Read Online Blood on the Bones by Geraldine Evans - Free Book Online

labourer colleague. Though, again like her gardening partner, she told them she had no knowledge of the dead man or how he came to be buried in the community's grounds.
    Sister Ursula, Edith Grey as was, originally from London, was a tiny, wizened woman of seventy-nine. And while her back might be bent from osteoporosis and her hands had the typical curl of arthritis, she waved away Llewellyn's readily proffered arm with the air of one not yet ready to accept either that she might need assistance or that the yawning grave was her next likely destination.
    She reminded ex-Londoner Rafferty of a London sparrow, all bright eyes and inquisitiveness. Her body might have let her down and have scarcely more strength than the sprightly little bird, but her gaze showed the alertness of someone still interested in life. And while she certainly studied the current two, variously brawned policemen, with every sign of appreciation, she admitted, quite cheerfully, that she had few duties nowadays, beyond tottering about the place and showing willing.
    And, although she might be willing to do whatever chores her ailing body would allow, Rafferty doubted it would allow her to swat a fly, let alone a grown man. Mentally, as soon as she had begun her slow, stick-aided walk towards the chair, Rafferty had dismissed her as a possible suspect. Apart from any other considerations, she was so tiny and their corpse was around the six foot mark, that she would have needed to stand on a chair to hit him on the back of the head with any force. Nor, for that matter, was she able to claim any knowledge of their cadaver.
    After Sister Ursula had left them, Rafferty decreed that they took a short break. He wanted to assimilate what they had learned so far, before he tried to force any more details into his head.
    He sent Llewellyn off to the refectory in search of tea and on his return, he said, ‘You're a deep sort, Dafyd – did you ever fancy the religious life?’
    Llewellyn shook his dark head, placed the plain, workmanlike, mugs of tea on the table, for once not worrying about marking the already well-scarred surface, and added as he sat down, ‘But I can see its appeal. Especially that of the contemplatives. Set against a modern world that is becoming increasingly complicated and with values ever more trivial, shallow and hedonistic, such a life has an attractive order about it.’
    Rafferty, frequently baffled and frustrated by the modern world and its endlessly updated technology, was surprised to find himself nodding in agreement with Llewellyn's words. ‘And then, I suppose, there's the added incentive of having no worries about paying the bills,’ he commented, warming to the theme even though he felt slightly shocked that he should do so. ‘All that stuff which grinds people down in the real world is taken care of for you.’
    ‘True. But you'd have no money – or very little – to spend, either.’
    Rafferty, denied the financial incentive for such a life, again to his surprise, found another attraction. 'At least you'd be guaranteed people to look after you in your old age. That's got to be a draw.'
    But then he thought again. ‘What am I saying? Let old age take care of itself. What's the point in worrying about that if you haven't lived the life you were given? Imagine turning senile and dying after spending your best years on your knees? I think I'd rather live my life with all its ups and downs, its difficulties and problems, than have a non-existence doing little more than have endless monologue conversations with the Big Bloke in the sky, who probably doesn't even exist.’
    He took another slurp of tea. ‘I always thought being a contemplative religious was a terrible waste of life. OK, if you must sign up for the cloister, at least join one of those communities who do something useful, such as caring for those no one else wants to care for, like the world's lepers, Aids orphans, and so on.’
    Having got that off his chest,