“We speak English,” Gabriella said, giving her voice a slight French accent. “It’s okay, Vicar.”
“Oh, good!” Annabelle said, clapping her hands together. “I haven’t spoken French since I was a young girl! Such a beautiful language, though. I take it you are both tourists?”
“Yes. Zisiz se troof,” Sophie spoke in an accent so forced it sounded more like a speech impediment than French. “Ve are ze tourists. Zeriz no miztake.”
Annabelle turned her head, casting her perplexed gaze at both of the women. Sophie glared at Gabriella, begging her to save the moment.
“Yes, well, tourists with business to do,” Gabriella said, confidently.
“I see,” mused Annabelle. She found herself growing suspicious of these two bizarrely obtuse women, one of whom spoke in an accent that was unlike any she had ever heard and the other far too self-assured to be a tourist, the like of which Cornwall hosted on an ongoing basis. “I take it you’ve just arrived?”
“Yez,” Sophie said.
Annabelle had to know what these women wanted. Even if it wasn’t connected to the murder, she had been cautious and watchful of everything since it had happened.
“My house is just over there. I insist you join me for a spot of lunch. I’d like to do everything I can to make your visit a pleasurable and memorable, one.”
“Thank you so very kindly, Vicar,” said Gabriella, urging her friend toward the house.
Fifteen minutes later, after the congregation had dispersed to their homes, the two women found themselves sitting around the table watching the Vicar pour hot cups of tea for them.
“I’m terribly sorry, but I didn’t catch your names,” Annabelle said.
“Francoise,” Gabriella said, with as much French musicality as she could muster.
“S… So… Simone,” Sophie stammered, with a sense of relief afterward.
“Welcome to Upton St. Mary, Francoise and Simone,” Annabelle said, cheerfully.
Philippa burst into the room carrying plates of food. “I’ve prepared some sandwiches for your guests, Vicar,” she said. “I’ve also had to make some more cupcakes,” she added, looking at Annabelle as she said so.
“Wonderful,” said Annabelle, oblivious to Philippa’s pointed behaviour.
Sophie picked at a sandwich, took a bite, and said, “Magnifique!”
After they had begun sipping delicately at their tea and nibbling on their sandwiches, Annabelle casually questioned the two women.
“I would be more than happy to help you enjoy the treats of Upton St. Mary in any way I can.”
“Thank you, Vicar.”
“Oh, zis cat is adorable!” Sophie said, as Biscuit rubbed her body against her boot.
“That’s Biscuit. She’s actually very temperamental,” Annabelle said, barely hiding the annoyance she felt that Biscuit was giving more attention to these strangers than she ever did to her.
“Que belle!”
“Perhaps I can help with this business concern you have,” Annabelle said, trying to bring the conversation back on topic.
Gabriella glanced at Sophie.
“Yes. Indeed,” Gabriella said. “As a vicar, you are most probable to help.”
“Anything I can do,” Annabelle said, warmly.
“Well, we learned of a friend’s demise in this area. We wanted to pay our respects to the family if they were here?”
“I see,” Annabelle said. “I’m sorry for the loss. Who was the poor soul, if I may be so bold to ask?”
“Zir Jean Cartwright,” Sophie said, the abrasiveness of her accent changing the name “John” into its French counterpart – “Jean.”
The shock of hearing the name caused Annabelle to spill the tea she was in the middle of bringing to her lips.
“Oh dear!” she sputtered, as politely as she could. “I do apologize!”
Annabelle excused herself and ran toward the kitchen, where Philippa was busy tidying up.
“Philippa!” she whispered, as excitedly as volume would allow.
“Yes, Vicar?”
“They’re here about Sir John!” she said, pointing toward the door that led to the dining room.
Philippa dropped her tea towel on the counter and turned all of her attention toward the excited Vicar.
“Really?”
“Yes!” Annabelle said, nodding furiously. “They say they’re French tourists, but there’s something awfully queer about them.”
