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Chapter One 

“BUT WHEN THE SISTERS OF CLEMENCY began to…well…disrobe Sister Garance, to wash and prepare her for the grave they made the most shocking discovery.”

The speaker was Cynthia Davidson, the Vicar’s wife, and we were alone in the vicarage kitchen. I leaned forward in eager anticipation, trying not to let my eyes goggle or my mouth hang open. Shocking discoveries among nuns were few and far between.

“The body,” Cynthia said, lowering her voice to a whisper and glancing back over each shoulder before continuing, “was that of a male: a man who bore the scars of a life hard lived, including several bullet-holes. Healed, of course.”

“Holy crow!” I said.

“Flavia…” she cautioned me.

“Sorry, Cynthia. But what a ripping yarn.”

“It’s not a yarn, Flavia. It’s true.”

I let out a low whistle.

“Are you positive? Where did you hear a thing like that.”

“Denwyn was consulted,” she said, “But you mustn’t breathe a word.”

“Makes sense though,” I said. “He’s outside the faith but utterly trustworthy.”

Cynthia sighed.

“It’s no easy matter. Even after the body is identified, the man cannot, obviously, be buried in the Sisters’ cemetery. They are hoping Denwyn can find a corner for him here at St. Tancred’s.”

“Out of sight out of mind,” I said.

“Something like that,” Cynthia said. “We prefer to think of it as Christian charity.”

“What calibre were the slugs?” I asked.

“Oh, Flavia!” Cynthia said, physically recoiling. “What a horrid question.”

“Not to a curious mind,” I said. “Most bullet wounds in England are from a .455 Webley while those in America are from .38 calibre weapons, such as the .38 Special.”

I had absorbed this handy bit of knowledge from Philip Odell, the fictional detective on the BBC wireless series. “A Crook of the Highest Calibre” the episode had been called, and I had made notes as I listened.

“Do you suppose the Sisters would let me have a squint?” I asked.

“Flavia!”

“Well, you can’t probe bullet wounds by poring over books of fairy tales.”

“In any case,” Cynthia said, changing the subject, “the Reverend Mother is anxious to identify the deceased and notify her —I mean his — family.

“And the police,” I added.

“No!” Cynthia said. “As far as we are aware, no crime has been committed, and the Sisters are hoping to have it passed over in silence.”

“As Christian charity demands,” I said with a grin.

“As Christian charity demands,” Cynthia said after an almost imperceptible pause. “They thought that you and Dogger —”

Aha! I ought to have seen it coming. Dogger and I had founded a firm called Arthur Dogger & Associates (Discreet investigations).  The recently-adopted capital ‘D’ in Discreet and the lower-case ‘I’ in investigations were intentional. Dogger and I knew how to drag in the jittery bluebloods.

“I shall consult my fellow principal.” I said, although I knew I didn’t need to. We had never discussed it, but I knew Dogger would be as keen on corpses in convents as I was.