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A Darkly Hidden Truth, The Monastery Murders #2

By Donna Fletcher Crow

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Chapter 1
Friday, Third in Lent
Father Oswin smiled in his slow, thoughtful way and steepled his fingers into a Gothic arch. “And how long have you been feeling this drawing to become a nun?”
Felicity’s swallow was more of a gulp. It all sounded so audacious. It was so unlike her. Fighting a sudden impulse to run from the room, she managed to squeak out in a small voice, “Well, for several weeks now.” Was almost two “several?”
Father Oswin nodded slowly and thoughtfully, as he did everything. At least he didn’t burst out laughing. “I see.”
“But the thing is,” Felicity was quite certain he didn’t see. “The thing is, it’s so intense. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. It’s been growing and growing.” She placed her hand over her heart in the region of the growing feeling—compulsion— she might even say.
“Yes.”
Was there ever a more infuriating spiritual director than Father Oswin? Felicity felt so full of exuberance, of desire for action, of nervous tension, it was all she could do to make herself stay seated in her chair while the man sitting across from her in the small confessional room sat so deep in meditation he could be in danger of drifting off to sleep. What should I do? she wanted to yell at him.
“Yes. I see.” At long last the monk opened his hands and raised his head. “Yes.” He nodded slowly, giving the word at least three syllables. “Then you must test the Spirit.”
“Great! Er—how do I do that?” Ever since she had come to study in the theological college run by the Community of the Transfiguration on its remote hillside in Yorkshire many months ago Felicity had experienced almost constant friction between their slow, understated pace of life and her out-to-conquer-the-world American energies, but she had never felt the conflict so sharply before. Nor had her urgency for action been so great. “What do I do?” She pulled out a notebook to jot down his instructions.
“How much time have you spent in a convent?”
“Um, well, I was at Whitby—Order of the Holy Paraclete—when Father Antony and I were looking for Dominic’s murderer…When Sister Elspeth…” Felicity stopped with a shudder.
“Yes, terrible business that. Tragic loss.” Father Oswin shook his head. “Hardly a good time for testing a vocation, I would say.”
The tiny room fell silent as Felicity’s mind replayed those all-too-recent events of chasing and being chased across half of northern England in the company of her Church History lecturer, of how her own rashness had led her so far astray, of the penitence she felt for her guilt in the tragic events. And yet, surely good could come even from that. If she were to become a nun herself, perhaps even in some small way fill the enormous gap left by Sister Elspeth’s energy and scholarship and holiness…
“Perhaps you should revisit the sisters there? Or perhaps look around a bit: Rempstone near Nottingham, All Hallows House in Norwich… Walsingham, Oxford, Burford, the list went on. Who would have thought there were so many convents in England? “The sisters in Ham Common do a wonderful work among the poor, but London might be a bit far afield.” Felicity scribbled as he rattled off the unfamiliar names. “Select two or three for a mini retreat. That should give you some perspective as to what you might be undertaking if you were to pursue a discernment process.”
Discernment process? Couldn’t she just go off to a convent and take the veil? That’s what women did in books. Maid Marian, in Robin Hood, for example. Yes, Marian’s convent was supposed to be around here somewhere. The Nun, a pub on the main road behind the Community, was said to mark the spot.
“Of course, you understand, it can take years to test a vocation,” Father Oswin’s steady voice brought her back. “It’s very important not to rush. Let the Spirit lead you one step at a time. Stay in constant tune with him through prayer.”
Felicity sighed. She should have known.
“No snap decisions,” he added.
Felicity nodded, even as she argued internally. But that’s how I make all my decisions, she almost blurted it out. And it was the truth—for better or for worse—that was how she always made her decisions. Fast! Just a year ago she had been teaching Latin in a C of E school in London, and hating it. When Rebecca, the vicar of the church sponsoring the school, reminded her that the church was one place Latin was still used and told her about the College of the Transfiguration, it immediately fired her imagination, and here she was—just like that— living through the most momentous year of her life.
