02 Murder at the Mansion (5 page)

“I’m not sure, really,” the Inspector grumbled dejectedly. “There’s not much to go on and a lot to find out. I get the impression we’ve only seen a small portion of whatever’s happened here.”

“Really?”

“It doesn’t get much cleaner than an arrow shot from outside the building. No bullet to match, no gunpowder sprays, no fingerprints. No sound, even. We’ve got no witnesses right now. I had my men search the house top to bottom, as well as most of the surrounding grounds, just in case our “mystery man or woman” was hiding somewhere. Nothing. The only people I can place are you, the girl, and the dead man. On top of all that, the scream happened
after
the man was dead, which I can tell is going to make me rack my brain for days. We’re definitely a long way from solving this one.”

“Could the scream… really have happened… after the murder?” Annabelle said, gulping as much as she could to gain her breath.

“If Harper says so, then that’s definitely the case. She’s as reliable as rock, Harper Jones is. As much as I wish she weren’t, in some cases.”

“What will you do now, Inspector?”

“Well, we need a suspect. And you’re the only one I can think of right now.”

Annabelle found herself lost for words. Inspector Nicholl’s face was deadpan.

“Ha! Relax, Vicar,” the Inspector chuckled. “Just a joke. You’re far too saintly for any of this business.”

“Oh,” breathed Annabelle, seconds away from blacking out entirely. “Good one.”

“Actually, there may be something you could do for me after all.”

“Whatever it is, Inspector. I’ll do it. Just say the word.”

“Well, you mentioned some rumors that were flying around regarding the dead man.”

“Yes.”

“There’s probably nothing to them, as you said, but just to be on the safe side, it might be worth knowing what people thought about him. We’ll see what we can find out about his past, but sometimes people believing a rumor is as good a motive as the real thing. I know a lot of people confide in you, Vicar, so perhaps you could get a feel for what people were saying about him. There might be something there.”

“Of course, Inspector. That makes perfect sense.”

“If you hear anything, just let me know.”

“Likewise. Please contact me if you find anything, Inspector.”

They exchanged smiles, and the Inspector opened the door of his car and got in. In the reflection of the door mirror, Annabelle caught a glimpse of herself, sweating profusely, her hair a mess of tangles, and her cassock askew from all the running. As the Inspector revved his car around the fountain and drove away, she gritted her teeth and said, “Oh, bother!”

CHAPTER 3

ANNABELLE MARCHED BACK toward her Mini, exchanging a brief “hello” with the SOCO team that were still going to and fro around the property. It was barely noon, yet the good Vicar had seen more drama that morning than she usually did in an entire month. The sun was high and bright, though the air remained crisp and cool. It was just calm enough to hear the songs of birds that danced from branch to branch. Annabelle geared the Mini and set off. A good drive always soothed her, but her mind was tied into too many knots for her to relax just yet. Questions jabbed at her like troublesome thorns, and the words of the inspector echoed along the fringe of her thoughts; “
We’ve only seen a small portion of whatever’s happened here
.”

Murder was the last thing Annabelle had ever expected to occur in Upton St. Mary. Previously, the greatest scandal Annabelle had encountered in the placid and quiet village had been the alleged theft of Mr. Maitland’s prize-winning marrow. Those had been dark days indeed, with accusations flying in all directions. It had been one of the most divisive events in Upton St. Mary’s recent history, with the question, “So who do
you
think took Mr. Maitland’s marrow?” being whispered tersely at many a dinner table.

After days of investigation and questioning, Annabelle finally cracked the case. She gathered the concerned villagers after her Sunday sermon and outlined her discovery. She had sifted through a turn of events – part coincidence, part negligence, and part farce – and deduced finally that the nearly-blind Mrs. Niles had mistaken the marrow for a misshapen pumpkin and taken it home from the county fair, whereupon she promptly cooked it into a soup that turned out peculiarly sour. Her sleuthing had put the gossip to rest finally, but it was a chapter of the village’s history best forgotten, in her humble opinion.

Sir John Cartwright was no missing vegetable, however, though in much the same way, Annabelle felt duty-bound to solve his mystery. This was her village now, her congregation. As a servant of the Lord, it was her responsibility to root out evil, just as it was to praise the joy that was abundant in her chosen corner of the world.

Despite her determination, however, Annabelle struggled to make sense of the incident. She relived the events multiple times in her memory, talking to herself as she drove toward the church in order to find some sense of logic. Unfortunately, she simply couldn’t find it. Everything seemed to happen in the wrong order and for no reason. The scream
after
the death.The girl, who had exhibited no indications of malice, even inviting the Vicar in a second time but who disappeared immediately afterward. Even the method of death itself was unseemly. Annabelle had never even heard of someone being killed with an arrow, let alone seen it with her very eyes.

And finally, Sir John Cartwright himself. A man shrouded in mystery, who was barely known in the village to which he had recently moved.A man who had received visits from mysterious women, and, if the rumors were to be believed, fancied himself a brothel owner.A man whose dubious title of “Sir” drew many questions. And what had been the blonde girl’s relationship to the old man?

Annabelle reached the churchyard and spun the Mini into her regular parking spot with far less precision than usual, such was the tangled nature of her concentration. As she got out of her car, Philippa called her from the church steps.

“Vicar! Vicar!”

Annabelle walked toward her, straightening her cassock and palming down her hair.

“Hello, Philippa. I take it you’ve come to bring the reports?”

“Yes, Vicar, they’re on your desk.” Philippa’s expression grew more concerned as Annabelle drew closer. “Oh, Vicar, you look dreadful! Has something happened?”

“Thank you, Philippa. For the reports, that is. Yes, actually, something terrible has indeed happened.”

