Blood on the Bones (6 page)

Rafferty, rather than leave the confidential files lying about when the spare keys were missing, stashed his files under one arm.

Llewellyn did the same with his own pile, and they both followed the young constable out of the room.

Dr Sam Dally, who normally never rushed anywhere, for whatever reason now chose to champ at the bit.

‘About time,’ he complained when Rafferty and Llewellyn reappeared. ‘I can't hang around here all evening, you know. I do have other bodies urgently awaiting my expertise.’

It crossed Rafferty's mind to wonder if he wasn't the only one to be spooked by nuns and religion. Maybe Sam also felt uncomfortable around them and their medieval robes. It was a pleasing thought.

‘Keep your hair on, Sam,’ he advised the balding doctor. ‘I don't suppose your bodies are going anywhere. Much like mine and Llewellyn's here.’ He paused, then enquired, ‘So, what's the verdict?’

Sam nodded down at the body, now fully disinterred and lying in an open body bag, preparatory to being removed to the mortuary. 'My early inclination, given the normal cycle of insect infestation and the clemency of the recent weather, is that chummy here, has been dead for a period of between six and eight weeks. I imagine the forensic entomologist's input will confirm that and should be able to more accurately tell you the likely timescale. And as to the cause of death, I would think that even you, Rafferty, can surely not have failed to notice the fact that his skull has a large dent in it.'

Funny man.

Sam picked up his bag. ‘Obviously, until we get him and his little creeping creatures back to either the morgue or the lab, there's little else I can tell you, so I'll bid you good day.’

Rafferty held up a detaining hand. ‘Before you go, Sam. Can I take it that one of the bodies you'll be giving your expert attention to later on this evening will be ‘chummy', here?’

‘Certainly.’

Rafferty was taken aback by Dally's unusual, ready agreement to be accommodating. He had taken Sam's eagerness to get away as a pointer that he shared the aversion to nuns. But now, as the doctor's next remarks revealed his true feelings, Rafferty realised how wrong his conclusion had been.

‘I don't want to make this case any more difficult for you than it's likely to prove to be, Rafferty,’ was Sam's unusually thoughtful-sounding explanation for his obliging behaviour.

Rafferty's gaze narrowed. Sam's ready accommodation told him that, far from empathising with him and wanting to be helpful, the pathologist was preparing to bait him. And so it proved.

Sam gave him a huge smile, shook his head, and muttered, ‘Nuns! Better not keep them waiting, Rafferty. If you do, you might find that God gives you an even greater penance to contend with than the one you've already got.’

Rafferty refused to give Sam the pleasure of a response, though he swore he heard Sam give a muffled snigger as he walked away.

He grimaced, then turned to Llewellyn and commented, ‘Sam's right. We mustn't keep the ladies waiting. Come on.’

Sister Rita,
the nun who had found the body by – literally – stumbling over the exposed forearm of the cadaver in its shallow grave, was the first member of the community whom Rafferty wished to question. He sent Llewellyn to fetch her from her cell where she had been sequestered, incommunicado, with Lizzie Green.

While he awaited her arrival, Rafferty studied the information the Mother Superior had supplied, both on the origins and rituals of the community and on its other members.

Along with the files and the other information she had provided, she had given them some of the literature about the community here in Elmhurst, the Carmelite order as a whole, its origins and its history, which they sold from their website as a supplement to the other income they made from making crafts, communion wafers, priestly vestments and so on.

He picked up one of the community's brochures and read that: 'the Carmelite emblem depicts the Holy Land's Mount Carmel with a cross on top of it, and three stars.

'Mount Carmel was where the first hermits, mostly former crusaders and pilgrims, calling themselves the Brothers of the Blessed Virgin Mary, gathered in imitation of the prophet, Elijah, in a life of solitude and prayer. The cross on it is a reminder of the central importance of the death of Christ. The one star below represents Mary, mother of God, first among the redeemed, who stood at the foot of the cross. On either side were two other stars, to represent the prophets most associated with the Carmelite origins and ideals, Elijah and John the Baptist.

