A Traitor to Memory

The first disembodied voice floated from the kitchen as Lynley took his reading spectacles from his jacket pocket in order to examine more closely the few volumes on the fitted bookshelves.

A man's deep and sonorous voice said, “Eugenie. Ian,” as Lynley picked up a book called The Little Flower and opened it to see it was a biography of a Catholic saint called Therese: French, from a family of daughters, a cloistered nun, suffered an early death from whatever one would contract living in a cell with no heating in France in midwinter. “I'm sorry about the row,” the voice continued from the kitchen. “Phone me, will you? Please? I've got the mobile with me,” and he followed this declaration with a number that began with a recognisable prefix.

“Got it,” Havers called out from the kitchen.

“It's a Cellnet number,” Lynley said, and picked up the next book as the next voice—this one a woman's—left her message, saying, “Eugenie, it's Lynn. Dearest, thank you so much for the call. I was out for a walk when you rang. It was so very kind of you. I hardly expected … Well. Yes. There it is. I'm just about coping. Thanks for asking. If you ring me back, I'll give you an update. But I expect you know what I'm going through.”

Lynley saw he was holding another biography, this one of a saint called Clare, an early follower of St. Francis of Assisi: gave away all she owned, founded an order of nuns, lived a life of chastity and died in poverty. He picked up a third book.

“Eugenie,” another man's voice from the kitchen, but this one distraught and obviously familiar to the dead woman, since he spoke without attribution, saying, “I need to speak with you. I had to ring again. I know you're there, so will you pick up the phone? … Eugenie, pick up the God damn phone.” A sigh. “Look. Did you actually expect me to be happy about this turn of events? How could I be? … Pick up the phone, Eugenie.” A silence was followed by another sigh. “All right. Fine. If that's how you're going to play it. Flush history down the toilet and get on with things. I'll do the same.” The phone banged down.

“That sounds like a decent field to plough,” Barbara called.

“Hit one-four-seven-one at the end of the messages and pray for good luck.” The third book, Lynley saw, detailed the life of St. Teresa of Avila, and a quick examination of its jacket was enough to inform him that thematic unity was being achieved on the bookshelves: the convent, poverty, an unpleasant death. Lynley read this and frowned thoughtfully.

Another man's voice, again without attribution, came from the answer machine in the kitchen. He said, “Hullo, darling. Still asleep or are you out already? I'm just ringing about tonight. The time? I've a bottle of claret that I'll bring along if that suits. Just let me know. I'm … I'm very keen to see you, Eugenie.”

“That's it,” Havers said. “Fingers crossed, Inspector?” “Metaphorically,” he replied as in the kitchen Havers punched in 1471 to trace whoever had made the most recent call to Eugenie Davies' home. As she did so, Lynley saw that the rest of the books on the shelves were also biographies of Catholic saints, all of them female. None of them were recently published, most of them were at least thirty years old, and some of them had been printed prior to World War II. Eleven of them had the name Eugenie Victoria Staines inscribed on their fly leaves in a youthful hand; four of them were stamped Convent of the Immaculate Conception, and five others bore the inscription To Eugenie, with fondest regards from Cecilia. Out of one of this last group—the life of someone called Saint Rita—a small envelope fell. It bore no postmark or address, but the single sheet of paper had been dated nineteen years earlier in a beautifully schooled hand that had also written:

Dearest Eugenie,



You must try not to give in to despair. We can none of us understand God's ways. We can only live through the trials He chooses for us to endure, knowing that there is a purpose behind them which we may not be able to understand at the time. But we will understand eventually, dear friend. You must believe that.



We deeply miss you at morning Mass and all of us hope that you will return to us soon.



With Christ's love and my own, Eugenie,



Cecilia



Lynley returned the paper to its envelope and snapped the book closed. He called out, “Convent of the Immaculate Conception, Havers.”

“Are you recommending a lifestyle change for me, sir?”

“Only if it suits you. In the meantime, make a note to track down the convent. We want someone called Cecilia if she's still alive, and I've a feeling that's where we might find her.”

“Right.”