“Oh, well, let’s go to your cottage. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea and perhaps some sandwiches. I’m sure you haven’t eaten anything yet.”

“That would be wonderful, Philippa.”

“And you can tell me all about it.”

The church of Upton St. Mary was the centerpiece of the small village, with a size far larger than its small congregation required and a spire that reached higher than any other point for miles around. It was a Gothic building, constructed from large, grey slabs of stone that had braved centuries of England’s most turbulent weather with stalwart stoicism. Its arched windows contained some of the most intricate and awe-inspiring stained glass in South West England, and just beneath its heavenward spire, sat a huge bell, as big as any man, with a tone so rich and powerful, it could be heard in fields far beyond Upton St. Mary’s borders.

Annabelle would still sometimes gaze at the imperious structure and the equally impressive oak trees that framed it. She often wondered how many generations of people had gathered there, how many children had been raised in its vast shadow, and what an important part it had played in the lives of Upton St. Mary’s humble, but no less complex, history. To one side of the church, curving all the way to the back, lay the extensive cemetery with its gravel path weaving between the tombstones. There were benches along the path, where those of a more peaceful disposition would rest in order to contemplate the solemn surroundings. On the other side of the church, among orchids and well-maintained flowers, many of which had grown from buds and cuttings gifted by enthusiastic gardeners in the village, sat the white-walled cottage that Annabelle called home.

It was a small abode, with red window and door frames and a thatched roof that, despite requiring plenty of maintenance, Annabelle adored so much she had squealed with delight when learning this would be her place of residence. She had wasted no time at all in turning the wonderfully twee cottage into her own and had cultivated a surrounding garden that, though it couldn’t compete with the best of Upton St. Mary’s, was a source of great pride.

Both within and without, the home soon became a testament to the humor, care, and diligence of its owner. Cheerful, ceramic gnomes stood proudly among the Bellflowers, Sweet Williams, and Hollyhocks that distinguished it as a traditionally English garden. Beside this, a well-maintained cherry orchard complemented Annabelle’s colorful flowers perfectly and was the site of her beehive, which she tended daily.

Inside the charming little cottage, gaudy knick-knacks and souvenirs sat atop handmade shelves and dressers alongside her religious iconography. One needed only a brief glance at the soft, inviting sofa and matching armchairs with their colorful, wool-textured cushions, to find evidence of the Reverend’s open, humorous personality and deep love of her home. Her extensive book collection, covering almost an entire wall of the living room, was a constant surprise to newcomers, who found it difficult to believe the energetic, ever-moving Vicar was capable of sitting in one place long enough to read a book. While there wasn’t much room to entertain, Annabelle loved the intimate, cozy warmth of her little house by the church, as did her frequent visitors, who weren’t deterred in the slightest by its somewhat limited space.

As she went through to the kitchen, Annabelle was pleased to discover that Philippa had prepared a pot of hot tea and numerous sandwiches for her on the table. Annabelle’s focus, however, went first to the cupcakes that Philippa had brought with her.

“Sit down, Vicar. You could do with a rest.”

“Thank you ever so much, Philippa. It’s been a terribly eventful morning.”

“Whatever happened?” asked Philippa, pouring the tea as the Vicar bit into a sandwich with zeal. Annabelle’s mother had always told her sandwiches before cake, and she had always listened to her mother.

“There’s been a death.”

Philippa balked, causing hot tea to spill upon the grained wood of the oak table.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry, Vicar,” she said, materializing a cloth in her hand almost instantaneously and wiping away the spill. “May I ask who?”

“John Cartwright.
Sir
John Cartwright.”

Philippa’s eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open with surprise. She halted her wiping and slumped down onto a chair.

“Heavens!”

“Yes, under very peculiar circumstances as well. I’m still in utter confusion as to how it happened.”

Annabelle watched as Biscuit stepped through the cat door, her green eyes fixed upon the table, and hopped up onto a shelf. She curled her tail around her feet and watched, as still and delicate as the ornamental figure of Christ beside her.

“Allow me, Philippa,” the Vicar said, as she swallowed the last of her sandwich and poured some more tea into her cup. “I haven’t told you the most incredible detail yet.”

Philippa leaned forward, as if fearful she might miss the Vicar’s next words.

“Sir John Cartwright was murdered.”

Philippa sat back suddenly, as if thrown, and sighed. She looked incredulously around the room as if an explanation lay somewhere in the Vicar’s accumulation of bric-a-brac.

“Are you sure, Vicar?” she managed to say eventually.

“Fairly certain, yes.”

“How ghastly! I don’t believe we’ve ever had a murder in Upton St. Mary. It’s
unimaginable
.”

“I saw his body with my own eyes,” Annabelle said, her hand hovering between a second sandwich and a cupcake, before settling reluctantly on a sandwich.

Annabelle continued to recount the events of the morning in as much detail as possible, with all the skill of narration her sermons were lauded for. Even this though wasn’t quite enough for Philippa, who prodded and poked with questions large and small. With all the curiosity and tenacity of a police dog, Philippa diligently went over all the inconsistencies of the Vicar’s story, confirming each detail multiple times, and asking the Vicar’s opinion throughout

“What of the girl?”

“You say she was young?”

“Did you notice any differences in her appearance the second time you saw her?”

“How did the scream sound exactly?”

“There was no sound after that?”

“How long did it take you to reach the bedroom?”

“Did you notice any vehicles on the way there?”

“How large was the house?”

“What was John Cartwright wearing?”

“Were any of the police officer’s acting suspiciously?”

Once Philippa had exhausted both her questions and the Vicar, she allowed Annabelle to take a cupcake and eat it in peace. They both sat, enjoying a few moments of silence, as they considered the situation in the warm, comfy ambience of the Vicar’s kitchen.