MURDER AT THE MANSION
Alison Golden
Jamie Vougeot
Contents
FREE PREQUELS
PRAISE FOR THE REVEREND ANNABELLE DIXON COZY MYSTERY SERIES
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
EPILOGUE
REVERENTIAL RECIPES
WICKED WALNUT CUPCAKES with MAGNIFICENT MAPLE BUTTERCREAM FROSTING
BEATIFIC BAKLAVA
CHASTE CHIA SEED AND COCONUT MACAROONS
ANGELIC ALMOND CUPCAKES with ABUNDANT ALMOND BUTTER FROSTING
SPECIAL OFFER
REVEREND ANNABELLE DIXON WILL RETURN…
BODY IN THE WOODS
THANK YOU
OTHER BOOKS IN THE REVEREND ANNABELLE DIXON SERIES
ALSO BY ALISON GOLDEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MURDER AT THE MANSION
To get your free copy of Death at the Café, the prequel to the Reverend Annabelle Dixon series, plus two more books, updates about new releases, exclusive promotions, and other insider information, sign up for the Cozy Mysteries Insider mailing list at:
http://cozymysteries.com/annabelle
PRAISE FOR THE REVEREND ANNABELLE DIXON COZY MYSTERY SERIES
“I read it that night, and it was GREAT!”
“I couldn't put it down!”
“4 thumbs up!!!”
“It kept me up until 3am. I love it.”
“As a former village vicar this ticks the box for me.”
“This series keeps getting better and better.”
“Annabelle, with her great intuition, caring personality, yet imperfect judgment, is a wonderful main character.”
“It's fun to grab a cup of tea and pretend I'm sitting in the vicarage discussing the latest mysteries with Annabelle while she polishes off the last of the cupcakes.”
“Great book - love Reverend Annabelle Dixon and can't wait to read more of her books.”
“Annabelle reminds me of Agatha Christie's Miss Marple.”
“A perfect weekend read.”
“I LOVE ANNABELLE!”
“A wonderful read, delightful characters and if that's not enough the sinfully delicious recipes will have you coming back for more.”
“This cozy series is a riot!”
CHAPTER ONE
THE ONLY THING Annabelle didn’t like about driving her royal blue Mini Cooper was that she couldn’t see how pretty it looked against the lush English countryside. In her mind, the various green hues of the fields, trees, and hedgerows provided the perfect backdrop for her petite blue bullet of a car. She would always picture herself zooming along like an actor in a lavishly produced, British television drama with an audience of millions. Happy ending guaranteed.
Annabelle loved driving. She loved driving almost as much as she loved cakes, and that was saying something. Annabelle’s enthusiasm for sugary treats was as well-known in the village of Upton St. Mary as was her easy-going yet steadfast character. Going for a spin in her Mini with its go-faster stripes followed by a cup of tea and a slice of cake was her idea of a perfect summer’s afternoon.
She whipped the terrier-like motor through the gentle inclines of the Cornish countryside and found it impossible not to smile. Upton St. Mary was very much the kind of village in which people often smiled for no apparent reason. She was coming up to her third year as vicar of the small but dedicated community, yet the elegantly built stone walls, the unfurling landscape of green hills, and stout trees still took her breath away.
Though she had grown up in the hustle and bustle of working-class London, daughter of a street-savvy cabbie and a friendly but reserved cleaning lady, she had always dreamed of finding some grand version of idyllic peace. A place filled with beauty, calm, and goodness. After her troublesome teens, her soul found it in the glow of the Lord, and her body found it in this quaint little village tucked into a beautiful corner of the county of Cornwall, at the very end of England. Even the frequent rains and chilly winters couldn’t spoil this very British Garden of Eden for her.
