As she turned a corner and found herself behind the house, in the area that the murderer must have been near or nearabouts, Annabelle looked back toward the house and was struck by yet another revelation. The murderer may not have planned it! Annabelle noticed that all the windows, including the one at which Sir John was meditating when he was killed, were now closed. The windows presented an obvious obstacle to a successful murder attempt. No matter how thunderous a shot from a crossbow, the trajectory, as well as the power, would have been too unpredictable for the murderer to have shot through a closed window. That meant that the murderer needed the window to be open in order to carry out the killing.
While it was possible that the murderer knew of Sir John Cartwright’s penchant for meditating in front of open windows, a slightly chilly day, or the type of brief rains England was known for would have caused him to close the window and set the murderer’s plans askew. Perhaps the murderer had visited the site day after day, in anticipation of the perfect circumstances – Sir John’s eyes-closed meditation, an open window, and no onlookers. But Annabelle found the scenario of forethought and planning unlikely, given that Sir John had only resided in Woodlands Manor for barely over a week.
It wasn’t concrete, but Annabelle felt like she was beginning to find the slimmest of threads to follow. She had been reluctant to tell the Inspector her idea for it was merely a belief. As a vicar, however, she knew how powerful belief could be. Annabelle turned her attention to the unkempt ground where the dense woods met the manicured lawns at the rear of the house. She stepped carefully forward, intently searching every peculiar stone and suspicious mound for something tangible. After searching for a whole hour and feeling the oncoming chill of evening, Annabelle turned back toward the front of the house. Despite the fruitlessness of her search, she left resolved to come back, a stirring hope that with enough effort she would find the key to this puzzle.
* * *
Over the next few days, Annabelle returned to the large manor house several times. She came equipped with a set of binoculars and a moleskin notepad in which she scribbled everything of note. Before her second “expedition,” she called Harper Jones and quizzed the talented pathologist for everything she knew. After the briefest of explanations, Harper was surprisingly forthcoming with enough details to fill an entire page of Annabelle’s notebook. They were all technical and complicated, however. Math had been a favorite subject of Annabelle’s, but even she struggled to understand more than half of the calculations and measurements Harper offered her. Despite this apparent obstacle, Annabelle prevailed. As she traipsed through the woods, armed with a flask of tea under one arm and her binoculars in the other, she tried her very best to triangulate where the murderer had fired that fatal shot from.
Though she was on the trail of a cold-blooded killer, Annabelle could not hold herself back from enjoying her surroundings. She delighted in the bird songs and stately beauty of the trees. She found herself stooping constantly to observe a patterned butterfly or a spider weaving an intricate web between two logs. She felt herself relax and focus in the presence of God’s creation. Apart from a slight scare when something rustled hurriedly in some nearby bushes, the hours she spent in the woods were good for her soul, if not her investigation. While she felt that she was getting somewhat closer to the truth, Harper’s calculations still proved too abstract for her, and she eventually left, slightly disappointed but no less determined.
The next day, Annabelle once again packed her binoculars and her notebook and took a small detour on her way to Woodlands Manor. Mr. Squires was one of the keenest archers in Upton St. Mary and one of the most trustworthy people Annabelle knew. He was an older gentleman who always wore clothes of deep farmer’s green. He possessed a thick, grey mustache that lent him the air of an old wartime general and when he invited Annabelle into his office, she saw it was adorned with old leather-bound books and watercolor paintings of various hunting scenes. After begging his discretion, which he assuredly gave, Annabelle showed him Harper’s calculations and the dimensions of the scene of the crime.
For a little over an hour, Mr. Squires regaled the intently observant Vicar on archery, crossbows, and the distance-power ratios you could expect from various weapons. He troubled to give her full explanations of all the factors involved including wind, weights, the kind of arrows used, and the skill of its user. His explanations were most comprehensive and Annabelle left Mr. Squires extremely grateful, feeling that she knew more than she ever needed or intended to know about the centuries-old pastime.
