As Death Draws Near (16 page)

Several of the local men, including Chief Constable Corcoran, seemed caught off guard by this pronouncement, but Gage and Anderley took it in stride.

“Show us,” Gage said.

Bree moved to do so at my direction, while I stood over Mother Fidelis's body. I felt somewhat protective of her, not wanting any of these men to touch her. A quick glance at the concerned expression in the reverend mother's and Mother Paul's eyes told me they were having similar thoughts.

Gage left Anderley to deal with the footprints while he and Corcoran crossed to see the murder weapon where I'd gestured to it. I looked up as they moved away to see Marsdale come to a stop to stare down at Mother Fidelis lying between us. His face was pale, the whites of his eyes very clear as he gazed down at her.

“Is this . . .” He swallowed and tried again. “Is this how they found Harriet?”

I didn't answer. I couldn't. And I didn't have to. For when he looked up to see why I hadn't, the truth was stamped across my face. He blinked several times and then dropped his gaze back to the nun, but his eyes snagged on my hand. More specifically, on the pair of gloves now cradled in my left hand that I'd removed to search inside my reticule. I knew the blood was not starkly evident against the dark leather, but he obviously understood why I'd taken them off. He stared for a moment and then turned away abruptly, moving off to gaze out toward the cottages in the distance.

Bree, Anderley, and a constable I hadn't met stood next to the impression which had been most distinct. Though I noticed Bree continued to glance across toward where Davy and Constable Casey stood, their feet firmly planted where they'd stopped when she had called out for them to do so. The look Casey gave me, while not outright hostile, was certainly unpleasant, and from time to time he rocked back on his heels, as if anxious to be gone from this place. Given the conversation Gage had intended to have with him that morning, I was surprised to see him present, but I supposed an explanation would have to wait.

Beside him, Davy looked almost sick, and it was no wonder why. I wanted to tell him he didn't have to stay here, that his task was done. But I suspected, as any young man, he
would not appreciate me doing so in front of the other men. Fortunately, I was not the only one to recognize his distress.

“Casey, Somers, find something to transport the body with,” Corcoran barked.

Mother Paul gestured them through the gap in the wall, clearly having something in mind, or expecting Davy to. Perhaps the same thing they'd used to remove Miss Lennox.

That being dispensed with, Gage and Corcoran turned to me. Facing the chief constable's scowl, at first I felt a bit tongue-tied, but the gentle assurance and confidence in Gage's eyes helped me find my words. With my assessment finished, both men crouched to view the head wound themselves, but to my relief, they did not ask to see anything further, even trusting my examination of the objects I'd collected in my handkerchief to be thorough enough. Ordinary chips of rock and soil transferred from the stone, along with the skull fragments, would hardly prove to be useful in this situation.

“Well,” Corcoran declared, rising to his feet. “I don't know what dis villain's reasons be, but I'd say yer stakes have just been raised, to be sure.”

“Then maybe some of these mulish, closemouthed people will start talking instead of glaring at us as if we meant to lock up their women and children,” Gage remarked in clear frustration. “If they'd spoken sooner . . .” He bit back the rest of the thought with a sigh, knowing it was useless to speculate. “Let's move her inside then. Before this rain begins in earnest.” He glanced up at the sky as the first drops began to fall, and reached a hand out to gather me closer.

I didn't object, grateful to have his warmth at my side while I stood watching the heat slowly leach from Mother Fidelis's body forever.

D
espite the rain and Gage's protests, I insisted on waiting until Mother Fidelis's body had been loaded onto the boards they'd found and carried before us through the abbey grounds to the infirmary and into Sister Bernard's capable hands. Corcoran and his men then took their leave, while the rest of us adjourned to the parlor with the mother superior and Mother Paul. At first, I was surprised the constables did not wish to join us until Gage explained that the chief constable was still determined to leave the entire matter to us. He had only agreed to come to the abbey because Davy had been unclear about what they would find when they arrived, and Gage had thought it prudent to have extra assistance should they be needed.

“And Marsdale?” I asked, huddling deeper into the blanket I'd been given to help stave off the chill and dry my garments.

Gage reached an arm around my back to rub it, eyeing Marsdale where he sat at the edge of the opposite settee, staring into the meager fire Anderley had finally managed to coax to life, and was even now feeding bricks of peat into. “He arrived at the constabulary just as we were setting out for the abbey. He must have overheard me at the Yellow House last night when I relayed my proposed plans for the day to Anderley. Insisted on making himself a nuisance, and I hadn't time to argue with him over it.”

“And Constable Casey?”

“Denied it all. Listening to our conversation with Corcoran, telling tales about town, all of it. I decided he should come with us because I hoped whatever we found here would encourage him to stop impeding us and assist us instead.”

