“Inspector, have you made any progress? Have you looked into Sir John Cartwright’s background, at all?”
The Inspector’s face stiffened. “Yes.”
“And was there anything peculiar about him? I ask, because, he’s still very much a mystery to many of the village residents.”
“Well, I wouldn’t normally say this to a civilian,” said the Inspector, leaning toward Annabelle conspiratorially, causing her to breathe more deeply, “but he was actually quite well known to the police in London.”
“Oh?”
“Apparently, he had been under suspicion for a few years, though never charged, of running a high-class – if you can call it that – escort agency.”
“Golly gosh!”
“Indeed. Not the sort of thing you would usually hear about in a place like this.”
“No… I mean, yes… I mean…”
“Vicar?”
“Remember the rumors I told you about?”
“Of course.”
“Well, that’s almost exactly it. I thought it was utter nonsense. People watching too many television shows, but I suppose there was some truth to them.”
“Truth to what? I’m not following, Vicar.”
Annabelle took a deep breath before continuing. “People were saying all manner of things about him, much of it complete poppycock. But one of the things that kept cropping up was this idea that he had moved into Woodlands Manor with the intent of turning it into a brothel.”
“I see,” said the Inspector, nodding gently.
“I suppose someone had heard about his past, and that’s where the gossip began. But I never expected there to be any truth to it. It seems so implausible.”
“Well, Vicar, when you’ve done this job for as long as I have, you learn just how unbelievable the truth can turn out to be.”
“But a Sir? Is that how he made his fortune? Prostitution?”
“I doubt it. My guess would be he fell into it. A respected member of high society. Trusted. He’s the guy you’d want to buy from, if you’re into that sort of thing. He saw a gap in the market and decided to fill it, as it were,” the Inspector said, nonchalantly, before holding his hand up in apology. “Sorry, Vicar. I don’t mean to sound crude.”
“Oh, of course not,” giggled Annabelle, “I may be a person of the cloth, but I’m not a prude. Uh, I mean… Not that I approve of such things… Well, the paying part. That’s the part I disapprove of… Not the…” Annabelle stammered, before deciding to stop digging by getting back on topic. “Do you think that he was really planning to open some kind of brothel here in Upton St. Mary, then?”
The Inspector sucked air through his gritted teeth. “Perhaps. If he was, we could pretty much pin a motive on every member of the village. On the other hand, if you were looking to make a fresh start, I can’t think of many other places that would be better than Upton St. Mary.”
“Indeed.”
“Did you hear anything else interesting about the dead man?”
“I don’t think so. A story about a werewolf getting him.”
The Inspector laughed, which sent Annabelle’s heart aflutter once again. “Like I said, I never rule anything out!”
They chuckled together for a few moments, before the Inspector reached into his large trench coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“Well, since you’re officially a member of the investigation team now…”
“Really?” exclaimed Annabelle, with all the naivety of a pre-pubescent girl.
“Just a joke,” the Inspector carefully assured her.
“Oh.”
“But since you’re so interested in the details, you might want to know that I received the autopsy report this morning,” he said, handing Annabelle the sheet of paper. “Nothing surprising. He was in good health, as you’d expect from a man who meditates. Died from a lacerated lung and heart failure brought on by a puncture wound. It does confirm the time of death, though. Just as Harper predicted, he died well before you found him. So that’s the easy explanation gone; that the scream came from Sir John himself.”
Annabelle perused the medical information, nodding her head to make it seem like she understood the arrangements of numbers, abbreviations, and terminology.
“I see,” she said, after a full two minutes, handing the sheet back to the Inspector.
“Well,” sighed the Inspector, with an air of finality, “I’ve dilly-dallied long enough. I should be off.”
“Of course, Inspector. Sorry for keeping you.”
“No problem. You’ve given me more help than you realize. Be careful, Vicar.”
The Inspector got into his car, and waved at Annabelle as he backed out of the driveway and sped through the church gates.
“See you soon!” shouted Annabelle, when he was already long gone.
She turned on her heels, ready to return to her bees, and found Philippa standing right in front of her, a wry grin breaking the wrinkles that crisscrossed her face.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE WOMAN WHO sat in the second-floor tea room of the Athenaeum hotel in London projected an aura of movie-star glamor and refined taste. Her cream-colored pencil skirt accentuated both the slim contours and incredible length of her crossed legs, which were tipped by a pair of pastel blue, high-heeled shoes. Above her loose-fitting grey blouse, her delicate neck was turned demurely toward the window, and her emerald eyes peered indifferently down her thin nose at the London traffic. With her blond hair pinned upward into a tight bun, she cut a statuesque and manicured figure, as precisely engineered and as effortlessly timeless as the leather upholstery and thick, regal pillars of the luxurious tea room. She extended her long, slender fingers, picked up the sculpted teacup, and brought it to her crimson lips with the grace of royalty, sipping silently before replacing the cup with a gesture both casual and quick.