The villagers themselves, though many had spent their entire lives here, were just as appreciative of Upton St. Mary as their entranced Reverend. Many of their pastimes and traditions involved enjoying the good-naturedness of their neighbors and their delightfully well maintained cottages. Residents also loved nothing more than an open-air crafts fair or competition in which the patient, studious members of the community could display their talents in gardening, knitting, pottery, and – frequently to Annabelle’s delight – baking. Much attention and discourse was directed at every local issue in the name of retaining the village’s rustic charm. Whether it was a problematic pothole or a controversial building extension, the traditional and proud villagers had very strong opinions and voiced them at every opportunity.
The strictly-held traditions of the village, coupled with the speed at which gossip traveled through the close-knit community, meant that Annabelle’s introduction as vicar had been greeted with reticence by some and concern by others. “A female vicar? In Upton St. Mary? What on earth will we do!?” said one particularly worrisome voice. “It’s a slippery slope. Today a female vicar, tomorrow the tea shop will convert to a coffee bar!” said another.
But Annabelle was not the type to be fazed. Though her tall frame and somewhat large figure gave her an ungainly and jovial air, her dedication to church matters was unparalleled. She dealt out sermons with devotion and strokes of well-appointed humor and galvanized more than a few reluctant churchgoers to participate with her abundant, positive energy. She was never too busy to lend a hand here or an ear there. Her willingness to strap on her wellies and get stuck in with the farmers just as easily as she could comfortably chat with the ladies of the tea shop, navigating discussions with decorum and grace, was irresistible. She quickly became the presence villagers wanted at their bedside when ill and the first port of call when a village-wide dispute needed to be resolved fairly and with tact.
Her predecessor had been male, a distinctly hairy male, and relations had been all quite straightforward. However, Annabelle’s appointment had put the villagers in a quandary. How should they refer to the female Reverend? Was her gender to be a cause for impropriety and social faux-pas? “Father” had long-been the customary term, and now that was out of the question. Much discussion ensued on the subject until Annabelle herself put an end to it with her typically tactful decisiveness. The villagers were to call her “Vicar” or just plain “Annabelle.” With their concerns addressed, everyone went about their merry way.
Yes, Annabelle had become a widely accepted and to some, a much-loved boon to the village. The fact that her dog collar was wrapped around a distinctly feminine and surprisingly elegant neck had now been forgotten (or at least ignored) by those who were perhaps a little slower to embrace the new ways of the world. She had settled into the gentle, quiet pace of life a village church position afforded with good humor and grace – making it easy for the villagers to accept her.
Annabelle eased her Mini onto the tightly woven, cobblestone streets that indicated the village’s center and gave a jolly wave to Mr. Hawthorne as he passed by on his daily, morning bike ride. He was a mischievous gentleman of fifty, who told tall tales of his youth in the local pub. While he claimed to ride his bike every morning “for the constitutional benefits,” it was an open secret in the village that he rode to a secluded spot in which he could enjoy the pleasure of his tobacco pipe away from the prying eyes of his disapproving and critical wife.
Annabelle reached a small house on the outskirts of the villa
ge, as cute and prim as its inhabitant, stopped the car, and got out. The sun was just beginning to sprinkle a dappled yellow light on the village, and Annabelle took a deep breath of crisp, fresh air. She detected a faint whiff of something sweet and warm, briskly locked the car door, marched to the front of the house, and knocked cheerily.
After a few moments, the door opened by the tiniest of slivers, revealing a pair of deep blue eyes and pinned-back grey hair.
“Good morning, Vicar,” said Philippa, opening the door and quickly hurrying back into the house.
“Good morning, Philippa,” said Annabelle, wiping her feet on the doormat and following her through the cottage. “Why do you insist on opening the door in that manner? I feel like a door-to-door salesman. I’m sure you’re not expecting anybody else.”
“Better safe than sorry,” said Philippa, leading the way past her paper-filled desk and into the kitchen.
“Oh, these look scrumptious!” squealed Annabelle, catching sight of the range of cakes Philippa had laid out on the kitchen table.
Philippa smiled, took the teapot, and began pouring tea for the Vicar.
