The Tormented Read online

  The Tormented

  The Sister Veronica Mysteries #Book 3

  Sarah Sheridan

  Copyright © 2021 Sarah Sheridan

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  The right of Sarah Sheridan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2021 by Bloodhound Books.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

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  Print ISBN 978-1-914614-45-3

  Contents

  Love best-selling fiction?

  Also by Sarah Sheridan

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Acknowledgements

  A note from the publisher

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  Also by Sarah Sheridan

  The Sister Veronica Mysteries

  The Convent (book 1)

  The Disciple (book 2)

  For Rich, thank you for being so amazing.

  1

  Exactly two hours before the first murder occurred, Sister Veronica piled a lump of slow-roasted lamb on to her fork whilst staring intently at the teenage girl opposite her. She was wondering, for the tenth time that day, why on earth she’d accepted her cousin Florence’s invitation to spend Christmas at Chalfield Hall. Fantasies of peacefully reuniting with family she hadn’t seen for nearly forty years had evaporated shortly after her arrival the previous day – a cruel reality check mainly brought on by Florence’s granddaughter’s behaviour. It was almost impressive that Coco Beresford managed to bring any conversation or event round to herself in seconds, Sister Veronica reflected, with each encounter ending in hysteria and recriminations unless the adult being targeted – usually her father Magnus – immediately capitulated to her demands.

  ‘I want a new car, Daddy,’ Coco was whining over her barely touched food. ‘It’s not fair. Papa is always buying new cars, and I really need another one. Please, Daddy, can you get me one after Christmas? Promise me you will?’

  Papa, Coco’s grandfather Giles Beresford, smiled indulgently at her from the end of the table as his jowly chops moved with grinding intensity. It was true, he had just been regaling his guests with tales of his latest acquisition’s engine size, Sister Veronica agreed, watching him run a hand through hair that had once been bright red but was now a blondish silver. And it had been a very dreary monologue, full of self-congratulatory pride.

  ‘Good girl,’ Giles said, spraying half-chewed meat morsels around. Several became lodged in his drooping handlebar moustache. ‘That’s the spirit. If you don’t ask you don’t get. Pound your father down until he agrees.’ He winked at his granddaughter over the remnants of the feast.

  Each of the fifteen extended family members – most in various states of insobriety around the table – had been presented with a plate of steaming roast lamb and spiced berry sauce by Florence as they entered the room. Encouraged to sit down and help themselves to an array of vegetables, different types of potato dishes and vats of home-made gravy, most of the serving plates down the centre of the table were now empty, except the bowl containing sprouts. Sister Veronica hadn’t eaten so well – or so much – for years. The food, Florence told her, had been prepared earlier by Mrs Hardman, the part-time housekeeper and general home help who she had yet to meet. This woman seemed to flit in and out like an invisible spirit, whipping up culinary delights, then leaving them in the oven for the family to reheat at their leisure. She must thank her when they finally did meet, she reflected, for her superb fare. It was much more enjoyable than most of the conversations going on around her.

  She sent Giles a sideways glance, her eyebrow raised, whisking a stray strand of grey hair from her eyes. She’d always found his greedy attitude towards possessions and life in general somewhat stomach-turning. He always wanted more; more money, more status, more prestige. Why not just enjoy what you’ve got, she’d wondered more than once. Instead of bulldozing on through life and never being grateful for its rewards?

  ‘We’ll see,’ Magnus grunted, not meeting his daughter’s gaze. He was a bloated, tired man with fading strawberry-blond hair, the only child of Florence and Giles. His personality appeared to have been sucked out and exterminated by his ex-wife Romilly, if the others’ accounts were to be believed. Sister Veronica had never met the woman but was intrigued by the sound of her, and rather wanted to meet and assess the person allegedly responsible for Magnus’ character annihilation. From the brief comments she’d picked up from her cousin and Giles, Romilly sounded like a she-devil crossed with a piranha-eating parasite, blessed with the superhuman power of being able to destroy another human being through her words. Sister Veronica watched Magnus turn away from his daughter’s protruding eyes and trembling mouth. Probably wants to avoid a scene at the dinner table, she thought to herself. Good luck with that one, old fellow. From what she’d seen so far, Coco seemed to relish an audience and wasn’t one to put on a show of good manners just because guests were present.

