had been disturbed?’

Sister Rita's sun-warmed face looked thoughtful. ‘I believe, yes, I'm pretty sure, before today, it was somewhere in the middle of August. And I certainly would have noticed if someone had disturbed the ground sufficiently to inter a body.’

‘Yet you didn't notice the man's forearm sticking up before you stumbled over it,’ Llewellyn pointed out.

Sister Rita bent her head in acknowledgement. 'True. But I was reading the Psalms and examining my conscience rather than the ground. It is necessary to be wholehearted in such examinations, much as it is required to give oneself wholeheartedly to whatever duty one is performing, whether it is spreading muck or digging up the potatoes. An offering to God, sergeant.

‘Of course, particularly in springtime, that part of the grounds is so beautiful, first with the snowdrops and then the wild daffodils and bluebells that I like to walk amongst them for the pure pleasure of it. Though I ration my time there, too much of such self-indulgence not being good for the soul.’

Rafferty, something of a martyr to self-indulgence himself, smiled at this. ‘Can you tell us the sequence of events once you found the man's body?’

‘Of course. Firstly, I offered up a prayer for his soul. Then I went in search of Mother Catherine. As I told your female officer, Constable Green, I found the body during our usual recreation period, just after supper, so I knew I would most likely find Mother Catherine and most of the rest of my sisters still in the refectory. I broke the news quietly to Mother and she, after an understandable initial shock at the news, quickly took charge. She herself broke the news to the other sisters and instructed Sister Perpetua to return with me to the grave to confirm my discovery.’

‘Mother Catherine didn't go with you herself?’

Sister Rita shook her head. 'No. I'm afraid our young novice, Sister Cecile, became somewhat hysterical at the news. I imagine Mother Catherine thought her authority would be put to better use calming her down. Besides, Sister Perpetua is a most reliable woman. Calm and as solid as what she terms her “too solid flesh” in a crisis.’

Rafferty nodded. Glad to get the sequence of events clear in his mind. He had noticed the one really chubby sister in the chapel. He presumed this nun, who had a round, jolly face, was the Sister Perpetua who would be the perfect partner for such a morbid enterprise.

‘I know this is difficult, but was there anything about the body or what you could see of it – I'm thinking of the noticeably expensive looking watch, in particular – that caused you or Sister Perpetua to think you might have seen the dead man before?’

The nun shook her head. ‘I certainly can't recall seeing such a watch before. And as Sister Perpetua made no such comment in my presence, I doubt she had, either.’

Sister Rita answered their other questions as well as she was able, but although appearing anxious to be helpful, she was able to tell them nothing more than what the Prioress herself had already told them.

Next, they questioned Sister Perpetua, whose nature was as jolly as her rounded appearance and smiling countenance had earlier suggested. A year older that Sister Rita, she had been in the convent for nearly thirty years, having joined as a young woman. Her previous name had been Annette Enderby and her family were from Devon.

But, although as pleasant and open as could be, apart from agreeing that she was currently on the community's rota to work in the kitchen and confirming all that Sister Rita had said, she could tell them nothing further, so Rafferty let her go.

Next, they questioned Sister Benedicta, who, at sixty-two, was another long-term member of the community. Her former name had been Daisy Hodgson and she was originally from Sussex. Another matter-of-fact country girl, she worked alongside Sister Rita in the gardens and was as tanned of face and as muscular as her garden labourer colleague. Though, again like her gardening partner, she told them she had no knowledge of the dead man or how he came to be buried in the community's grounds.

Sister Ursula, Edith Grey as was, originally from London, was a tiny, wizened woman of seventy-nine. And while her back might be bent from osteoporosis and her hands had the typical curl of arthritis, she waved away Llewellyn's readily proffered arm with the air of one not yet ready to accept either that she might need assistance or that the yawning grave was her next likely destination.

She reminded ex-Londoner Rafferty of a London sparrow, all bright eyes and inquisitiveness. Her body might have let her down and have scarcely more strength than the sprightly little bird, but her gaze showed the alertness of someone still interested in life. And while she certainly studied the current two, variously brawned policemen, with every sign of appreciation, she admitted, quite cheerfully, that she had few duties nowadays, beyond tottering about the place and showing willing.