“I’m trying something new this season. I thought I might experiment with nuts a little. Walnuts, almonds, that sort of thing. I thought it might give me a better chance of standing out at the fair this year.”
“Mmm,” mumbled Annabelle, already chomping on a particularly rich and utterly delicious cupcake, her ravenous appetite winning the battle over ladylike reserve. “Your baking always stands out, Philippa.”
“Thank you, Vicar,” Philippa chuckled, “but there’s some stiff competition in Upton St. Mary. I even considered a baklava at one point. I do love them. They remind me of my youth and a trip I took to Greece.”
“Baklava? I haven’t the foggiest idea what that might be.”
“You’d love it. It’s an incredibly sweet pastry drenched in honey, with nuts. Very continental,” winked Philippa, with a mischievous tone.
“Well, I say jolly well go for it!” Annabelle exclaimed, putting down the cake reluctantly and sipping at her tea.
“Oh, I couldn’t, Vicar.”
“Why ever not?”
“Think of the outrage!”
Annabelle considered the point for a moment before nodding. Upton St. Mary was welcoming to new people but not nearly as benevolent to new ideas.
“I see we have company,” Annabelle said, gesturing toward the corner of the room. Biscuit, the church’s ginger tabby cat was sitting demurely by the door, lazily gazing at the two women while licking her lustrous fur.
“She dropped by last night and stayed here while I prepared the attendance and donation reports for the church. That cat visits more places around this village than you do, Vicar.”
Annabelle chuckled and reached down to urge the cat toward her. “Here, Biscuit! Here, girl!” Biscuit continued to gaze at her nonchalantly. Spurned by the feline and feeling a little foolish, Annabelle turned to Philippa and asked: “Did you feed her?”
“That cat is a complete mystery, Vicar. I put some food out for her last night, and I don’t believe she took more than a mouthful.”
“Hmm.”
“The strange thing is that she’s still putting on the pounds.”
“Well, I suspect half the village is probably feeding her,” said Annabelle, picking up the cupcake again. “Lucky girl!”
“Indeed. Well, cats are fortunate in that they don’t need to worry about such things,” Philippa said, disguising the comment by bringing her teacup to her face for an uncommonly long time.
“Philippa!” the Vicar said.
“Now, Reverend, I only say this out of concern. None of us are getting any younger. It would be a shame if you struggled to find a young man because of that sweet tooth of yours.”
Annabelle tried to protest but found her mouth full of succulent walnut cupcake and instead decided to put it down indignantly and furrow her brow.
“And if the rumors about the Inspector are true…” Philippa continued.
“Philippa!” the Vicar said again sternly, to which the elderly lady raised her hands in apology.
The two women sat in a silence that grew more tense by the second, gently pierced by the occasional clink of teacup on china, their eyes fixed upon the large window that looked out onto the deep woods behind Philippa’s cottage.
“What rumors?” said Annabelle, unable to hold her curiosity any longer.
“Well,” said Philippa with a twinkle in her eye, gleefully embracing the opportunity to indulge in her primary passion – gossip, “as you know, Dorothy’s sister-in-law has a son who works in Truro in a baker’s shop just a couple of streets away from the police station. He was the one who told us that the Inspector was probably married, but that was always just hearsay, we were never absolutely sure. And everybody who knows Dorothy’s sister-in-law is well aware of the time that she claimed—”
“Philippa, please. If it will take us the entire morning, I’d rather move on to another topic.”
“Sorry, Vicar. Well, essentially, Inspector Nicholls is single again. Now might be your chance. Oh, you would make such a lovely couple, Vicar. He’s such a dashing young man. Terribly smart. A vicar and a police inspector. It would be like something from a novel!”
Annabelle sighed. “I appreciate your concern, Philippa, but I’m in no rush to begin courting, thank you.”
“Whatever you wish, Vicar,” Philippa said, barely concealing a wry smirk, “though you may find yourself with some competition in the near future.”
