“Oh, no fuss. No fuss.” She wipes her cheek. “There’s a lovely young man in a black cab waiting outside for me, so I’ll be quick. It’s about Sarah. Sarah Lawrence…” The nun swallows hard. “She was my best friend. She’s in that dreadfulHow to Get Away with Murderbook that’s in the news and my godson, he spotted it. Knowing my own personal story, he brought the book to me and I read the chapter on Sarah myself. That’s by the by. I’m here to tell you that this Denver chap is a liar. Plain and simple.”
“I hate to ask, Sister,” Sam says, “but how can you know—”
“‘The Lord detests lying lips, but He delights in people who are trustworthy.’ Proverbs Twelve.”
“Amen,” Taylor says, shrugging at Sam’s incredulous look.
“In the chapter about Sarah,” the nun goes on, “Denver describes a rounders scene. Sarah loved rounders. Just like he says, she had red hair, as orange as the sunset. We wore brown uniforms, ugly things they were, with yellow trim, and dreadful boater hatsin the summer. The convent playing field backed on to another field, with a few trees at the end by our school, including a giant oak. Beyond that, the grounds of the local grammar school and sixth-form college. The lads would come over of a lunchtime and linger by the convent walls.”
“So he’s telling the partial truth?” Sam asks, then turns to Taylor. “Like he did with Betty, Melanie and the other victims.”
“But Denver didn’t kill Sarah. She was in trouble, you see. The kind of trouble a convent girl from a strict Catholic family can’t afford to be in. She hanged herself from the big oak. It was my fault. She came to me for help and…” Taylor hands the nun a tissue and she takes his hand, as if sharing his strength. “It was me who carved the love heart on the trunk of the oak tree, and justherinitials inside it.”
“Is it possible, Sister,” Sam asks gently, still trying to piece the story together, “that Sarah’s death could have been made to look like suicide when—”
“Sarah wasn’t murdered,” the nun says. “I know Sarah killed herself because she left me a note. In her own hand, saying things that only she would say.”
“I don’t suppose you kept that note, Sister?” Sam asks.
“I did.” She gestures to a small wooden box with a carved crucifix sitting on the edge of Taylor’s desk. “I brought a few photographs, other things you might need.” Tears slide down her face, which is pale and youthful. A small sob seeps from her lips and Sam steps forward, bending down and embracing the woman in a way that Past Sam would never have done. The nun slides her arms around Sam and heaves silently for a few moments.
“That explains why we found nothing in the database,” Taylor says quietly, once Sister Mary Louise has composed herself. “Because without a crime involved, we’d have no record. I ran internet searches too, though, and still found nothing, which is odd.”
“Och, well you wouldn’t,” the nun says. “The family and thechurch kept it all quiet. There wasn’t even an obituary in the local paper.”
“Oh my God—ness. Goodness. Oh my goodness,” Sam stutters, suddenly grasping what the nun has told them, without her having to spell it out.
“Yes, you’ve got my meaning now, haven’t you?” she says.
Taylor looks from Sam to Sister Mary Louise. “I’m not following.”
“I am.” Sam swallows. “We need a list of all students of that grammar school from 1995 to 1998. I bet Betty’s nephew is on it. It’s a strong piece of circumstantial evidence connecting him to Sarah andHow to Get Away with Murder.”
“Oh, you are a clever girl,” the nun says.
“Ma’am, could you explain in—”
“Taylor, how could Denver know about Sarah’s death and the Sister’s carving on the oak tree unless he was there and saw it for himself?”
The Sister shakes her head, misery etched on her face. “I’ve inspired a serial killer’s creativity, by all the saints!”
“That’s so risky,” Taylor scoffs. “Surely Denver wouldn’t be that stupid?”
“Certainly risky for us,” the nun says. “Denver has been to our little village.”
“Which is where, Sister?”
“Wolsington, a tiny place near Easington Colliery,” she says.
Sam gasps. “That’s where Betty Brown lived,” she exclaims. “Everything leads us back to Betty. With or without the physical evidence, we need to bring the nephew in.”
“Betty Brown, did you say?” The nun’s face tightens. “As in, B.B.? Well, that makes no sense at all…”
“What is it, Sister?” Sam asks, and the nun hesitates then begins to rifle through the box on Taylor’s desk.
“It’s these,” Sister Mary Louise says, pulling out a plastic bagcontaining a wad of paper. “When I cleared out Sarah’s room in the convent, I found them and well… I hung on to them. But they weren’t written by a Betty, that’s for sure. It wasn’t a Betty who got Sarah in trouble.”
Sam feels the blood leave her face and her skin tingles all over as she takes the item from the nun. Through an aged freezer bag, Sam can just about make out a few words written on the outside of an envelope in a delicate script, surrounded by love hearts:LETTERS FROM B.B.