And, although she might be willing to do whatever chores her ailing body would allow, Rafferty doubted it would allow her to swat a fly, let alone a grown man. Mentally, as soon as she had begun her slow, stick-aided walk towards the chair, Rafferty had dismissed her as a possible suspect. Apart from any other considerations, she was so tiny and their corpse was around the six foot mark, that she would have needed to stand on a chair to hit him on the back of the head with any force. Nor, for that matter, was she able to claim any knowledge of their cadaver.

After Sister Ursula had left them, Rafferty decreed that they took a short break. He wanted to assimilate what they had learned so far, before he tried to force any more details into his head.

He sent Llewellyn off to the refectory in search of tea and on his return, he said, ‘You're a deep sort, Dafyd – did you ever fancy the religious life?’

Llewellyn shook his dark head, placed the plain, workmanlike, mugs of tea on the table, for once not worrying about marking the already well-scarred surface, and added as he sat down, ‘But I can see its appeal. Especially that of the contemplatives. Set against a modern world that is becoming increasingly complicated and with values ever more trivial, shallow and hedonistic, such a life has an attractive order about it.’

Rafferty, frequently baffled and frustrated by the modern world and its endlessly updated technology, was surprised to find himself nodding in agreement with Llewellyn's words. ‘And then, I suppose, there's the added incentive of having no worries about paying the bills,’ he commented, warming to the theme even though he felt slightly shocked that he should do so. ‘All that stuff which grinds people down in the real world is taken care of for you.’

‘True. But you'd have no money – or very little – to spend, either.’

Rafferty, denied the financial incentive for such a life, again to his surprise, found another attraction. 'At least you'd be guaranteed people to look after you in your old age. That's got to be a draw.'

But then he thought again. ‘What am I saying? Let old age take care of itself. What's the point in worrying about that if you haven't lived the life you were given? Imagine turning senile and dying after spending your best years on your knees? I think I'd rather live my life with all its ups and downs, its difficulties and problems, than have a non-existence doing little more than have endless monologue conversations with the Big Bloke in the sky, who probably doesn't even exist.’

He took another slurp of tea. ‘I always thought being a contemplative religious was a terrible waste of life. OK, if you must sign up for the cloister, at least join one of those communities who do something useful, such as caring for those no one else wants to care for, like the world's lepers, Aids orphans, and so on.’

Having got that off his chest, Rafferty began to consider other drawbacks. ‘And apart from all the time you'd spend on your knees, praying, there's the no sex rule to contend with as well.’

‘Even the Garden of Eden had its snake,’ Llewellyn murmured.

‘Good old Hissing Sid?’ Rafferty took another deep gulp of his tea. It was piping hot, strong and well sugared, just as he liked it. He studied Llewellyn's face through the steam. It was as aesthetic and serious-looking as that of any religious and he commented, ‘I know you said a religious life held no appeal, but I can still see you as a monk.’

Llewellyn didn't even slop his tea at this remark, but just said, ‘Easier than you could see yourself as one, I imagine?’

‘True. I could never be a Holy Joe, me.’ Rafferty raked his hand through his unruly auburn hair. ‘The tonsure would be bad enough, but those sandals would finish me. Well that and the lack of se–’

‘Yes, I think we've already established that particular drawback.’ Llewellyn straightened his already immaculate jacket and observed, ‘For me, it would be the clothes. I understand that even monastic orders that don't wear the habit, buy their clothes from charity shops.’ The elegantly attired Welshman gave a faint shudder.

Rafferty laughed. ‘Perhaps you'd suit being a Catholic priest better. They're done up like the Christmas fairy for much of the year.’

‘Possibly. If I was of the appropriate religious conviction. But as we've already discovered, neither of us has the requisite vocation. And, apart from any other consideration, in my case, there's my wife to bring into the equation, and in your case, there's my cousin, Abra, and Mrs Rafferty.’

