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.
Annabelle finished the cupcake, wiped the crumbs from her lips delicately, and broke the silence, “Please don’t concern yourself with this, Philippa. It’s in the capable hands of Inspector Nicholls now, and I’m sure he’ll find the awful creature who committed this sin eventually.”
“Yes, Vicar,” Philippa said, gazing at her teacup absently, “but I was just trying to remember something.”
“Yes?”
“Who in the village is a capable archer?”
“That was just one of the many questions I was hoping to answer soon,” replied the Vicar, standing up from the table and fixing her cassock in the mirror hung beside the window. “Regardless, let’s put this horrid affair aside for now. Life goes on, even in the presence of death. Tomorrow’s Sunday, and all this fuss has given me no time at all to prepare.”
“Yes, Vicar. I’ll leave you to it. I’ve yet to call the carpenter about that rickety pew.”
“Oh. That’s not been fixed yet?”
“Unfortunately not, Vicar,” Philippa said, picking the china up from the table and arranging it neatly beside the sink. “Ah, Vicar?”
“Yes?” Annabelle said, turning around.
Philippa picked up the tray of cupcakes and presented them to the Vicar. “You know, you’re welcome to take cupcakes whenever you wish.”
Annabelle shot Philippa a look of confusion, then chuckled in bemusement. “Why, yes, Philippa. Of course.”
“I mean, there’s no need to hide your love of cakes from me, Vicar!” Philippa said, laughing nervously.
“Don’t worry, I won’t. Whatever is the matter, Philippa?”
“Oh, nothing, Vicar. I just think, perhaps, you’re a little stressed. Nothing to be concerned about. For now.”
Annabelle looked with an expression of deep befuddlement at the table as she sought to make sense of her secretary’s strange behaviour. On a day that seemed full of odd and unusual occurrences, however, she decided to reserve her critical faculties for the more concerning matters at hand. She bid Philippa a cheery farewell and made her way to the church in order to wor
k on her upcoming sermon.
* * *
Just as she expected, news of Sir John Cartwright’s death spread throughout the village rapidly and with fervour. Though she would have confided the extraordinary events to her ever faithful friend anyway, Annabelle was aware of the added benefit to be gained from Philippa’s tendency to spread news quickly. Indeed, she had often joked that Philippa was faster at spreading both information and misinformation than the internet. Just as the Inspector would no doubt use his sources and databases to his advantage, Annabelle would use hers, the village’s own little Hermes, messenger of the heavens, Philippa. She was certain that many of the rumors flying around about the newly arrived knight were poppycock, but if there were some kernel of truth in them, then news of his death would bring it to the fore.
As she expected, fuelled by the absence of excitement that typically accompanied the sleepy Cornish weekend, the news spread to every corner of Upton St. Mary. Within a matter of a few hours, almost every resident had not only heard the news, but had also come up with a motive, a full backstory for Sir John, and even solved the murder.
“These rich types are all the same,” grumbled a voice from the back of the local pub, “always involved in something shady. Drugs, theft, you name it. They get involved in anything they can up there in the city. Then, when they’re getting close enough to getting caught, they come down here, bringing all that trouble with them.”
“Come on,” pleaded a younger, less cynical voice at the bar, “there are lots of rich folk around Upton St. Mary. None of them are involved in anything shady.”
“Yeah, but I never liked that John Cartwright anyway.”
“You never even met him!” came the reply, causing rowdy laughter around the pub.
“Exactly. Show me an Englishman who moves to an area and whose first order of business isn’t to visit his local pub, and I’ll show you someone shady,” replied the old grump, to which everyone’s laughter turned into murmurs of begrudging agreement at his distinctly British logic.
Elsewhere, a couple of young mothers sitting on a bench watching over their children were just as opinionated.
“Good riddance, I say.”
“Helen!”
“Well, I’m sorry, Julia, but do you really want a weird old pervert like that living this close to Upton St. Mary? Building a brothel here, of all things?”
“Well, I don’t really think that’s what he was doing.”
“Of course it was!”
“You really believe that?”
“Why not? Everyone knows Cornish girls are the prettiest in England. We’re close enough to the cities to keep it convenient and just far enough away to keep it secret. This is the perfect location for a brothel! And Woodlands Manor is all tucked away behind those trees. Why would you choose to live there if you weren’t doing something shameful?”
“I suppose.”
“No doubt about it. No doubt at all.”
“It’s not that what worries me though. The really scary thing is that there’s a killer right here in Upton St. Mary. Can you imagine? How could someone do that? Kill someone in cold blood. It sends shivers up my spine.”
“Are you talking about the werewolf?” came the chirpy voice from beside the two women.
“Tommy! Don’t creep up on us like that!”
“Sorry, mum.”
“There’s no werewolf. Don’t talk nonsense.”
“There is. The one that killed the old man.”
Julia and Helen exchanged glances.
“Who did you hear that from?”
“Eddie told me. He said the werewolf ran into the old man’s house, and slashed him – like this! He was so strong, that he left his claw sticking out of the man’s chest. And the blood was going everywhere – like this!”
Tommy mimicked spurts of blood shooting from his chest like geysers, falling to the ground as he did so and tossing himself around in a manner that demonstrated he was thoroughly enjoying himself.
“Come now, Tommy. There are no werewolves around here. People would have seen them.”