Well, OK, not just like that. There was a lot more to it than that. Although her family was far from devout, she had always loved the services she was taken to at Christmas and Easter: the prayers, the music, the altar cloths shimmering in candlelight, the banks of flowers, and then, working with Antony in the past weeks—seeing true dedication up close and personal—after she got over her irritation with him, that is…
Father Oswin brought her back to the present. “I don’t know what your class schedule is like just now. Perhaps you have some time off before Easter, if you’re thinking of starting right away?”
Felicity nodded. So he did sense her urgency.
“You won’t be likely to find vacancies in any of the houses during Holy Week and, of course, you’ll want to be here then anyway.”
Holy Week. Yes, just over two weeks away. How she looked forward to that. Time to spend immersed in silence, in worship, in holy contemplation. She smiled at herself. If it hadn’t been for Father Oswin’s presence, she would have laughed out loud. If she had been told a month ago she would have had such thoughts, she would have declared that the speaker had taken leave of his senses. Now perhaps she was the one who had gone bonkers. Felicity Howard, the all-American girl, sure of herself, goal-driven, out to set the world on fire, to right all wrong— after all, that was what the priesthood was all about, wasn’t it? Especially for a woman priest.
And then, in the space of a few life-threatening—and life-changing—days, she had encountered true faithfulness in the man she had thought capable of murder. Now she must rethink her whole life. It still galled. She had been so sure.
“Don’t rush it. Give the Spirit time to reveal his ways to you.” Father Oswin’s words recalled her once more.
“What? Oh, yes. Yes, thank you, Father. Yes, Holy Week. I am looking forward to that. Everyone says it’s an amazing experience.” In the tumult of her mercurical emotions she smiled at herself once more. Fifty-some services in one week, most of it spent in silence—and she was looking forward to that? She truly must have gone round the twist, as the old Felicity would certainly have told her.
“Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?”
The length of her pause was telltale, but Father Oswin wouldn’t probe, even if he knew she was holding back. How could she discuss something she couldn’t even put into words to herself? And what if she was wrong? After all, it wasn’t really her problem until—if—Antony actually said something. Was it?
And besides, he had said he was considering becoming a monk. It was all very well having notions about an Anglican priest who happened to lecture on church history in a theological college— not that she was willing to admit to any such feelings, of course. . . But if she did have any and then he chose the religious life. . .
“No, nothing else. I’ve already taken too much of your time. Thank you, Father.” She rose and hurried out. Should she have asked him to bless her? Would he have been expecting her to make her confession? She wished she knew more of the forms of this Alice Through the Looking Glass world she had entered almost by accident.
As she strode through the tangled passageways of the monastery back toward the college, the lengthy skirt of her black cassock—regulation student wear—wrapped itself around her long legs, impeding the speed of her stride, but she still managed to move fast enough to make her golden hair in its characteristic single braid bump against her back. Thoughts tumbled through her mind. She had been so certain Father Oswin could help her. Their little talks always helped. And he had given fairly concrete advice—as concrete as he ever did. So why was she even more confused than when she started?
Perhaps, a little voice niggled at the back of her mind, because you didn’t discuss the whole picture. But how could I? There isn’t anything to discuss. And I would look such a fool if I’m wrong. She shut the door on that train of thought.
So what about Father Oswin’s suggestion that she take a sort of mini personal pilgrimage? She had heard others talking about making Lenten retreats. It seemed to be part of the system—the accepted thing. Why shouldn’t she? Visit some convents. Get some practical idea of what she was really contemplating for her future. She had vaguely thought that the past seven months she had spent essentially living in a monastery as a student would have been preparation enough, but perhaps she did need to see a wider picture.
It made such excellent sense, really. So why did she feel so reluctant to undertake what should be a very pleasant break? A few days in each convent, just getting the feel of the place. Meet a few nuns—the sort of women she would be living with. As Father Oswin said, it wouldn’t be a real discernment process, but just enough to get the lie of the land, so to speak.