As if sensing her presence, she cast her eyes toward the entrance of the room and saw another woman enter. Though not as slim or as tall as the seated figure, this new woman walked with just as much elegance, seeming to glide over the soft carpet in black shoes that perfectly complemented her bright red dress. She eased herself into a leather chair opposite the woman in the cream skirt. The two of them exchanged the wry smirks of acknowledgement only friends of many decades, and frequent meetings could. The newcomer had a dark complexion. Her brown, almond-shaped eyes and black-brown hair that cascaded in waves around shoulders led many to the assumption of Latin heritage. She tossed her head gently, with the haughty nobility of a racehorse, causing glimmers of light to shake and settle along the silky curves of her mane.
“Did you come to take tea,” said the first woman, nodding subtly toward the ample cleavage revealed by the second’s red dress, “or to seduce it?”
“Inner beauty is of no use,” replied the other, “unless you reveal it on occasion.”
As their smiles grew, the woman in the red dress gestured a waiter over. He was a smartly-dressed man in his twenties, well used to the meticulous manner and strong personas of the Athenaeum’s élite clientele. But even he found his sense of confidence and propriety diminished in the presence of such formidable and sharp women. Though their easy demeanor and natural class belied the fact they were in their forties, they were no less filled with a dangerous and pointed energy that was scary to those who couldn’t match their wits. After taking her order, he spun on his heel and returned to the bar as quickly as he could, lest they notice his sense of embarrassment.
“You may wish to order something a little stronger, dear Sophie. Something unpalatable has occurred. I’m still struggling to digest it myself,” the first woman said, picking up a newspaper from the table and handing it to the woman in the red dress. After shooting her a quizzical glance, Sophie took the newspaper and read it in the pale morning light that seeped through the thick panes of the window. Once she had read the column, she tossed it upon the table and looked at her companion.
“John Cartwright is dead
?” she stated, in disbelief.
“Murdered. By an archer.”
“It’s positively Shakespearean.”
“It’s why I prefer knights to be in shining armor.”
“Do archers really exist?”
“In abundance. I am a persistent target of darting glances.”
“If knighthoods can still exist in this day and age, I suppose archers can, too.”
“Despite chivalry being dead.”
They giggled gently as the waiter brought Sophie’s order, and after a quick nod of assurance, was sent back on his way.
“This is a cause for concern though, Gabriella. What of our investment?” asked Sophie, bringing her voice down a notch to indicate the seriousness of her inquiry.
“I was just considering it,” replied the demure woman, tapping her elegant fingers against the chair’s armrest anxiously. “Our first aim should be to recoup our finances.”
Sophie nodded, then shook her lustrous hair and pressed a finger against her thick lips.
“The situation is still very much unknown, however. No suspect. No conviction,” Sophie uttered.
“Indeed. Not to mention peculiar. Especially for such a quaint and traditional place as Upton St. Mary.”
“In which mild-mannered residents are no doubt in a state of unrest and confusion at this alien occurrence,” Sophie quipped, drolly.
Their eyes lit up as they simultaneously sipped from their tea cups. After a few moments, Gabriella’s lips formed a dry smile.
“I do believe we are, as ever, thinking the same thing, my dear Sophie,” said Gabriella, in the sparkling tone she used whenever something mischievous was on her mind.
“That such dramatic affairs of murder and conspiracy are better left to a pair of keenly devilish women, than the gentle, kind – and thus ill-suited – people who reside in that Arcadian corner of the kingdom known as Cornwall?”
“And that this pair of inquisitive – and no doubt refined – coupling of talents would be best served in their endeavors by entering the sleepy village stealthily and under cover.”
Sophie’s eyes widened, and she leaned forward in glee.
“Are you suggesting, dearest Gabriella, a little game of dress-up?” Sophie said, playfully slapping her hands against her knees.
“You know too well, Sophie, that I need only the slightest excuse.”
“It would certainly allow us to ease into the daily machinations of village life and discover everything we can from the colloquial gossip.”
“Absolutely. I don’t see a more efficient manner in which we can extract our investment without drawing unwanted attention to ourselves,” Gabriella said, in a mockingly serious tone.
“And which type of sheep’s clothing should we adorn ourselves with?”
“Why, it’s obvious, is it not? Two wealthy women, visiting a deliciously British village, invading the privacy of others in the spirit of haphanded curiosity.”
“Tourists!” they said, in near-perfect unison.
They laughed heartily together. Sophie’s musical and rich laugh offering a pitch-perfect counterpoint to Gabriella’s delicately high-pitched giggles. Once the humor of the moment had died down, Gabriella said: “That brings me to ask: Where shall we claim to be tourists from?”
“An interesting question,” replied Sophie, pursing her lips as she considered the options. “Germany?”
“Darling, my fashion sense is far too good. How about Italian?”
“I certainly have the look,” said Sophie, gesturing toward her thick, dark hair, “but I struggle to imagine why an Italian would be interested in any other place on Earth.”
“True,” replied Gabriella, “Australians, perhaps?”
“I don’t drink nearly enough,” Sophie said, “and I’d prefer not to wear a backpack everywhere. Russian, maybe.”
“No, no. The aim is to deflect attention, not attract it.”
“Americans?” Sophie put forward, cautiously.
“Too stereotypical. Besides, people would assume we’ve just been waylaid on the way to Paris or London.”
“Well, how about French?”
