Even as she wrote the words she knew they weren’t entirely true. Bess wanted children. She would have happily, joyfully filled those rooms upstairs. But not while Father Joseph drew breath and Ronan didn’t. The hatred in her heart had nothing to do with being a mother. And only one thing in the world would vanquish it.
Such a thing never seemed possible. Until a letter from Fiona arrived with the gossip from Sunday’s Corner. Sister Mary Clare and Father Joseph had fallen in love and renounced their vows.
‘She was in the village, chatty as ever,’ Fiona wrote. ‘She told me they’d be married next month and then leave for Yorkshire to honeymoon at a place called the Bellefort Hotel. She told me I might as well start calling her Mrs Marston as that would be her name soon enough.’
Bess could easily imagine the cheery laugh that followed. A plan had to be hatched quickly. But she knew it would be easier to complete, now that Sister Mary Clare and Father Joseph would be together, in England. And she’d have such a willing accomplice in me.
The Disappearance
Day Five
Wednesday, 8 December 1926
BESS AND I knew perfectly well Chilton was listening at the door. Not because we’d heard him – he was quieter than a mouse – but because we expected him to be watching us. We’d known we’d be facing perils enough, with our plans to murder two seemingly innocent people. Little did we know we’d also have to contend with my lover’s wife and the inspector who was searching for her. Not to mention Finbarr, come to reclaim me.
‘Donny’s had a telegram,’ Bess said, so loudly I nearly laughed at the contrivance of it. ‘We have to cut things short. Go back to the States.’
She sat down on the bed beside me and clasped my hand. We stared at each other, eyes full. No matter what happened next, it had been worth it.
The poisons had been easy enough to obtain, though potassium cyanide was an odd purchase for winter, with no wasps afoot. I went to two different shops in London, one for the potassium cyanide and another for the strychnine, the beauty of a populous city, where nobody would remember me, or think to connect the substances with any death in Yorkshire. Archie may not have read Agatha’s books but I had. I knew poison was the best way to accomplish a quick and easy murder – easy to perpetrate but not to solve.
Sister Mary Clare, now Mrs Marston, was so untrue and unthinking in her every word and deed. At the Bellefort Hotel she stared directly at me. Never into my face. Only glancing at the surface. Bess, too, she trained her eyes on both of us and spoke about herself. Just like at the convent, she smiled, she chatted, she landed her plump hands on our shoulders as if she believed herself fond of us. But when we appeared in her life again, there was nothing about either of us she recognized. To her all girls were the same.
It was Hamlet, wasn’t it, who said: ‘One may smile and smile and be a villain.’
To the man who’d never bothered to smile, at least at us – the ragwort – some girls stood out. Father Joseph knew Bess the moment he laid eyes on her. In the hotel dining room, doing what needed to be done, Bess had felt no fear. None at all. Only a gladness at witnessing his discomfort. Knowing he’d be dead before he could alert his wife to our identity.
Bess’s sister Kitty and her husband Carmichael, posing as an unhappy English couple, had caused the necessary diversion – a great row that commanded the attention of everyone present. Bess had been able to step forward and plunge the syringe into Father Joseph’s flank, then secret it back into the pocket of her dress almost before he felt the prick. Kitty – pretending to be a nurse – had flown to his side, not to help him, but to make sure he was dead. She had a secondary needle waiting in her own pocket just in case, but that proved unnecessary.
Bess couldn’t call it gladness, exactly, watching the man die. She wasn’t a cruel person. It was a distasteful but necessary task. The world had offered no justice so we made our own.