She would have to get permission to miss two lectures, but if she said it was at the advice of her spiritual director, it would surely be allowed. She had intended to finish her essay on the early sacramentaries and get started on her Old Testament paper, but they weren’t really due yet. That wasn’t the problem. Why was she who was always so ready to go and to do suddenly so reluctant to leave Kirkthorpe?
Still without an answer, she headed toward the common room where her fellow ordinands would be gathering before evening prayers, reading tattered copies of The Church Times or The Church of England Newspaper, depending upon their churchmanship, and sharing the latest gossip or debating the latest controversy in the church. But first, she would just stop by her pigeonhole and check her mail—or post, as she was becoming accustomed to saying.
The usual notices: cantor tryouts for Holy Week services, workers needed for the weekly youth night at the St James center in town, sign up for day out to Rievaulx Abbey… And a letter. A real, written-on-paper, put-in-an-envelope letter. With a stamp bearing an American flag. Must be from her father, Andrew Howard, a soft-spoken man who worked for the state of Idaho as an employment counselor, but whose main role had always been to keep the family ticking along while his lawyer wife worked an eighty-hour minimum week.
Just holding this tangible contact from home gave her a sensation of warmth. She started to rip it open when the bell sounded for evening prayers. She stuck it in her pocket with the wry thought that delaying pleasure was good for the soul, and went out into the soft, early April evening. Swathes of brilliant daffodils at her feet and birds chirping in the overhanging branches cheered her every step up the hill to the church as the bells continued to peal from the tower.
Oh, yes, yes, yes. Peace and beauty. This was what she loved. This was what she wanted for the rest of her life. She would obey and undertake the obligatory discernment, but there was really no need. She knew.
Inside the cool stone arches of the Community church, the ever-lingering scent of incense greeted her and the ancient quiet enfolded her. She turned to the side aisle to make her reverence to the icon of Our Lady of the Transfiguration, as was customary.
Her eyes were still adjusting to the dim light as she bowed her head and crossed herself, then raised her eyes to look into the gentle face she knew so well: the Madonna with her head tilted so gently toward her infant Son, whose hand was raised in blessing and pointing to the background scene of Christ on the mountain top with Moses and Elijah. Felicity always loved the way the candlelight on the glowing gold background seemed to propel the dark-veiled Virgin and Child toward the votary, and the flickering light could seem to make the Transfigured Lord in the background shimmer as he must have done to the astounded disciples seeing him in his glory.
But no tender scene of Mother and Son met her uplifted eyes. This time only the bare stone column stared back at her. The votive candle on the small shelf was cold. Only a smudge of smoke on the stone attested that it had ever been lit. Stifling her disappointment, Felicity turned to her seat in choir and opened her prayer book. As every Friday in Lent, the evening Psalm was 22, “My God, my God, why has thou forsaken me:” the precentor set the first line of chant. As if taking a deep breath, the entire Community paused for the caesura, then Felicity joined the response “and art so far from my cry?”
Her mind only half-followed the familiar words and rhythms. It was almost three weeks yet until the Maundy Thursday ritual stripping of the church as if preparing a body for burial, followed by the Holy Saturday church cleaning when she had been told every student turned out to clean every dark corner, polish every crucifix and candlestick, and dust every carved crevice as an important part of the ancient pattern of Holy Week. And, wasn’t it the week before that—the week they called Passiontide—when all statues and images would be removed or veiled? Felicity was new to all this high church ritual she had taken to so suddenly and so wholeheartedly, but she was quite sure she had the information right. So why was the icon gone now? Perhaps they had removed it early to be sent away for professional cleaning? Or perhaps she needed repair, although Felicity hadn’t noticed any damage on the vibrant image.
Bowing, kneeling and chanting with the collected college and Community, Felicity was soon swept upward with the echoing prayers and wafting incense until, offering a final bow to the altar cross, she left her seat, walking beside Neville Mortara, the ordinand who sat next to her. Neville turned aside to reverence the icon, but Felicity stopped him. “Don’t bother,” she whispered. “She’s gone.”