“Not this one. This one is clever. He disguised himself as the Vicar!”
And so it went, in a game of Chinese whispers played in a similar fashion in similar villages around the world since the dawn of news itself. In some reports, the murderer was a Robin Hood-type figure who ransacked the home of the evil brothel keeper and distributed his ill-gotten gains to those in need. In others, the murderer was a cold-blooded killer who had conducted the act with calculated malice and who would strike again unless the village of Upton St. Mary barricaded their windows and doors against the fearsome predator. Scenarios of every sort were put forth, and the lack of available knowledge allowed a wide range of theories to flourish. After all, Sir John Cartwright had been an unknown entity in the village while alive and was now very much a stranger in death.
* * *
Sunday rolled around, and with it, the Holy Communion. Despite giving a particularly grave service and a sermon that focused on what the proverbs had to say about gossip and the judgment of neighbors, Annabelle still found herself fielding plenty of inquisitive remarks as the congregation sidled down the well-worn steps of the church.
“It is terrible, what happened, is it not, Vicar?”
“I do hope you were not too shaken, Vicar. I would not know what to do had I been in your shoes.”
“These are dark times. I do hope this horrid business blows over shortly.”
Annabelle clasped their hands and reciprocated their well wishes, revealing none of her inner turmoil in deciphering the mystery. Though outwardly she displayed her typically good-humored demeanor, her mind had been twisting and turning the events of the previous day around like a curious Eastern puzzle box, seeking a point at which she could find the unlocking mechanism and reveal the truth held inside.
Once the last of the lingerers had made their way out of the church gates, Annabelle sighed deeply and joined Philippa inside the church.
“That was a good service, Vicar. Just what the village needed,” Philippa said, as she swept the aisle of the church.
“I don’t suppose it’ll have much of an effect, Philippa. From what I’ve gathered, it seems much of the village is engaged in hearsay too fantastical to bear any truth.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Philippa remarked ominously.
“Well, anyhow. I need to take my mind off this for a while. It’s been tugging at my thoughts since I came back from Woodlands Manor. I’ll be with the bees in the orchard if you need me.”
“Yes, Vicar. Don’t worry yourself. It’s a lovely day to be outside.”
Annabelle left the church, changed into her gardening shoes and protective helmet, and began tending to her bees. She enjoyed her hobby greatly, consistently filled with wonder at the brightly-colored insects’ incredible combination of wild abandon and perfectly symmetrical order. It also gave her an excuse to talk about her thoughts. She’d always found bees a most satisfying audience.
“Just look at you all! So ordered, so focused. Truly God’s creatures. If only human affairs were so simple and clear. Well, I suppose it’s my own fault for fancying myself some kind of detective. I should just leave this whole mess to the professionals. My clerical teachers always said I needed to remember when things should be left for higher powers to deal with. So, enough! From now on, if I’m of no use, I’ll abstain from anything to do with this. That’s all I –”
Suddenly, Annabelle caught a glimpse of a non-descript blue Ford Focus pull into churchyard and park beside her Mini. She had only to see the merest glimpse of the Inspector’s brush-like hair before she scampered out of her garden to greet him.
“Ah, Annabelle!”
“Inspector! So lovely to see you!”
“And you,” he said, casting his eyes over her outfit.
Annabelle snorted a laugh as she frantically pulled off her gardening gloves in order to shake his hand.
“I hope
I wasn’t interrupting you.”
“Oh, not at all. Never, Inspector. I was just tending to my bees,” Annabelle said, surprised to discover her voice was muffled, then remembering that she was still wearing her bee-keeping helmet. She removed it quickly, and tossed her hair into place in a manner she hoped was not too glamorous for a vicar.
“You keep bees?”
“Yes. It’s a silly hobby, I know, but it passes the time.”
“I don’t think it’s silly. I think it’s rather interesting, actually.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
They smiled at each other awkwardly for a few moments before the Inspector said, “I was just on my way to the crime scene, so I thought I’d drop by and see how you were doing. You seemed a little… flustered, yesterday.”
“Oh, well. I wasn’t at my best,” laughed Annabelle, “I’m much better now. Thank you for asking, Inspector.”
“Actually, I thought you seemed to take it rather well. The last time I spoke to someone who had discovered a dead body, they were covered in their own vomit.”
Annabelle laughed so loudly, that Philippa appeared in the doorway to see what all the fuss was about. Annabelle, catching sight of her, promptly flicked her hand in a peculiar gesture intended to get Philippa to return inside, a gesture she hoped the Inspector wouldn’t notice.
“Are you okay, Vicar?”
“Yes, Inspector. I think I have a bee sting on my hand.”
“Oh, let me see.”
As the Inspector took Annabelle’s hand, the Vicar struggled to retain consciousness as once again her knees barely held her up. Philippa, who was still standing in the doorway, saw what was happening, and cheekily winked at Annabelle. The Vicar responded by mouthing the word “Shoo!” as aggressively as she could without catching the attention of the Inspector.
“I can’t see anything, but I suppose they don’t swell up until much later.”
“Precisely, Inspector.”
The Inspector looked around at the churchyard, nodded his appreciation, and then looked toward Annabelle. “Well, I suppose I should let you get back to your bees.”
Murder at the Mansion Page 4