‘It is thought by some,’ Rafferty determinedly continued with this unappealing tract, ‘that the central star was representative of an opening, of a cave, not a star, a cave wherein Elijah sheltered when the Lord appeared to him as the still, small wind. This alternative possibility', said the brochure, ‘suited the life of Carmel, silent and separated, away from the busyness of ordinary life.’

Rafferty grunted, dumped this brochure to one side and picked up another.

‘Until the fifteenth century,’ he read, 'the Order consisted just of priests, friars and lay brothers, although, even then, several groups of pious women lived according to the Carmelite spirit. Following the 1452 founding of the Second Order of nuns, by Blessed John Soreth, Prior General of the Order, the 16th century Reformation saw the initiation of a reform movement by the Spanish Carmelite, Teresa of Avila and after her death reformed monasteries were established in France and Belgium, with later communities settled in Britain and thence across the world.

‘The two branches of the Order are those of the Ancient Observance and the Reformed, or Discalced Carmelites.’

‘Ouch,’ said Rafferty, as he read that the word Discalced meant 'without shoes', which as far as Rafferty was concerned, would certainly have been a reform too far.

In spite of his earlier determination to get a grip on 'this religion thing', as he was want to call it and not let it get a grip on him, Rafferty decided he'd read enough religious tracts; he'd hand them over to Llewellyn to wade through. His holier-than-thou Welsh sergeant might even enjoy it. He certainly didn't.

Besides, he thought, as a sly grin found its way to his lips, what were sergeants for but to do the heavy work? Instead, he turned back to the study of the sisters' files, which the arrival of Timothy Smales had disturbed.

Sister Rita, the nun who had made the shocking discovery, was aged fifty-five and had been a member of Elmhurst's small Carmel community for twenty years, since several years after the early, untimely death of her husband. Although most of her working hours were spent looking after the convent's grounds, vegetable plots, fruit orchard and greenhouses, which, between them, supplied the community's kitchen, she also acted as the Novice Mistress and the community's stand-in for the Mother Superior when the latter attended religious conferences. It sounded a busy, demanding life.

Along with the other information, Mother Catherine had also given them a list of the convent's daily rituals and Rafferty, prodded by the early indoctrination which still powered a conscience inclined to guilt, had, as far as possible, promised to do his best to work his investigation around them.

Certainly, he thought, their first part of the day would be safe from his interruptions: why did the religious keep such ungodly hours? he wondered as he broke off from reading through Sister Rita's file to study their routines.

The sisters rose at 5.30, and Lauds, the first office of the day, so-called because it was 'praising God for a new day', was at six, which was followed by breakfast at 6.15 and an hour's silent personal prayer at quarter to seven. Then came Mass at eight, followed by Terce.

The general domestic and gardening work began at nine and was broken off at 11.15 for Sext. Dinner at 11.30, was followed by half an hour's recreation and an hour when the nuns were free to either work or pursue personal interests.

A spiritual reading followed at 1.45, with work resuming at three in the afternoon. At 4.30, work was again halted for Vespers and an hour's silent prayer. They had supper at six and then three quarter's of an hour's recreation until the 7.30 Office of Readings. It had been during this evening's recreation that Sister Rita had made her unfortunate discovery. Then at eight came the Great Silence, followed at 9.15 by Compline. They retired to bed at ten o'clock.

Rafferty's knees were beginning to creak in sympathy at the thought of all that praying. He returned to reading Sister Rita's file, but was interrupted before he had time to finish it, by Llewellyn's knock on the door of the office. Rafferty closed the file, shouted, ‘come in,’ and looked up as Llewellyn ushered the nun in.

Sister Rita greeted him with a simple nod, and without any sign that she was about to indulge in any of the histrionics which he had, in the past, experienced from women who, like the nun, had stumbled over dead bodies. Instead, she calmly sat down in front of the table to await his questions, her work-worn hands lying still in her lap.

Perhaps there was something to be said for the disciplined life of the religious after all, was Rafferty's first thought. At least it saved him from the hysteria he had occasionally encountered in other, supposedly, more worldly women.