Philippa ran toward the door and pressed her ear to it.
“What are you doing?”
Philippa put a finger to her lips to shush the Vicar, then gestured for Annabelle to join her.
Annabelle tip-toed to the door, and carefully placed her ear against the wood of the door.
“…respects? We would do better if we found that Poppy Franklin, first.”
“Poppy Franklin?”
“You know! The impossibly young girl that John had lived with in London. There was a rumor he brought her here with him.”
“But she was young enough to be his daughter!”
“She definitely wasn’t old enough to be his friend!”
“Well, if she’s here, I’m sure the Vicar will take us to her.”
“I hope so. The Vicar seems like a bright sort.”
“Your accent wouldn’t fool her even if she wasn’t.”
“Oh shush, so long as we get to check out our investment…”
Annabelle nearly leaped back from the door. Philippa pulled back as well.
“Did you hear that?” mouthed Annabelle, struggling not to squeal her surprise.
“I knew there was something terribly wrong with that Sir John. Fancy that, a girl young enough to be his daughter.”
“Oh Philippa, that’s beside the point. These women aren’t French at all! They’re investors!”
“It’s all very fishy.”
“I should get back in there before they suspect something.”
“Please be careful, Vicar.”
Annabelle opened the door theatrically, in order to give the women enough time to prepare their Gallic act for her once more.
“I’ve just had a little chat with Philippa, the church secretary,” she said, as Philippa followed her into the room. “She would be more than happy to make the arrangements for your stay. There’s a delightful bed and breakfast nearby that offers everything you could possibly need.”
“Oh, zat is kind, but ve do not need zis treatment.”
“Please, I insist!” Annabelle said. “There’s no point coming to Upton St. Mary if you can’t appreciate our hospitality!”
Just before the two strangers left the Vicar’s home, Annabelle pulled Philippa aside and said, “Make sure nothing they say goes further than your ears. This could be the key to the entire case.”
“Oh, of course, Vicar. I won’t tell a soul,” Philippa assured her, before trotting off to lead the women to their temporary abode.
As Annabelle waved them off merrily, she remembered that Philippa had a crochet club meeting the next day. Annabelle sighed wearily. Her secret probably wouldn’t last beyond Philippa’s second row of chain stitch.
* * *
The man who sat in the interview room was tall and lean. His leathered face held an expression of extreme distress. His hair was fair and thinning on top. He wore a tweed waistcoat and checked shirt with the ease only wealthy landowners could possess. Inspector Nicholls entered the room with a self-assured stride, took a seat opposite the man, and laid a file on the table in front of him.
“What is this? What is –” the man said, before the Inspector held up a finger to silence him.
The Inspector pressed a button on the tape recorder that had been placed on the edge of the table, and said: “Inspector Mike Nicholls, interviewing Harry Cooper. Sunday the fourteenth of September, two thirty-four PM.”
The fair-haired man stammered but found his throat too dry to protest.
“You are Harry Cooper, correct?”
“You own the property known as Woodlands Manor, situated just off Arden Road, near the village of Upton St. Mary.”
“Yes. Well, I did own it,” he said, nervously. “I don’t anymore. I sold it.”
“To whom?”
“Sir John Cartwright. Why are you asking me this? You know this, surely?”
“Sir John Cartwright was murdered. Did you know that?”
“Yes. Of course. It was in the papers.”
“Were you in or around the property on the day of the murder?”
“No! Absolutely not!”
The Inspector leaned back in his chair and looked at the suspect opposite him. The man was red-faced and fidgeting anxiously. He was clearly panicked, and the Inspector assumed he had never been placed under suspicion of any kind before.
Nicholls had conducted many interviews and knew with intimate familiarity the best approach. Suspects such as Harry Cooper were already on edge before a question had been asked. The question was, was it due to fear or guilt? Usually it took the right kind of pressure, applied with expert timing, to get to the truth. Thanks to Annabelle, however, the Inspector had a trump card.