“Gone?” Neville’s blue eyes startled beneath his gold-rimmed glasses, “Gone where?”
Felicity shrugged. “Cleaning, I suppose.”
Neville shook his head. “She didn’t need cleaning.” He spoke with the authority of one who knew his field. Neville had achieved considerable success as an artist before coming to CT, as the College of the Transfiguration was familiarly known to its members, to study for the priesthood.
At the door Neville dipped a long, white finger into the holy water stoop and offered his hand to share it with Felicity. The gold of his signet ring glowed dully as Felicity extended her hand. Together they crossed themselves and went out into the April evening.
Felicity smiled and looked up to continue chatting with Neville as they walked back down the hill to the refectory. It was unusual for Felicity, who stood slightly over five foot ten inches in her stockinged feet, to be obliged to crane her neck for a conversation. The breeze whipped at their long black cassocks, and Felicity had the impression of the reed-like Neville swaying with the branches around them.
It wasn’t the gust of wind, however, that disturbed Felicity’s comfort. Neville, whose generous friendship made him the easiest person she knew to chat with, seemed oddly distracted today. “Is something wrong, Neville?”
He looked startled. “Why do you say that? What should be wrong?” His brow furrowed under his pale fringe.
Before Felicity could answer they were joined by Neville’s friend Maurice Paykel, waving the latest issue of Inclusive. “Nev, have you seen this? A big rally at Manchester Cathedral—” The stocky redhead bore Felicity’s companion away and she at last had a moment to open her father’s letter.
The breeze riffled the page as she pulled it from the envelope. Then she stopped dead in the middle of the stone path. “Oh, sorry,” she said to the group behind her, and stepped aside. Blinking, she looked back at the paper in her hand. Not from her father. Her mother had written her a letter. On paper. By hand. No wonder she hadn’t recognized the writing on the envelope. How often had she ever seen her mother’s handwriting? Birthday cards “to our darling Felicity, love, Mother and Dad” had always been written by her father. “Have a happy day, Muffin” notes in her school lunch box had always been from her father. Forms for summer camp to be filled out and signed by parent were signed in Andrew Howard’s neat script. What on earth could have spurred the fast-moving, high-tech Cynthia to put pen to paper? An email would have been shocking, but believable. Just. A letter was frightening.
And Felicity was right to be alarmed. Her stomach tightened and her breathing stopped as she read. Cynthia’s law firm had joined one of the new international firms. She had a choice of joining the firm in Los Angeles or in London. “Of course, I could stay in Boise, but there seems little point in that with Jeff ’s consultancy job taking him to Asia all the time and Charlie and Judy settled in the Silicone Valley and your father and I getting a divorce…”
Felicity gave an audible gasp as she backed into a tree for support. Had she read that right? She smoothed the crumpled paper and looked again. Yes, there was no mistaking. That was what it said.
“Oh, how typical! Can you believe it?” She exploded with disgusted anger to no one in particular.
“Believe what?”
She turned to the rich tenor voice behind her. “Oh, Antony.” She thrust the crumpled sheet at him with an angry growl as if he had written it. “My mother! How could she? How could she be so—so—oh, I don’t know.” Stupid. Uncaring. Pigheaded. Impulsive. Rash. Selfish. Words whirled through her head too fast to enunciate.
Antony looked up from a quick perusal of the sheet. “Your parents are divorcing?”
“You noticed? My father doesn’t bother to write at all and my mother finally gets around to mentioning it as an aside. A postscript after discussing her job and what’s a convenient place for her to live. I mean, no one pretended it was an ideal marriage. But they’re my parents. They live together. At home. What is she thinking?”
“And she’s coming to see you.”