Gabriella pondered for a few moments, before turning back toward Sophie and nodding slightly.
“Yes. I do speak French, after all.”
“It would provide the perfect opportunity to utilize our wardrobes,” Sophie added.
“And establish our credentials as exotic femme fatales.”
“Good,” Gabriella said, with finality, “it’s settled.”
“Allez!”
* * *
Try as she might, Annabelle could not take her mind off the murder. Since the Inspector had driven away, leaving her with plenty of startling new information, she had tried to keep her hands and mind busy. She thrust herself heartily into her typical weekend routine: tending to her bees, studying the scripture, and doing her very best to persuade Biscuit to play with her. Unfortunately, she failed miserably – both in distracting herself and in provoking Biscuit’s interest.
“Oh, do come on, Biscuit! Look! I’ve bought you a brand new toy! Surely you’re tempted to at least sniff it,” she said in a sing-song voice, dangling the scratchy ball in front of the ginger cat’s thousand-yard stare. “It’s even got catnip in it!”
“There’s no playing with that cat,” came Philippa’s voice, as she gathered her coat from the doorway, ready to leave, “she does everything on her own terms.”
“Come on, girl! Don’t be shy!” persisted Annabelle.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Vicar,” Philippa said, as she closed the door behind her.
“’Bye, Philippa!” Annabelle turned her attention back to the orange tabby in front of her.
“No? Perhaps if I just leave the toy in front of you,” Annabelle said, placing the ball between Biscuit’s tiny paws. “I’ll just go into the other room and leave you to investigate it.”
Annabelle stepped across the living room, left the room, and stamped her feet a few times to simulate walking away. She counted to ten, then peeked slowly around the doorway, hoping to find Biscuit joyfully pawing at her new purchase.
Instead, Biscuit turned her head toward the Vicar with an expression Annabelle interpreted as extremely condescending.
“That’s it!” she exclaimed, grabbing her hat and gloves. “You’re no entertainment at all. I’m off. I’m sure I’ll be of more use to the Inspector than I will be to you.”
She threw on her favorite red and black-checkered coat and grabbed her keys.
“Oh, and Philippa is right, you are becoming terribly fat!” she said in a huff, as she left the house, locked the door, and marched toward her car.
Annabelle drove without pleasure, her hanging questions regarding the murder intensifying. She liked things to be clear, ordered, proper – and so far nothing about the horrific death of Sir John Cartwright was as she liked it.
The stormy weather of her thoughts was so intoxicating, that as she pulled in to the long driveway of Woodlands Manor, she almost failed to notice the car heading in her direction. As it drew close enough for her to discern its driver, her mood quickly cleared.
“Hello, Inspector!” she said, as they pulled up close to each other and rolled down their windows.
“Hi, Vicar. Surprised to see you here.”
“I just thought I’d drop by to see if a visit might jog any important memories I might have forgotten in all the fuss.”
“Good idea,” the Inspector nodded, “but the house is all locked up now. We’ve been looking over the crime scene again. The SOCO team have been and gone, I’m the last to leave. I might come back tomorrow, but I don’t really see a reason to at present.”
“Have you discovered anything new?” asked Annabelle.
The Inspector sighed. “Nothing too extraordinary. Apparently the arrow that killed the dead man didn’t come from an ordinary bow.”
“Oh?”
“It came from a crossbow of some sort.”
�
��Oh dear. Those things are the devil,” said Annabelle.
“Yeah. It also somewhat throws off our projections regarding where the murderer shot from. Crossbows are more accurate than simple, straightforward bows, meaning that the shooter could really have been standing anywhere.”
“That’s incredibly strange,” mused Annabelle.
“How so?” the Inspector asked.
“Well, archery with a typical bow and arrow is a fairly well practiced sport in this area. It would make some amount of sense to assume that was the weapon. But I’ve yet to see a crossbow used anywhere in the locality.”
The Inspector chuckled grimly. “It seems like this case just gets harder rather than easier.”
Annabelle decided to keep her thoughts to herself and bid the Inspector farewell. He rolled his window back up and drove off, leaving Annabelle to close in on the fountain that was by now becoming rather too familiar for her own taste.
As she got out of the Mini and began making her way around the house, Annabelle mulled over the idea that she had refrained from telling the Inspector. Archery was a popular pastime in and around the village. As a predominantly male-dominated pursuit, archery skills were often passed down from father to son, a popular excuse for some male bonding between generations as much as between old friends. It was unlikely that somewhere along the line, the community of close-knit archers had suddenly embraced the crossbow – a much more brutal and ugly weapon, which required none of the finesse or skill of the traditional bow.
It was entirely possible, of course, that someone in the village had taken up the more effective, machine-like crossbow, but Annabelle had never come across it. She had visited almost all of the homes in the village, seen many a proud huntsman display his fine weapons in pride of place on a mantel or wall frame, and observed the camouflage-clad hunters rambunctiously set off for a day of hunting bearing their weapons across their backs. Not once had she seen one of them use, own, or even mention a crossbow, however. The conclusion she came to was an unnerving one; the murderer must have come from outside the village.
Murder at the Mansion Page 5