I nodded, understanding now how they'd all come to be there, if not precisely why. The fire burning steadily, Anderley rose to his feet, allowing the heat of the flames to better reach me. Then he crossed the room to sit in the corner with Bree, who looked just as cold as I felt, wrapped tightly in her blanket. I thought about ordering her closer to the fire, but I knew she would resist. She had elected to remain upstairs with us rather than escape belowstairs because Anderley could not venture that far into the building. I suspected she also wanted to avoid answering questions posed by the day staff and lay sisters.

Mother Superior looked wretched, seeming to have aged a decade before my eyes. She sat rigidly in her chair, blind to Mother Paul's ministrations as she draped another blanket over her shoulders to match the one in her lap. As if by unspoken agreement, we waited to address the horribleness of the topic at hand until the tea had arrived and we had all taken our first fortifying sip. Even so, it was Reverend Mother who spoke first, shaking her head.

“I had no idea he would harm another of my sisters. I . . . I thought this was something to do with Miss Lennox herself, not the abbey. But it appears I was wrong.” Her eyes closed almost in pain. “I have been egregiously blind. Father, forgive me.”

“I'm not sure any of us expected this,” Gage told her. “At the least, it was extremely rash for this person to harm another sister on such a morning, when the damp would leave footprints, with a class of students so nearby.”

“Oh, yes. The girls,” she gasped, as if that detail had either not occurred to her or slipped her mind. “If he had harmed one of them.” She inhaled swiftly, closing her eyes again as if to settle herself. “I'm sorry,” she uttered in a calmer voice as she opened them. “My exclamations are not helping matters. What is to be done?”

Gage leaned forward to set his cup down on the table before us. “Well, first of all, I think you should have the workmen begin repairs on that wall immediately.”

“Yes, of course. Matters have most certainly changed, and if this sets behind work on the day school, then so be it. We can always open a few weeks late if necessary. It is more important to seal off access to the abbey from such an importune position.” Her words grew stronger as she spoke, grateful to focus her thoughts and energy on what needed to be done.

“What of the girls?” I murmured. “Wouldn't it be best if they were removed from the situation and sent home for their summer holiday a bit early?”

She shook her head at this adamantly, though her eyes were troubled. “I can't do that.”

I blinked in surprise. “I don't understand. Whyever not?”

“Are either of you familiar with the 1798 Rebellion?”

Gage and I shared a telling glance, remembering what Mrs. Scully had told us.

“We've heard something of it,” he replied.

“Well, doubtless what you know is much more from an outsider's perspective, but I remember the uprising and its aftereffects intimately. There was great civil unrest for many years following the conflict. It was not safe to travel about the country, particularly outside Dublin to the west and the south. In fact, that is why I and two of my sisters were educated in York, England, rather than risk the journeys south to Cork, where our oldest sister attended school and then joined the Ursuline Convent there. Though, my mother, sisters, and I did make the trip down for her Profession in 1809. We had to travel by copper-lined stagecoach escorted by two dragoons of armed guards.”

My eyes widened at this admission.

“And you fear that because of the secret societies and the resistance to paying tithes, even nonviolent as that's supposed to be, the same thing may be happening again?” Gage guessed.

A spark of wry humor lit her eyes. “I do not know how
familiar you are with the Irish people, but we are a rather passionate and fervent race overall. We are not adept at remaining passive when something we care deeply about is being taken from us.” She tilted her head. “I suspect you English are much the same; you simply hide it better.”

I lowered my head, stifling a smile.

“That, and you are currently in the role of conqueror. But someday someone will be in the position to challenge you, and we shall see how you react then.”

Neither Gage nor Marsdale, who was listening quietly, had an answer for that.

She sighed, as if recalling herself. “But that is all beside the point. What I do know is that there have already been several small skirmishes over the matter to the south, particularly one in County Kilkenny, where a priest there had encouraged his people to place their livestock under his ownership prior to sale in order to resist the tithe collection and the yeomanry tried to enforce a seizure order on them. And just a few days ago in County Wexford, the Irish Constabulary either killed or injured thirty-two people resisting a seizure.”

Gage's expression was grim. “I heard something of it myself last night in the tavern.”

“Then you understand that people are not ready to accept matters as they stand. There will be more clashes, more injuries, more deaths in the coming days and months, and I do not intend for any of those to be one of my students.” Her voice was firm. “I will send letters to each of their parents, and if they are willing to send bullet-proof vehicles and armed guards to collect their daughters, I shall let them go. But otherwise, they shall remain here.”

Neither Gage nor I could argue with that assertion. If in fact the civil unrest was growing, as she feared, then she needed to do what was best to protect her students. Closing off that gap in the wall and keeping them inside the abbey seemed to be her safest bet, even with a killer prowling just outside the walls. One could only hope he didn't find a different way in, or another way to draw them out.