When she found herself back in the woods, Annabelle applied everything she knew, taking great care to incorporate all the information she had gathered from both Harper and Mr. Squires. After carefully cross-checking her notes multiple times and making many fine adjustments, she finally found herself standing a few dozen yards away from the edge of the woods. She was on a mild incline, surrounded by a handful of trees that hid her almost completely but also afforded a clear view – and a straight shot – into Sir John Cartwright’s window.
“This has to be it!” she exclaimed to herself as she checked her calculations once more, ensuring there were no mistakes. “It certainly feels like a murderer’s spot.” Something about the spot was secretive and sinister. It was an area of the woods that would be perfect if one wanted to be hidden. Annabelle felt a shiver run up her spine. “Don’t be silly, Annabelle.”
Then came a sound. It was a rustle, of the kind Annabelle had heard the day before, and which she had assumed to come from a small woodland animal. Standing there, where a few days previously one person had ended the life of another, the sound took on an ominous weight. Annabelle crouched down to the ground, as silently as possible, her ears alert. Once again, the bushes rustled. Annabelle’s blood rushed through her body, and she gripped her flask tightly with one hand, and in the other, her crucifix.
Annabelle turned around slowly, looking for the cause of the sound. As she rotated almost a complete circle, the sound came once more from directly behind her. Only this time, it didn’t stop. Annabelle spun back around so quickly that she slipped on the soft soil and tumbled backwards. She shut her eyes and screamed as the rustling grew so loud it was now mere inches away from her. “Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy na –” Annabelle muttered, quickly and quietly, until she felt something press against her leg and opened her eyes in horror. “Biscuit!”
“Meow,” came the cat’s sardonic reply.
Annabelle reached out and stroked the cat’s head, as if unable to believe the source of her terror was none other than the church cat. Biscuit, in an atypically forthright gesture, pressed her head against the Vicar’s hand.
“What on earth are you doing so far from the church? We’re almost two miles away!”
Annabelle picked the cat up and cuddled it to her chest. Biscuit licked her face, causing Annabelle to double-check that it was, actually, Biscuit.
“I do believe all this drama is driving me quite mad and more than a little hungry. I’d like one of Philippa’s cupcakes so much I can already smell it,” Annabelle joked, as she placed the cat on the ground, stood up, and brushed off her slacks.
After a few moments of adjusting her clothes, picking her notebook up from the dirt and tucking it away into her pocket, Annabelle clipped her flask to her waistband and looked around at the sodden dirt of the area.
“I suppose we’ll have to look for clues together now, Biscuit,” she said, as she concentrated her eyes upon the area.
Unfortunately, the heavy rainfall of the previous night had flattened and soaked the earth, leaving only the markings and footprints Annabelle had made herself. As she carefully walked back and forth, desperately seeking something that could cast some more light onto the secret of the murderer’s identity, her heart began to sink.
“Oh, Biscuit. I’m starting to think all of my efforts have been for naught,” Annabelle sighed, deflated, “though I suppose the Inspector will be interested in knowing
where the murderer was when he fired the shot. Don’t you, Biscuit?”
Annabelle glanced around, failing to see the ginger cat.
“Biscuit? Biscuit?” she said, rushing forward.
She turned her head once more and noticed the tabby cat crouching next to the two trees through which the arrow must have flown. Annabelle turned her attention toward the ground, taking one last look in search of clues.
“I need the bathroom myself, actually,” Annabelle said, looking upwards at the encroaching darkness. “I think it’s time we went home. Come on.”
Biscuit, however, was not yet ready to leave the murderer’s den. The ginger cat began pawing at the ground, spraying clumps of dirt in order to disguise her scent, as cats are wont to do. Annabelle waited patiently for the cat to finish. She looked once again toward Sir John’s window, then back at the cat. Suddenly, she noticed something small and whitish-brown sticking out of the earth that the cat had uncovered.
