The Fifth Gospel(88)
She must know about Simon.
“Whatever you’ve heard,” I tell her, “it’s not true.”
Her hands are hidden behind her scapular, making even her body language impossible to discern. “Father,” she says, “those are my wishes. Please finish your affairs with Sister Helena as briefly as possible. Good night.”
She bows slightly, then drifts back to the door. A familiar silhouette waits there, lowering her head as the prioress passes. Then she comes gliding toward me in the dark.
The wrinkles of Helena’s face are a web of sadness. She doesn’t even make eye contact. “Father Alex,” she whispers, “I’m so sorry.”
“You heard about Simon?”
She looks up. “What about him?”
I’m relieved. News of Ugo’s death and the break-in may have gotten out, but not news of the charges against Simon.
“I need to ask you about what happened at the apartment,” I say.
She nods, unsurprised.
“Before it happened,” I continue, “did Simon say anything to you?”
The lids of her eyes pinch closed. “Before it happened? My memory must be playing tricks.” She sighs in frustration. “I spoke to Father Simon before it happened?”
But her memory doesn’t play tricks.
“Did you?” I ask.
Now when she looks at me, the sadness is gone, swept away by a sharp inquisitiveness. “Father, what’s happening? What are they saying? A policeman came to the convent a few hours ago, but he was sent away before he could ask any questions.”
“Please. Did you talk to Simon beforehand?”
“No.”
“Not in any way?”
“Father Alexander,” she says, “I haven’t traded words with your brother since I cooked him dinner at your apartment the last time.”
“Months ago.”
“At Christmas.”
Behind her, at the convent door, the prioress calls out, “Sister Helena, please finish your visit.”
Quickly Helena says, “Tell me the truth. Is someone in trouble?”
“The gendarmes think there was no break-in.”
She growls. “And I suppose the furniture just threw itself on the floor?”
I steer clear of what the gendarmes think. “They didn’t find any signs of forced entry.”
She winces as if stung. “That is true. There was shouting and banging, then the door just seemed to open.”
“But I locked it when I left.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“And you didn’t take Peter anywhere? Not to Brother Samuel’s apartment for dessert?”
“No.”
“There’s no other way the door could’ve been unlocked?”
“None.” She seems flustered. The memory is returning. “I grabbed Peter as quickly as I could, but the man was already inside by the time Peter and I locked ourselves in the bedroom.”
The prioress calls, “Sister Helena . . .”