  ‘You only need a new car because you crashed the Nissan,’ Wilfred said, turning to his sister as he laid his cutlery neatly on top of his empty plate. He pushed his glasses further up his nose and shook the mop of brown hair out of his eyes. ‘If Daddy buys you another one, you might crash that one too. And that would be a waste of money, wouldn’t it?’ Ah, good old Wilfred. Sister Veronica supressed a smile. Just fifteen years old and already the most sensible in his family. His way of dealing with his demanding older sibling was to frequently take the wind out of her sails with a well-aimed remark. And who could blame him? Sister Veronica already had a headache after spending twenty-four hours with the girl and her other irritating relatives and was considering coming up with a fantastic excuse to get herself away from Northamptonshire and back to London. Perhaps she could say that Mother Superior had become poorly and was de
manding that she return to the Convent of the Christian Heart at once? But then again, maybe it would be better not to tempt fate. If she did say such a thing, and then Mother Superior really became ill, the guilt would be too much to bear and she’d had enough of that over the last year, what with one thing and another.

  ‘Oh SHUT UP, Wilfred,’ Coco screamed, her eyes immediately wet with tears. ‘Oh my God, why do you always have to bring that up? I was really hurt in that accident, wasn’t I, Granny?’ She turned to Florence, who was slumped at the other end of the table. ‘Tell Wilfred to leave me alone. Tell him about my whiplash again. GRANNY! Why don’t you ever listen to me? Granny! Look at me! Tell Wilfred not to bring the crash up EVER again.’

  Florence looked up.

  ‘Sorry, dear?’ she said. Her face is so white, Sister Veronica thought. And her eyes are so unfocused. She’s hasn’t been listening to anything anyone’s said for at least five minutes. And she’s only been drinking water, doesn’t seem to drink alcohol much, so what on earth is wrong? Something’s troubling her. But why hasn’t she told me what it is?

  It was because of her cousin Florence that Sister Veronica knew she wouldn’t really go through with her fantasies of escaping the dysfunction at Chalfield Hall, however much she might feel the urge. She couldn’t help feeling something was wrong there, and that Florence had asked her to come for a particular purpose. Although what that was, she hadn’t yet said, despite her subtle attempts at probing over the last twenty-four hours.

  Since her arrival the day before, Sister Veronica had become increasingly concerned about Flo, as she called her. It had been unexpected enough to receive an invitation – quite out of the blue – asking her to spend Christmas at the old Gothic pile she used to visit infrequently as a child. While she and Flo had played together when they were young during family meetups, memorably commandeered by mad old Henrietta – Florence’s mother – they’d drifted apart in their late teens. Sister Veronica, of course, had taken her vows and committed her life to God, entering the Convent of the Christian Heart in her early twenties, and Florence had managed to fall in love with the dullest man on earth, Giles Beresford; marrying him soon after and promising her life to him. She’d stuck unerringly to this pledge ever since, as far as Sister Veronica could see, and seemed to have endless patience, or perhaps blind denial, patiently putting up with his self-righteous outbursts and self-interested stories.

  Before her arrival, Sister Veronica had been hoping that the years would have mellowed Giles, making his personality more palatable and less tedious. After all, she hadn’t seen the man for nearly fifty years, and was prepared to start relations with him anew, giving him the benefit of the doubt. But during her brief time there she’d already found that – if anything – he was worse; more bullish, conceited and self-righteous than ever, and she found herself wanting to exit any room he was holding court in. It seemed that the feeling was mutual, and that Giles wished she’d never come to stay. While his greeting had been courteous when he’d picked her up from Towcester train station, his eyes had been cold, and they’d spent the journey to Little Ashby in silence, with Sister Veronica wishing it had been Florence who’d arrived to be her chauffeur. Giles had politely ignored her since, subtly enough so that only she would notice, still externally playing the good host for everyone else’s purpose, but in reality never meeting her eye or paying her any true attention. She couldn’t help wondering why this was, whether her natural dislike of him had shown through her usually good manners, or if there was another reason she was not yet aware of. Perhaps there was something he didn’t want her to know about, or see? No, stop it, Veronica, for goodness’ sake, she thought immediately. Just for once, you are going to have a normal family week, with no dramatic traumas – not including Coco’s behaviour – or mysteries occurring, so stop seeing problems where there are none. There doesn’t have to be an unexpected puzzle to solve everywhere you go, so just relax for heaven’s sake.

  But, she instantly argued with herself, what if there were problems at Chalfield that required her attention? Her sense of suspicion was particularly heightened due to the fact that she’d hardly slept a wink the night before. This was – in large part – due to the sense of unease that had clouded over her as soon as she’d stepped foot inside the house. Given that she didn’t generally hold with any sixth sense clairvoyant type of thinking, she was finding this unsettling feeling of doom very irritating. But try as she might to shake it off, she couldn’t help but keep going back to the notion that something bad might be afoot there. It was a bodily sensation that was bothering her, a feeling of warning in her blood, a shivery sense of forthcoming gloom in her mind. She hadn’t quite got over the time, several months previously, when a woman had insisted on reading her tarot cards and had predicted destruction and fire, only for this to – at least in part – come true a few hours later. Sister Veronica still held the view that the whole thing was a load of rot, believing the tarot reading and the awful events that had followed it were nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence. Which made her current sense of impending tragedy even more frustrating and confusing. Perhaps it was all the rich food she’d eaten lately? She shook her head a little, willing the perception to go away.