The nun was around five foot six, but although not over tall, she was well built and her clear blue eyes and weather-beaten cheeks gave an appearance of rude health. Even under her long-sleeved brown habit and black veil, he could discern the firm muscles on her upper arms. Her name prior to her admission to the community had been Mary Robins.

Her work in the garden would keep her fitter than most of the other sisters appeared, he thought. All that physical labour must go a long way to counteracting the sedentary nature of the regular daily offices.

He smiled at the nun as she sat in front of the table and began by thanking her for her time.

She merely inclined her head once more, but said nothing.

Rafferty experienced a momentary panic that all he was going to get from any of the sisters was a shake of the head for ‘No’ and a nod for 'Yes'. But surely, he thought, Mother Catherine had understood and explained to them that he required more than nodding dolls for interview and that their rule of silence was to be suspended during police interviews?

Perhaps Sister Rita, sitting so quietly and reposed, had sensed some of his disquiet, because, fortunately, she immediately quashed it with the observation: ‘My time is yours, inspector, until you find the person responsible for this poor man's death. Mother Catherine has reminded us all of our duties and what God will require of us and we shall, of course, assist you in this matter to the best of our abilities. Naturally, we are anxious to do all that we can, so please ask whatever questions you need to.’

Relieved, Rafferty nodded and said, ‘Thank you, Sister.’

Her file revealed that Sister Rita's family had come from a small village some miles outside Birmingham. Rafferty could still trace a hint of working class Brummie in her voice. Perhaps it was her ordinary background, along with the hard, physical labour of looking after the community's grounds and produce, which made her seem so down to earth and uncomplicated.

‘I can understand how upsetting it must be to you and the other sisters, firstly to find a dead man buried in your grounds, and then to have your peace invaded by a bunch of clod-hopping policemen.’

Sister Rita didn't seem noticeably upset by either event. But then she exuded the rude physicality and earthy practicality of a person born to work the land. She would, Rafferty thought, take nature in all its splendour and tragedy in her stride.

She gave him a broad smile that was more warm Earth Mother than chaste nun and observed, ‘Our Heavenly Father never asks more of any of us than we can bear, inspector.’

This wasn't a sentiment with which Rafferty was in agreement, but he made no comment.

The sun-lined wrinkles around Sister Rita's brown eyes wrinkled some more as she added in as blunt a manner as an investigative policeman could wish, ‘Besides, sorry as we all are for that poor man, I gather from something I heard one of your officers say, that he has been dead for some weeks. And while we might be nuns, we are still alive. I hope it doesn't sound too shocking to you inspector, but this is the most excitement any of us have had in years. Even Sister Ursula, old as she is, has a twinkle in her eye from the sight of so many brawny policemen.’

Rafferty laughed, surprised to find that a nun should have an earthy humour to go with the Earth Mother smile. It wasn't how he remembered those religious who had dominated his youth.

Half afraid that the surface humour was merely a mask to conceal a desire to drag him back into the fold from which he had, or so he had thought, so long ago escaped, Rafferty was quick to say: ‘Still, if it's all the same to you, Sister, we'll do our best to keep the excitement down to a dull roar. I'm not sure that we can stand any more than that.’ His comment brought another twinkle.

‘I understand, Sister, that apart from giving religious instruction to your young novice and postulant, that mostly, you work in the grounds and that you found the body sometime after 6.30 this evening during your recreation break?’

She nodded.

Llewellyn put in a question. ‘Clearly, because of your work, Sister, you must know every outside inch of the place. That's why I'm surprised you didn't notice before that the ground behind the shrubbery had been disturbed.’

It was a question that had occurred to Rafferty, too. He awaited the nun's response with interest.

‘I understand your surprise, sergeant,’ Sister Rita quietly replied. 'And, if it had been earlier in the year, I would certainly have noticed. But at this time, we're always so busy with gathering in the last of the harvest, picking and storing the fruit from our orchard and planting the winter root vegetables, not to mention spreading the muck and compost on the soil, that the rest of the grounds tend to be neglected. But as it happens, that part of the garden has been given over to God and Mother Nature to do with it what They will. All I did was plant some wildflower bulbs and seeds.'