“Do you smoke, Mr. Cooper?”
“Yes.”
“You used to smoke at Woodlands Manor when you owned it?”
“Yes. Well, my wife never liked it, so I would smoke on the grounds.”
“So you knew the grounds well.”
“Of course. They were mine.”
“You would know where you could be seen and where you couldn’t. Where the secret places, locations you could enter unseen, were?”
“Well, yes.”
“And you say you haven’t been there since Sir John Cartwright moved in?”
“Well, no. I never said that. I’ve visited him.”
“At Woodlands Manor?”
“Yes.”
“And you smoked while you were there?”
“Yes. I did.”
“Inside the property?”
“No. Outside, like I did when I owned the house.”
“Why?”
“Well, John didn’t like smoking either. He was very into health and fitness, as you’d expect.”
The Inspector paused for a second.
“Why would I expect that?” he said.
“He was going to turn the property into a health spa.”
Inspector Nicholls leaned further back in his chair and looked at Mr. Cooper, considering the information he had just given him. A few hours ago, the SOCO team had discovered Cooper’s DNA on the cigarette Annabelle had found in the trees at Woodlands Manor. It seemed like a lock. Cooper was the man. He had been standing precisely at the spot where the arrow had been fired, and the cigarette butt proved that he had been there recently. He had visited Sir John frequently enough to know his movements, to plan his attack. And having sold him Woodlands Manor for an undoubtedly large sum of money, Inspector Nicholls was sure he could find some motive there – a deal that big usually came with one.
And yet, something wasn’t right with this sweating, terrified person on the other side of the interview table. He was either very clever or very unfortunate. The inspector hadn’t told Harry about the DNA and had given him the perfect opportunity to cover his tracks. But Harry hadn’t taken it. He had just admitted to being at the property and smoking there.
“Inspector,” said a voice from behind him, interrupting his thoughts. Nicholls turned to look into the face of Police Constable Chambers. “Phone call for you, it’s urgent.”
“More important than an interview?”
“It’s the Vicar of Upton St. Mary,” the officer replied.
“Okay,” the Inspector said, stopping the tape recorder and getting up out of his chair.
Chambers led the Inspector to his desk and handed him the receiver.
“Annabelle?”
“Hello, Inspector Nicholls,” came the Vicar’s distinctly chirpy voice.
“I’m glad you called. I was just interviewing the man whose cigarette you found. A Mr. Harry Cooper.”
“Oh, do you think he did it?”
“I don’t know. I get the impression it’s more complicated than it seems. He was actually the owner of Woodlands Manor before Sir John Cartwright bought it from him.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“What’s more interesting is that he believes Sir John was going to turn it into a health spa.”
“Do you believe that, Inspector?”
“Actually, Vicar, I do. Sir John Cartwright may have been involved in criminal activities over the past decade, but he actually made his name in the field of leisure and fitness. I believe he bought Woodlands Manor for a fresh start rather than to turn it into a brothel, but that doesn’t mean others will agree with me. It could still be our motive. The person who killed Sir John may have believed the rumors and not liked the idea of Woodlands Manor being turned into a brothel.”
“There’s someone else you should probably talk to about that,” said Annabelle.
“Who?”
“Poppy Franklin. Sir John was living with her in London, and she may have come with him to Upton St. Mary.”
“The blond girl you saw?”
“Most likely.”
“Hold on, Vicar,” the Inspector said, before turning to PC Chambers and asking him to run a check on the name. There was a pause while he waited for the results to come up on the computer screen. “She’s actually supposed to be on parole. Was jailed a few years ago for petty theft, let off with a light sentence because her then-boyfriend had coerced her into it. Hmm… What do we have here? Seems like she was employed by John Cartwright shortly after leaving prison.”
“Oh my!”
“I’ll put a call out. We’ll find her as soon as we can. Once again, Vicar, you have come to the rescue.”