“What’s this? What have you found, Biscuit?” she said, gently nudging the cat aside and pulling the cigarette butt from the ground. She rubbed the dirt away and peered closely at it. Upon realizing that the discovery was a mere cigarette butt, Annabelle’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. A moment before tossing it away, however, she began to wonder. In her now numerous trips to the woods, she had not noticed litter of any kind, let alone cigarette butts. The hunters of the village were as proud of the woods as their wives were of their homes, and they did their utmost to preserve its immaculate condition. Biscuit had also uncovered the cigarette butt in the precise position that the murderer would have stood. It was a spot unsuitable for hunting anything other than a certain Sir John Cartwright.
Annabelle studied the cigarette butt further, noticing how fresh and clean it looked. It certainly didn’t bear the worn look of something that had been in the rain for longer than a week, and unless Inspector Nicholls’ officers had snuck off into the woods for a sneaky smoke, she concluded it may very well be the murderer’s. She placed the butt carefully into her pocket, picked Biscuit up, and strode purposefully back toward her car. The thread was getting stronger.
* * *
It was almost dark by the time the Vicar pulled up beside her home. The village by night was a serene place. The lights of the cottage windows twinkled as sporadically as the stars in the clear night sky above. With the exception of the raucous bouts of laughter and occasional music from the pub, the air hung so silently that you could hear the owl calls for miles. Annabelle got out of her Mini, quickly followed by Biscuit, who disappeared into the shadows to conduct her nightly affairs. Annabelle entered the warmth of her kitchen.
“A cup of tea and bed for me,” Annabelle said, with a gentle sigh. It had been a long day.
Just as she was removing her coat, however, the phone rang. Annabelle closed her eyes, groaned, and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Vicar.”
It was Philippa.
“It’s rather late, Philippa. Is something wrong?”
“Not at all, Vicar,” she said, a little too brightly. “I just wanted to see how you were.”
“Oh. Well, thank you. I’m rather pleased, actually. I believe I’ve gained some intriguing insight into the murder.”
“Now, don’t concern yourself so much with this. It’s a job for professionals. You already push yourself so hard.”
“I appreciate your thoughts, Philippa. Really, I’m absolutely fine. I’ll rest well and good once the murderer has been found.”
“I’m sure you will, Vicar. I’m sure you will.”
“Thank you, Philippa. Is that all?”
“I was reading this thing, Vicar,” Philippa said, causing Annabelle to roll her eyes. This conversation was not going to end soon, she felt.
“What thing was that?”
“It was about kleptomania. Do you know what that is, Vicar?”
“I’m not terribly sure I do, Philippa,” replied Annabelle.
“It’s a disease. A psychological confliction. It’s where someone is compelled to steal things. For no other reason than to steal them. And then lie about it.”
“That sounds dreadful,” exclaimed Annabelle, her confusion growing, “but why ever would you ask me about that? Do you know someone who has this… affliction?”
“Oh… Ah… Yes. Maybe I do.”
“That’s awful. I’m deeply sorry to hear that.”
“What do you think I should do, Vicar?”
“Well, stealing is a sin, of course. But if this… person is doing so because of an affliction, well, I should think the most Christian thing to do would be to extend our compassion and to forgive.”
“Hmm,” said Philippa, “I had a feeling you would say that.”
“Would you like me to speak to the person?”
“No, no, Vicar. That would be rather difficult. Thank you. That’s all.”
“Okay. Well. See you tomorrow, and sleep tight.”
“You too, Vicar.”
Annabelle hung the phone up, and wondered why she sometimes found investigating a murder more straightforward than talking to Philippa.
CHAPTER FIVE
TIME PASSED BY in the village of Upton St. Mary much the same as it always had, filled with simple pleasures and satisfyingly dependable routines. But talk of the murder showed no sign of abating. With much of the village still in the dark as to the nature of the killing as well as the killer, the joys of speculation still had plenty of mileage. Annabelle told the Inspector of what she had discovered, taking a guilty sense of pleasure from his vocal gratitude. When she handed him the cigarette butt found at the location from where the killer had likely fired his fatal shot, Inspector Nicholls was almost lost for words. Philippa had always told her that “the way to a man’s heart is helping him do his job better!”