  To Giles’ right, sat Maud, his plump, pink-faced aging cousin, who was very nice and polite to everyone in a benign and non-committal way. She didn’t offer many opinions of her own during conversations, instead seeming happy to grin at whoever was talking and laugh when other people did. She tended to carry a cluster of knitting around – usually the wool was pink – but she seemed to have parted with this for the purpose of dinner. Sister Veronica did not mind Maud, in the same way that she didn’t object to a vase of flowers or an old cat who curled up in the corner asleep. But she’d never been able to get to know the woman properly, largely because Maud offered no discernible personality to get to grips with, so had come to the conclusion that it was best to regard her as part of the furnishings.

  On top of the ordeal of being unwillingly reunited with Giles, and trying to ignore the strange sense that something was wrong at the house, Sister Veronica hadn’t realised such a large collection of extended family was also going to be present for Christmas. Sly old Florence hadn’t told her that little detail, probably knowing the invitation would have been politely declined if the quantity of intended relatives had been disclosed. Which made the situation even more perplexing; her cousin obviously wanted her there, and had gone to some length to procure her company, but since she’d arrived had been tight-lipped about whatever reason might be behind the solicitation, despite looking frankly ill with stress.

  Perhaps she was just run down, Sister Veronica mused, as she reached over to pour Flo some water, noticing that her cousin’s usually well-maintained, dyed-blonde hair was showing at least two inches of grey roots. If she was honest, the present company was enough to cause anyone anxiety. She herself would have to take a painkiller if she sat there much longer; the throbbing in her head was intensifying. She watched as tall, skinny Coco stood up, cuffed her brother round the head and flounced out of the room, shaking her chestnut curls dramatically behind her before giving the dining-room door a hefty slam. The girl exited most rooms in much the same manner, she’d noticed.

  Coco, her brother Wilfred and father Magnus had apparently moved back in with Florence and Giles after Magnus’ marriage breakdown, Florence had confided quietly to her the previous evening. Before that they’d been living in a cottage in the village, Little Ashby, that lay nestled in a valley down the road from Chalfield Hall. The children’s mother Romilly was still always in and out, which was a disturbing influence on everyone as she and Magnus tended to end up arguing, but Magnus never seemed to be able to have the power to stop his ex-wife from intruding. She was another woman Sister Veronica had yet to meet.

  Magnus didn’t seem to be able – or inclined – to parent his needy daughter, while Wilfred appeared to be almost entirely self-sufficient. Moreover, Magn
us’ family’s return to Chalfield Hall didn’t sit very well with Florence’s brother Barnaby and his wife Cecily – who had also been invited to the old house for the festive season – and Sister Veronica thought Cecily’s muttered, bitter remarks at lunch yesterday seemed to point to the fact that they were hoping they’d have a turn of living at Chalfield themselves in the not-too-distant future, with Magnus’ return rather hampering their plans. Perhaps they’d been hoping Florence and Giles would quietly move out into a retirement bungalow or something. No chance there, she reflected. Giles would never give up living in the biggest house of all the relatives, you’d have to kill him first.

  She glanced over at Barnaby and Cecily, a couple who must both be in their late sixties if she was correct. Barnaby, a formerly very successful lawyer by all accounts, was doing what he seemed to do best, which was staring vacantly into space, his white hair and moustache as unkempt as usual, his mind obviously away into another realm that was as far from the dining room as possible. Cecily, who’d technically been a homemaker but had put the children in nursery full time as soon as they were weaned, was leaning over to him, whispering something behind her hand, her thin face tight, her eyes narrowed. She’d been beautiful once, Sister Veronica remembered. But unfortunately her bitter personality had become increasingly etched on her features as she’d aged. She was probably muttering a petty malicious comment to her husband; she could remember the woman behaving in a similar way last time they’d met, all those years ago, when she’d been nice to people’s faces but vitriolic behind their backs. Such a shame to have such a person in the party, it always made for bad feeling. People’s defence mechanisms started kicking in, as they wondered what was being whispered about them behind closed doors. Sister Veronica could clearly recall what she’d heard Cecily say the day before about Florence and Giles being selfish house-hoggers who never looked after any of the extended family, only having eyes for their wastrel of a son. That they should have moved out years ago, and clearly couldn’t handle such a big house, especially given the state of the garden. Barnaby didn’t show any sign of listening to a word his wife was saying.