Annabelle’s heart raced as her focus shifted from the broken door to the empty church. If someone had forced their way in, it was possible that they were still there, hiding between the pews, behind a wall, or in the office. If they possessed something sharp or heavy enough to break the door open, they also had a weapon. Her mind raced through her options. She could hide and wait for the perpetrator to come out – if they were even in there still. Or she could go inside and find out.
Every reasonable, rational bone in her body told her to hide, to call the police, and get herself to a safe place. Yet a more powerful urge compelled her forward. She was deeply offended that someone would break into a church. Her church. The one she was responsible for. She opened the doors and carefully stepped inside.
She listened for a moment but could hear nothing. She switched the lights on and saw no one. The church was small enough that it wasn’t really necessary but she wandered around the church interior slowly. After determining that no one was there, she moved over to the office door, the beat of her heart loud in her ears, the prickle of tension making her hair stand on end. The office door was ajar. Unable to stand the tension, she decided to meet it head on. She barged through, shoulder first, adrenaline running through her veins.
The room was empty. Whoever had broken in wasn’t there now. Annabelle’s gaze settled on the small safe. The door was hanging open. She had expected it, but still a chill snaked down her spine. The jewelry box was gone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sunday Evening
ANNABELLE RAN OUTSIDE, anxious and bewildered. Who on earth could have stolen the jewelry box? She had only just secured it away in the safe. No one but Felicity and she even knew it existed! Despite the cool evening, she felt hot with a sense of urgency.
Outside, swirling, thick clouds were outlined by the partly obscured moon’s silvery light. She scanned the land around the church, not quite sure what she was looking for but hoping some clue that might help solve the mystery would make itself apparent. From her hilltop vantage point she could see figures – mere specks at quite a distance – ambling toward the church. Parishioners on their way to Evensong.
Annabelle foraged in her pockets for her phone and pulled it out. Shaking and fumbling, she dialed 999 on her third attempt. She paced outside the church as she listened to the ring tone. It seemed to go on forever. Just as she was about to give up, someone answered.
“Hello?” a young woman said, almost shouting to be heard among the background noise of an uproarious crowd.
“Hello!” Annabelle screamed into the handset. “I’d like to report a theft!”
“Vicar?” came the voice over what sounded like laughter.
Annabelle pulled the phone away from her ear to gaze at it in bemusement for a second, before speaking once again.
“Yes! I want to report a theft at the church!”
“Annabelle!” the woman’s voice said again, sounding pleased. “You’re at the church, you say?”
“Who is this?”
The woman laughed before answering. “It’s Mairéad! We spoke at the pub earlier. Harry Anderson’s daught—“
“Mairéad!? I dialed 999. I need the police!”
“Ah! Well see,” Mairéad said, cheerily, “we police ourselves here. There’s no station on the island. All 999 calls are directed to the pub.”
“But—“
“It’s alright, Vicar. I’ll send someone along to help you. The church, you said?”
“No, wait—”Annabelle said quickly. She could hear Mairéad calling across the bar. She looked down the hill. A few of the group who were trudging their way up the path waved at her. She frowned and waved back distractedly.
“Okay, someone should drop by shortly,” Mairéad resumed.
“I really need to speak to a police officer,” Annabelle said. She was growing increasingly frustrated. “This is a serious incident. Are you honestly telling me that there is no police presence on the island whatsoever?”
“I’m afraid so, Vicar,” Mairéad said, adding a little laugh.
“Then what do you do if something happens on the island?”
“Well, there’s rarely anything more than feral goats to deal with, to be honest with you. Bob McGregor is sort of our unofficial authority in that respect. He’s a plumber most of the time, but if you’ve a problem with a feral goat, he’s your man,” Mairéad paused for a moment before quickly adding, “This isn’t about a feral goat, is it?”
“No! It’s nothing to do with a feral goat! I’ll need somebody with more than plumbing skills to handle this!”
“Calm down, Vicar, lass! You’d be surprised at what a menace feral goats can be! I tell you, if you can handle one of those tykes, you can handle anything!”
Annabelle closed her eyes and took a deep breath. After a quick glance at the heavens, she calmed herself enough to speak once again.
“I need somebody that can take a report and can conduct a proper investigation. I know this might be rare on the island, but it really is a very serious matter.”
“Hmm, well, if it’s that bad then I can put you through to the constabulary at Fenbarra – but that’s really only for emergencies.”
“This is an emergency!” Annabelle exclaimed, losing much of her composure again.
“Alright then. I’ll put you through. Hold on. Bye Vicar!”
Mairéad’s cheerful voice was replaced by a series of clicks, and then another ring tone. Looking up again, Annabelle noticed that there were now around a dozen people walking up the church path. That was quite a lot for Evensong. Four or five was more usual. They were close enough to notice something was awry and were looking at her in bewilderment.