“What?” Felicity snatched the paper back. She hadn’t read the concluding paragraph. “‘…Sunday, week after next, so we can have a nice visit before I look over the London office.’” Felicity shook her head. “A ‘nice visit.’ When did we ever have a nice visit? Why should we start now?”
“Um, Felicity,” Antony ran his fingers upward through his thick dark hair, then flattened it again with a downward stroke. “Did you see the date on this?” He held out the envelope. “It took this two weeks to get here. She’ll be here tomorrow.”
Felicity threw her hands in the air. “I can’t believe she didn’t have the sense to ring or email. But fine. She can come whenever she wants to. It’s a free country and all that. But I won’t be here.” If she had had any doubts about leaving, this settled the matter.
When Antony didn’t reply, she continued, “I’m going on retreat. Rempstone. To test my vocation. Father Oswin’s orders. Oh, and I’ll be missing your church history lecture on Monday.”
A far corner of Felicity’s mind registered the fact that all color drained from Antony’s face when she mentioned testing her vocation. She supposed she could have broken it to him more gently, but now it was out. Just as well. She certainly didn’t need another complication to her life.
“We need to talk, Felicity.” Anthony spoke in a tight voice.
“I don’t want to talk about it. Not now.” Maybe never.
He gave a jerky nod. “All right. But what I meant was that I need to talk to you. I’ve just come from Father Anselm’s office.”
Hearing the name of the Father Superior of the Community immediately took Felicity back to that day just a few weeks ago that now seemed like another world when she had so blithely started out with Antony to solve Father Dominic’s murder. Little could she have foreseen then what a different person she would be now.
“He’s asked me to undertake another investigation,” Antony said.
“Not another murder?” Felicity blanched and her voice rose in alarm.
“No, no. Nothing so dramatic. Our Lady of the Transfiguration has disappeared.”
“Oh, I noticed she was gone. I thought she’d been sent out for cleaning or something.”
“Sadly, nothing so easily explained, I’m afraid.”
“So why don’t they call the police?”
“Father Anselm suspects—well, shall we say an inside job? He’d rather have it handled quietly.”
“He wouldn’t suspect one of the brethren. That must mean a student. I don’t believe it. Not even as a prank, surely.”
“I suppose a prank is a possibility. But I think he had something more specific in mind. A well-known artist and collector who might have reason to—shall we say, borrow her for closer study?”
Felicity was outraged. “You mean Neville. What an absurd accusation! I was talking about it with him just a minute ago. I’m the one who told him the icon was missing. I’m certain he didn’t know anything about it. Besides, he’s one of the most honest people I know.”
Antony shrugged. “Well, I have to follow up. If it’s returned quietly that will be the end of it.”
“Why doesn’t the superior ask around himself?”
“He wants the whole business kept low-key. The thing is, a representative of the Patriarch of Moscow is coming for the Triduum.”
“To Kirkthorpe? For Holy Week? Oh, is that part of your ecumenical thingy?”
“In a way. Our icon was Russian—said to have been brought to England by Peter the Great on his Great Embassy in the seventeenth century. The Russian Orthodox Church has made enquiries about our loaning it for a special celebration this year. Some anniversary of the Christianizing of Russia or something. Anyway, it seemed like a great opportunity to build bridges between our churches.”
“Oh, I get it. And so this emissary of his holiness shows up here in less than three weeks and we’ve mislaid the icon. Not good for ecumenical relations, to say the least.”
“That’s it exactly. And Father Anselm said that I—we—did so well last time, he was hoping…”
Felicity shook her head and took a step backward. “Sorry. My plate is more than full. But good luck and all that.” She turned and started walking rapidly toward the dining hall, no matter how little she fancied the Friday night Lenten vegetarian fare that would be awaiting her. Then she paused. “I mean it. Really. Good luck.”
Just before the path curved downhill she hesitated once more. “I’m off for Rempstone on the first train in the morning.” She flung it over her shoulder, neither knowing nor caring whether he heard her or not. But when she allowed herself a brief backward glimpse she was struck by his bruised look.

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