“Oh, think nothing of it. I only want to help,” Annabelle said.
“I’m going to owe you once this is done.”
“Well, there is one thing, Inspector.”
“What is it?”
“I’d really like to take a look inside Woodlands Manor once more. I know it’s a crime scene, but I’d only need a few minutes. I have a theory…”
“Think nothing of it, Vicar. The SOCO team has finished up there, so it’s just locked up and gathering dust. Constable Jim Raven has the key. I’ll have him drop it off to you.”
“Oh, that’s ever so kind of you, Inspector! I suppose I will owe you as well,” Annabelle said, coyly.
* * *
Annabelle could not bear to wait any longer. She sat at the kitchen table, head resting on her hand, her other hand drumming against the table anxiously. Gazing out of the window that looked up the church driveway, waiting for Constable Jim Raven’s police car to pull up alongside her house, she allowed her mind to wander over her conversation with the Inspector. She hadn’t told the Inspector about the two female investors, thinking that it might be more prudent to wait patiently and learn more about them. Currently, she knew little more than what she had heard from the other side of the kitchen door but things were beginning to fall into place. The arrival of the “French” investors and the revelation that the cigarette had been smoked by Woodlands Manor’s previous owner had thrown up a whole host of new questions. But they had also provided plenty of answers.
With Philippa keeping a close eye on the two women and Inspector Nicholls on the hunt for Poppy Franklin, Annabelle was left to muse over the one question with which she had been struggling. Who had screamed when she had knocked on the door a second time? Her mind had conceived of and ruled out dozens of possibilities, from the idea that it had been an animal (it hadn’t, Annabelle knew very well what animals sounded like), to some kind of “death groan.” Harper herself had dismissed this as ludicrous when Annabelle posited the idea to her. Annabelle was so wrapped up in her questions that when the good Constable rolled into her driveway she afforded him only a distinctly British balance of
politeness and briskness before setting off on her way.
As soon as she got there, Annabelle entered the manor house and slowly made her way up the stairs to the master bedroom. Had she been any less focused on every detail of the impressive building, she might have been frightened. Entering a large, empty house that had been the scene of a murder was something only the very brave or the very determined do. Annabelle’s curiosity had given her an abundance of both.
She entered the room that had played at the edges of her mind for weeks and was surprised. It seemed larger than it had previously when her focus had been dominated by the shocking figure of Sir John’s body on the floor. Now that her eyes allowed her to study the room, it felt lighter and a lot more spacious. After looking over the room for any object that could have made the sound, such as an unseen speaker or discreet TV, Annabelle decided to investigate the other rooms on the second floor. Though she was concentrating on her goal of finding the secret to the “bedroom screamer,” Annabelle still found herself taken aback by how beautiful the house was. There were roughly a dozen rooms of all shapes and sizes shooting off from the second floor passage, from elaborate, luxurious parlor rooms filled with antiquities to tastefully arranged bathrooms with wonderfully preserved fittings.
Annabelle cooed her appreciation at the wonder of the house, then refocused herself on the goal at hand. She re-entered the master bedroom and stood precisely where the body of Sir John Cartwright had been brutally slain.
“Right. Let’s see.”
It was, of course, entirely plausible that the scream had come from another of the many rooms on the second floor. Yet Annabelle’s intuition would not let her consider it. The scream had been shocking, quick, aggressive. It sounded primal, like death itself. Not until she had entirely ruled out the possibility of the scream occurring in the master bedroom would Annabelle allow herself to consider the alternatives.
“How would the screamer leave the room so quickly?” Annabelle whispered to herself.
The first possibility was, of course, the window. But upon opening it and looking down across the face of the building, Annabelle dismissed the idea completely. Not only was the drop leg-breakingly long and the outside wall slippery and steep, but also the ground surrounding the building was lush with bushes and fauna. Even if the screamer had made his way down the wall safely, he would surely have left noticeable signs of his descent.
Murder at the Mansion Page 7