Rafferty fixed on the second person whom Llewellyn had named. ‘Ah, yes. Ma,’ he said, before he paused reflectively. ‘I wonder what she'd have to say if I renounced the world and the grandchildren she's still waiting for me to produce?’

‘It's probably as well that you're unlikely to find out.’

Rafferty nodded, finished his tea and observed, ‘Time to get back to work, I think. Back to the real world and its complications. Let's have the next sister in, Dafyd. The sooner we get these interviews finished the sooner we might be able to get on with solving this murder.’

Sisters Agnes and Elizabeth were next. Like the round and rosy Sister Perpetua, both were currently on kitchen duties. Though, with such a small household to cater for, three sisters to do the cooking struck Rafferty as over-egging the pudding, especially as the well-rounded Perpetua was surely sufficiently enthusiastic about her food to be able to prepare and cook three simple meals a day without assistance.

Sister Agnes, Cynthia Mayhew, as was, was tall and thin, with a long nose that, to Rafferty, indicated that the woman would be naturally inquisitive. However, it must be a trait she did her best to subdue because she neither asked nor volunteered anything until nearly the end of their session.

And although Sister Rita had claimed that each of her fellow nuns was anxious to help all they could, it seemed that Sister Agnes, at least, didn't enjoy her colleague's robustness at the disturbance of her normal routines. Rather than showing a desire to be helpful, she seemed on edge, even a little resentful of their presence.

Her voice, unlike the warm tones of Sister Rita, and the jolly chirrups of Sister Perpetua, was thin, with a tendency to high-pitched cut glass, which set Rafferty's teeth on edge. And when she finally allowed herself to give in to the aristocrat's natural inclination to take control, her first question was one that common sense should have told her was impossible for him to answer.

‘How long is your investigation likely to last, inspector? I understand that you, too, have your duty to do, of course, but this man's death and the presence of so many worldly people is upsetting some of the older sisters. Most have been here so long, our daily routine is all they are used to, you see.’

Whether it was, as she claimed, really upsetting the older nuns – although Sister Ursula, clearly the oldest member of the community had shown little sign of any such discombobulation – certainly, it was upsetting Sister Agnes, whose hands clutched anxiously at the folds of her habit.

‘I understand that,’ Rafferty told her quietly. ‘Mother Catherine has already provided me with list of your routines, and I promised her I'd do my best to work round them. But, as to how long our investigation will take, I'm afraid it's in the lap of the gods.’

Sister Agnes's long nose dipped in acknowledgement of this. ‘Then I shall, of course, pray to the one, true, God, to aid your endeavours.’

Rafferty wondered whether he was meant to shout, ‘Hallelujah’ at this. He felt like telling her not to bother with praying on his account, as God had, in the past, generally shown a singular disinclination to aid him in anything. Instead, he thanked her for her promised prayers. Maybe God might more readily respond to the prayers of a religious nun than a backsliding sinner? he thought as he showed her out, she having, like the other sisters, denied all knowledge of the convent's cadaver or how it had ended up in its temporary resting place.

The second of her two co-workers in the kitchens, Sister Joseph, the former Margaret Andrews, was, for all her sixty-five years, meek, mild, very shy and appeared unwilling to say boo to a goose or, indeed, much else at all. She couldn't have been a greater contrast to the tall, thin and aristocratically nervy, Sister Agnes or the short, round sister Perpetua with her rosy benevolence.

Two of the other nuns, Sisters Bernadette and Elizabeth, had been visiting a sister convent in the north of England for the past two months and had only returned a couple of days ago, so, if Sam Dally was correct in his estimated time of death, both were unlikely to have had anything to do with their man's death.

Rafferty wasn't surprised to learn, as nun followed nun into the office which Mother Catherine had provided for them, that each holy sister professed her ignorance of how the dead man had come to end up buried in their grounds.

Most of them appeared to be genuinely troubled at the discovery of his body and that he had presumably been interred without religious ceremony. And who could blame them for that? They had chosen the contemplatives' life above other, more worldly orders, seeking only to dedicate their lives to prayer. But now, the wickedness of the world outside their isolating walls had intruded. Perhaps, in the process, it would destroy their serenity for ever?