I took another sip of my tea, which had since grown too cold to relieve the chill that had settled inside me, and then put it aside.

“Do you think this tithes rebellion could have anything to do with the sisters' deaths?” Gage ruminated.

“I suppose anything is possible.” Reverend Mother lifted her hands in bafflement. “But why would they kill a nun and a postulant? They have nothing to do with the tithes or a rebellion.”

“But can we truly be certain of that? After all, you just mentioned how a priest had aided those in County Kilkenny.”

She frowned and glanced to Mother Paul, who sat placidly listening except for a tiny line which had formed between her brows. “Yes, but they were not allowed to leave the abbey grounds.”

“But they did. Miss Lennox at least twice—that we know of—and Mother Fidelis did so today.”

Both nuns appeared momentarily flummoxed by the possibility that their fellow sisters might have disobeyed their vows and orders in such a way, venturing farther afield more often than they realized.

“How long has the wall been down?” Marsdale murmured, speaking for the first time since we had stood over Mother Fidelis's body, but for a brief greeting when he was introduced to the sisters.

“Several months. As I mentioned, it happened because of a particularly cold winter and wet spring. We had to wait for the ground to dry before anything could be done. And then with trying to finish the day school . . .” she trailed away “. . . well, it's been some time.”

Gage sat forward, removing his arm from around me. “What other ways are there to leave the abbey?”

“There is an exit on all four sides, for safety reasons, you understand. The front gate, of course, and the door which leads to the gardeners' cottages, which I believe you've seen. Another to the south, which shall allow the day students in when the school is opened. It stands open during the day
now to admit the workmen. The last, which is rarely used, is hidden in the wall behind a pair of holly trees down near the playing fields.”

Which meant neither of the latter two were easily accessible, or convenient to the spot in which Miss Lennox's and Mother Fidelis's bodies had both been found. The door by the playing field was perhaps closest, but it meant a long hike along the wall and fording the stream which led down from the pond above the abbey under an arch in the wall into the grounds. The door by the gardeners' cottages was nearer, but depending on the time of day, it would be much more difficult to avoid being seen.

“Will you show them to us?” Gage asked and then, with a quick glance at the rain still streaming down the windows, added. “Or perhaps have Davy or Mr. Scully do so?”

“Of course.”

She made to rise to her feet, but I stopped her. “And while they do so, perhaps Mother Mary Paul could show me and Miss McEvoy . . .” I nodded to Bree “. . . to Mother Mary Fidelis's room.”

Gage turned to look at me with approval.

“Of course,” she replied.

•   •   •

W
hile the men traipsed back out into the damp, Bree and I followed Mother Paul up the staircase to the upper floor. However, contrary to the day before, I did not attempt to question the sister as we climbed. Though Mother Paul had not said or expressed much about Mother Fidelis's death, I sensed she was seriously aggrieved by the loss. For it to be done in such an appalling way, that would upset anyone.

Even I, who had witnessed dissections and murder by varied unsettling methods, was having difficulty acclimating to this one. Perhaps it had been the sight of her lying there in her nun's habit, a garment that seemed to mark her as removed, untouchable, and yet someone had approached and battered her. Or maybe it was that impermeable persona she
had displayed, unruffled by what happened around her and resolved to do what she believed was correct. Even when it meant that she risked taking information which might have told us who had killed both Miss Lennox and herself to the grave.

I wanted to howl in frustration. If only she'd spoken to me yesterday. If only she'd answered my questions. Maybe her death would not have occurred. Maybe the sorrow I saw reflected in Mother Paul's eyes as she opened the door to Mother Fidelis's cell would not be there.

This room was slightly larger than the cell Miss Lennox had been assigned to, though nearly as austere. There was the same bed and dresser, but also a small desk positioned before a window. Mother Fidelis had more personal possessions as well. In addition to her grooming items and Bible, there was a small clock, the wood surrounding its face carved with roses; a number of books on various religious subjects; a sketchbook with a set of charcoals; and a sizable stack of correspondence tossed almost carelessly into the bottom drawer of her dresser. I asked Bree to flip through the books to be sure nothing had been placed between the pages while I opened the sketchbook.

The drawings inside were neither interesting nor particularly inspired. The artist understood composition and shading and all the other techniques one was taught, but they were flat and lifeless. Nothing more than wallpaper reproductions of flowers and trees and various locations within the abbey walls. There were a few scenes I couldn't place, but once I'd shown them to Mother Paul, she was able to recognize them all.

Except one. This one also stood out from the others because it wasn't as sharp and concise, making me wonder whether it had been drawn from memory rather than real life. But why? Was it a place from her life before she had entered the convent? Or was it found somewhere outside the abbey walls? Somewhere she had seen, but not wanted to dawdle near to sketch.