The Vicar had detected a sense of reticence on behalf of the Inspector, however. It had been almost two weeks since the murder, and he was beginning to worry about the trail going cold. If Annabelle was right, and the killer was not from Upton St. Mary, then he (or she) would have had plenty of time to get away. DNA test or not, the longer they went without a clear suspect, the harder it would be to discover the killer’s identity. Unfazed by the Inspector’s pessimism, Annabelle was certain that the key to the murder was just within reach – and when her Sunday service rolled around, she was proved right.
* * *
The open-top Jaguar’s slinky curves reflected the trees and hedgerows that whipped past as it hurtled down the country lanes toward Upton St. Mary. At the wheel, her hair flowing magnificently behind her, was Sophie, joyfully guiding the car. The long form of Gabriella was stretched out in the passenger seat, an arm nonchalantly hanging out of the window and another clutching her purple beret to her head.
Sophie drove the car around what looked like the ruins of a castle and brought the car to a slow stop in order to allow a farmer and his sheep across the road. She winked at the farmer, causing him to raise his eyebrows and smile as he urged the sheep forward.
“Such a spiritual part of the world, isn’t it?” she said, as she watched the happily bleating sheep.
“Unquestionably,” replied Gabriella, “I’ve often considered taking a home in the country.”
“You?” exclaimed Sophie, in a tone of utter surprise. “I find it difficult to imagine you living anywhere but within ten miles of Harrods.”
“Harrods won’t go anywhere. London is always nearby, wherever in the world you are.”
“And what, pray tell, would a lady of such sophistication and fine tastes actually do in this rural paradise?”
Gabriella gazed upwards in a gesture of deep thought. “I’m sure I could make my own entertainment. If it’s good enough for the Queen, it just might suffice for me. The clean air and local produce would be wonderful for the skin, too.”
“And who should I call upon for tea when you are gone?”
“Oh darling! I’d take you wit
h me of course. I shall probably require a milk maid!”
“How incredibly cheeky of you!” grinned Sophie, as she put the car in first gear and drove away.
Eventually, the two women arrived in the village of Upton St. Mary, and like travelers of old, were almost magnetically drawn to its highest, most visible, point – the church spire. As Sophie swept the car up the tightly-packed village streets, they noticed the crowd of smartly-dressed people heading toward the church’s old iron gates.
“I do believe we’re in time for communion,” Gabriella said.
“A church service? But we’ve only just arrived!”
“Why not? Churches are the pillar of such small communities. I cannot think of a better way to ingratiate ourselves into the daily life of the village.”
Sophie raised a curious eyebrow at her friend. “You may be better suited to the country life than I suspected.”
Though Upton St. Mary was used to tourists and visitors of many kinds, the two women, with their fine clothes and haughty dispositions, drew more than a few conspicuous glances and whispers. They took their places at the very back of the church and proceeded to mouth the words to the hymns and listen intently to the captivatingly refreshing lady vicar.
Once the service was finished, they milled around with the rest of the congregation, finding themselves ushered outside with the rest of the sizable crowd. Expecting to engage with whoever was curious enough to ask them who they were, they were surprised when the Vicar herself made a beeline for the newcomers.
“Hello! I’m the vicar of St. Mary’s. Do call me Annabelle. It’s always nice to receive new visitors.”
“Oh,” fumbled Sophie, “Bonjour.”
“French?” Annabelle said, before pressing a finger to her lips as she tried to remember the French classes she took at school. “Let’s see. Ma Francaise c’nest bien pas, mais je comprend un petit peu.”
Sophie panicked at the assault of unfamiliar words and looked desperately at Gabriella to save her.
Murder at the Mansion Page 6