Annabelle furrowed her brow again. She hated the gossip and rumor-mongering that passed for conversation with Philippa, yet the wily church secretary had a talent for piquing her interest.
“Are there people coming to the village?”
“You’re aware of the new person who was going to move into the large country house in the hills by Arden Road?”
“I’m aware of the rumors, yes.”
“Well, he’s here, and he’s already causing quite the stir.”
“Really?”
“Why, yes. Apparently he’s been inviting all kinds of women into the house since he moved in, just a few days ago. Can you imagine, Vicar? It’s extremely concerning. Those sorts are ten a penny in London,” Philippa said, growing visibly irate, “but here? This is the last place to find… that kind of person. People say he doesn’t even have a denomination!”
“Calm down, Philippa. I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice man. This is all conjecture. People running wild with their imaginations.”
“I hope so, Vicar. I really do.”
“What is he doing here?”
“That’s just it. Nobody knows. What if he intends to open some sort of… Well, to put it in the devilish terms it deserves… a brothel, in the village!”
“Philippa, please. I wish you wouldn’t allow yourself such ridiculous flights of fancy.”
“But Reverend, to invite not one, but multiple women to—”
“Look, I’ll pay the gentleman a visit today. It’s likely that people have been so carried away with gossiping that they have forgotten to welcome our new resident. Let me speak with him and set everybody’s fears to rest.”
“That sounds like a good idea, Vicar. Perhaps you’re right.”
“Do you happen to know his name?”
Philippa pretended to ponder a moment before saying, “I believe it’s John Cartwright. Yes, yes, that’s it.”
“Very well. I shall speak to Mr. John Cartwright myself. Extend the hand of neighborly friendship, as it were. In the meantime, I do hope you can refrain from indulging in these fantastical stories, Philippa. They don’t help anybody.”
“Oh, I will, Vicar,” said Philippa, and though Annabelle knew she meant it, she also knew that Philippa would find it hard to resist.
Be it gossip or cakes, some things were beyond certain people’s control.
Annabelle left Philippa’s house with a nagging feeling in the back of her mind.
Nothing good ever came from gossip, and as if offering a stark contrast to Upton St. Mary’s idyllic scenery, the rumors that occasionally spread rapidly around the village tended toward the extravagantly fearsome. Though Annabelle was only too aware of this fact, she could not shake the worry that tainted the clear, pure atmosphere of the emerging morning. What was the elusive stranger doing in Upton St. Mary? Could there be any truth in the concerning rumors? It seemed unlikely, thought Annabelle, but even a stopped clock is right twice a day.
After revving up the perky engine of her blue Mini and waving cheerily at Philippa, who turned quickly back into the house to continue with her church bookkeeping duties, Annabelle whipped the car around and carefully trundled on toward the church, mindful of both the early hour and the speed limit.
Pushing her disquieting thoughts away, Annabelle decided to pay a quick visit to the Wilshere family, who had just returned from the hospital with their new baby. They were a jolly kind, the sort of people who had worked the land and served the good folk of the village for generations. The parents, Mitchell and Michelle, were both rotund and bubbly, and with puffy cheeks prone to flushes, they were much like babies themselves.
Being that this was their firstborn, the parents were still doting nervously over the new baby boy when Annabelle arrived. She cooed and cuddled the baby, and the parents exchanged looks of pride when the baby smiled at the Reverend as she held him. Annabelle politely declined their appeals to sit and have tea but left feeling serene and content from the warmth and good humor of the happy-go-lucky Wilsheres.
She continued on toward the church absent-mindedly, enjoying the hypnotic greens and browns that passed by her windows. As she did so, she found herself thinking of the Inspector. Single again? Maybe she should pay him a little visit. Just to see how he was getting on. It had been a while since they last spoke, and he really had looked rather handsome when she had last seen him….
Murder at the Mansion Page 1