Annabelle turned to the Constable. “Don’t worry, Jim. I won’t tell anybody else unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
Jim smiled. “Thank you, Vicar. Much appreciated.”
He turned slowly to look at the body again, fortifying his stance and tightening his stomach this time. “Is this how you found him?”
“Yes,” replied Annabelle, still deep in thought.
“We should be careful to preserve the crime scene.”
“Absolutely. I do hope that there weren’t any clues in the bathroom, however.”
Constable Jim Raven’s smooth-shaven cheeks went red with embarrassment. “I don’t think so,” he said bashfully.
“Hmm, me neither,” muttered Annabelle.
“I’ll go radio for Inspector Nicholls,” said Jim with an air of finality. “He’ll need to come all the way from the city.” He pulled his radio from his lapel and returned to the passage.
It was Annabelle who found herself blushing now.
* * *
Forty minutes later, Inspector Mike Nicholls strode into the bedroom along with two other officers of the Truro police branch. Annabelle forgot what she had been saying to Constable Jim Raven as she noticed the graceful confidence with which the Inspector walked. She noticed how he scanned the room with sharp, piercing eyes, his broad, powerful shoulders shifting nonchalantly beneath his trench coat. She wondered if he had chosen the cut of his suit to bring out the commanding posture of his height or if it was just a happy accident. She gazed at the grizzled stubble that accentuated his strong bone structure and couldn’t help imagining what it might be like to run a hand across his–
“Good to see you, Constable,” the Inspector said, shaking his hand vigorously, “and you, Vicar.”
Annabelle applied all the strength she could find to keep her knees from failing to do their duty.
“Oh, yes,” was all she could muster.
“The pathologist should be here any second now. Mind telling me what happened?”
“Well, the Vicar here called me about a—”
“I heard a man had moved into the village,” interrupted Annabelle, raising her hand to silence Constable Raven and sidling over to place herself at the center of the Inspector’s attention, “a Sir John Cartwright. There was some gossip about him among the village.”
“What kind of gossip?” asked the Inspector.
“Oh, nothing out of the ordinary, Inspector. The typical kind of paranoid fantasy and nonsense. Why, you’d be surprised at how fertile some imaginations can be when seeds are planted.”
“I understand. Please continue, Vicar.”
“Of course. You’re a busy man, Inspector. I appreciate your sense of focus. Well, as the Vicar, I decided to pay the gentleman a visit so that I could welcome him to the community. You know, it’s dreadfully important to get to know the people you work with, Inspector. I make it a habit of mine to spend time with those who I feel may need it.”
The Inspector smiled, then gestured for Annabelle to continue. All memories of the horrendous crime had gone far from her mind in his striking presence.
“About two hours ago, I dropped by, and was greeted at the door by a young girl.”
“Where is she?” said the Inspector, looking around the room.
“She left.”
“Can you describe her?”
“Blond hair, to the nape of her neck. Blue eyes. Early twenties, I should say. Attractive – I suppose.”
“No name?”
“No. She told me Sir John was busy meditating and would not be available for a further hour. I left and returned almost exactly one hour later. The young girl opened the door once again, and a moment later there was the most chilling scream from within the property.”
“The dead man?”
“I believe so. I ran into the house, conquering my fear in order to discover the reason for the horrendous sound. I am not one who departs during times of danger or crisis, Inspector,” said Annabelle, looking fixedly into the Inspector’s eyes, as if trying to communicate telepathically the subtext of her speech. “Eventually I came up to the bedroom,” she continued. “The door seemed locked at first, and the girl who had been here said she would find the key. She left, but I managed to open the door, only to discover this,” Annabelle gestured toward the dead body, “truly horrifying scene.”
The Inspector exchanged a quick glance with Constable Jim Raven, who had been edged ever so slightly further to the side during Annabelle’s recital of events.
“It’s always a shock to see a dead body.”
“That’s very perceptive of you Inspector,” Annabelle said, slowly.
“Especially when it’s a case of murder, as this appears to be.”
“It must take such strength to face this kind of horrible brutality. It takes a man with real fortitude and conviction to do so in the name of justice.”
“I suppose. It’s my job, really, Vicar.”
“So stoic, so noble, so—”
“Ah, Harper!” exclaimed the Inspector as a raven-haired woman entered the bedroom. As he turned to greet the pathologist, Annabelle quickly suppressed the petty irritation she felt at the newcomer, who had seized the Inspector’s attention away from her so easily.
Harper Jones had been one of the most exemplary physicians in the north of England before moving south to the sunnier climes of Cornwall to marry the owner of a local bicycle shop. A strict believer in leading by example, her extensive fitness regime and dedicated diet had afforded her an appearance far younger than her forty-seven years. She still warranted stolen glances from men half her age. Her silky-black hair cascaded around her sharp features, which included a pair of hazel eyes that seemed to probe and investigate everything in their path.
“Inspector,” she said, curtly nodding a perfunctory greeting to the assembled group, barely breaking her stride as she made her way to the victim’s body. “Vicar. Jim.”
Without ceremony, Harper dropped her doctor’s bag beside the corpse and knelt down. The Inspector stepped toward the open window, with Annabelle shuffling closely behind. As the pathologist began probing the body, fumbling in her bag for various instruments to take measurements, the Inspector flipped open his notebook and began scribbling.
“Vicar…”
“Yes?” said Annabelle, rather more hastily than was warranted.
“How long ago would you say you heard the scream?”
Annabelle checked her watch. “Almost exactly an hour ago. I found the body, prayed for a minute or two, then I took a short while to look for the girl. Constable Raven arrived about ten minutes later, and a few minutes after that he called you. All in all, I suppose just under twenty minutes went by between our discovery and the call to you. You arrived around forty minutes later, making an hour.”
“I see,” said the Inspector, directing his attention further across the large room. Annabelle watched him with rapt attention as he stood in front of the window, holding his pen to simulate the arrow’s trajectory. She noticed a police officer scanning the grounds at the edge of the woods outside. She looked back at the Inspector and noticed his brow was filled with lines of frustration.
“Is something wrong, Inspector?”
“Hmm, I can’t figure out why he’s lying where he is.”
“Oh?”
“The arrow is embedded deep enough in his chest to indicate a hell of a lot of force. That kind of whack should have sent him farther back than it did. Unless he was leaning out of the window…”
Annabelle looked from the body, to the window, and back to the Inspector’s irritated expression, before coyly saying, “Might I offer an idea?”
The Inspector looked up from his notebook. “Of course, Vicar.”
“I mean, it’s probably nonsense,” Annabelle chuckled, “I’m sure it’s just a silly idea, and I’m just wasting your time. I probably shouldn’t even be bothering you right now.”
“No, no. Go ahead.”
“Well, he w
as meditating, so he was probably sitting cross-legged just in front of the window. His legs are crossed at the ankle. If he had been standing – and this is just a wild assumption, please ignore me if I’m being terribly ignorant – I would imagine his legs would be splayed out a little more.”
“Hmm,” the Inspector mumbled, tapping his pen against his lips.
Annabelle continued, spurred by the excitement of having the Inspector’s full attention. “The window reaches low to the ground so his head and upper body would have been visible from the ground outside, even while sitting. The arrow is embedded rather high on his torso too, in the part of the body that would have been visible from outside were he sitting at the time. It seems entirely plausible to me. Perhaps… Maybe… Forget I said anything, it’s probably ridiculous.”
After a few moments of pondering, pen-gesticulating, and note-scribbling, the Inspector looked at Annabelle with a warm smile.
“I think you’re most likely correct, Vicar. Some keen observation skills you have there.”
Annabelle felt all the blood rush out of her legs and into her cheeks. There were times she wished she could loosen her collar, and this was certainly one of them. After some struggling due to the dryness of her throat, she managed to utter a high-pitched “yes” and decided against anything more ambitious.
The Inspector went back to his notebook, leaving Annabelle to gaze at his strongly defined jaw. Before her reverie could take over completely, Harper suddenly stood up between them and said: “He died well over an hour ago. Much before you heard that scream.”
The statement, as were so many of Harper’s, was brief, to the point, and threw the entire logic of the situation out of alignment.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” the Inspector said.
“No, it doesn’t,” Annabelle agreed.
Harper shrugged the statement off. “I’ll need everybody out of here. My assistant is on his way and will take the body away. I’ll confirm the time after an autopsy.”
Harper turned around and walked away, giving instructions to the medical assistant who stood by the door. The crowd of police officers that had amassed inside the room shuffled away down the steps and out onto the gravel in front of the large house. There were now several cars parked at all manner of angles around the fountain, including an ambulance. Annabelle, being one of the last to exit, lost sight of the Inspector. She frantically searched for him as multiple police officers got in their cars and drove away.
“Inspector! Inspector!” she called wildly, as she discovered him about to get into his unmarked Ford Focus. She half-ran, half-walked toward him as daintily as she could, but so quickly that she was badly out of breath upon reaching him.
“Yes, Vicar?”
“Is there… anything… I can do… to help?” Annabelle gasped, in as ladylike a manner as she could manage.
“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 THREE
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 blond 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.
Murder at the Mansion Page 3