After an excruciatingly long wait, the phone was answered once again, this time by a rather groggy male voice.
“Yes?”
“Hello? Is this the constabulary at Fenbarra?” Annabelle asked pleadingly.
“That it is. Aye,” the voice drawled, and it became apparent to Annabelle that whoever was on the other end of the line was chewing something sizable.
“I’d like to report a very serious crime,” Annabelle said, glancing up quickly at the gathering crowd around her, “a theft. At St. Kilda’s on Blodraigh.”
“Hold on,” interrupted the voice, after which Annabelle heard him spit forcefully. “There’s a what now?”
Once again Annabelle looked up to the heavens, feeling the first, faint droplets of rain hit her face.
“A robbery!” Annabelle said vehemently once again.
“On Blodraigh?”
“Yes!”
“You’re not from Blodraigh, are you?”
“No, I’m not. I’m—“
“Aye. Thought so. I could tell by the accent. Where you from then?”
“I’m from England – but what’s that got to do with anything!”
“Well ma’am, you see,” the man began, his voice drawn-out and casual now, “Blodraigh’s a small island. Anything stolen is bound to turn up sooner or later. Try asking the parents of the local kids.”
“A box of very expensive jewelry has gone missing.” Annabelle stood up straighter. ”And your advice is to ‘ask the local kids!?’” she said, wondering how she had ended up in this exasperating maze-like conversation.
“Expensive jewelry you say? You won’t find much use for them around here. We’re all about cèilidhean and barn dances in these parts. Not much call for expensive jewelry at those. Well, you probably just misplaced them. Have a good look around. My wife is always losing her stuff in the car. Did you check your car?”
“Now listen!” Annabelle said, shouting into the handset with a force that made the approaching crowd look up in alarm. “There’s been a very serious crime committed here. You will send a police officer – no, a detective – to Blodraigh immediately in order to investigate it. If you don’t, I will make it my personal mission to see that the shoddy excuse for civilian protection on this island is replaced with something
approaching professional!” It was most unlike Annabelle to be issuing threats and flying off the handle like this, but stripped of the kind of support that she was used to back in Upton St. Mary, she felt naked and alone.
“Haud yer wheesht, woman,” the man said, with only a little more formality, “calm down, will yer? I can send someone to the island if it’s that bad, but there’s a storm coming in. All flights and ferries have been stopped. No one will get there until Tuesday at the earliest, maybe later. Shout at me all you want, you’d do better directing it at the clouds.”
“Yes, you’re quite probably correct!” Annabelle sighed deeply. “Okay,” she said, defeated after her outburst.
“What’s yer name?”
“Reverend Annabelle Dixon.”
“Oh, a minister? Why didn’t you say so? Well, as I said, I’ll ask someone to come by the island to take a look. But they’ll get there when they get there.” He burped.
With that farewell, the man hung up. Annabelle dropped her head, a feeling of futility engulfing her. The Evensong worshipers had reached her now and were eyeing her cautiously. She shook her head at the sheer absurdity of the phone call and began to wonder how on earth more robberies didn’t occur on the island when there seemed so little precaution against them.
The rain was beginning to gather some momentum now, and the pitter-patter of drops hitting the gravel path was rising in volume. Annabelle looked up to see the group in front of her part in two, and a short man with a red, puffy face rushed past them. She watched him exert himself strenuously for the last few strides, stop, bend over with his hands on his knees, and struggle to gather his breath.
“I’ve been sent from the pub,” the man said, in between gasps for air.
“You’re Bob McGregor?” Annabelle said hopefully, stepping forward.
“No,” the man said, shaking her hand limply before resuming his bent-over position and taking a few more deep breaths. “Bob had to go off on a call. Rab’s toilet got blocked up again. Bob told me to tell you that he understands that this is an emergency, but you see, Rab’s toilet gets really bad when it’s blocked. You can smell it from the other side of—“
“Yes, yes, okay,” Annabelle said, cutting him off.
“Anyway,” the man said, “I’m Bruce Fitzpatrick. I’m standing in for Bob.”
“And you’re the local police?”
“Oh no, I’m a blacksmith. But they thought I was the best one to come because, well, I make candlesticks…”
Annabelle couldn’t see the relevance of candlesticks to her predicament at all, but she didn’t want to distract the smithy any further from what was already his apparently very tenuous grasp on the gravity of the situation.
“Allow me to explain what happened,” Annabelle began. “There was a box containing some very precious valuables that I had put in the church safe. Now—“
Annabelle was interrupted by the sound of a phone. The Evensong crowd and Bruce looked at each other searching for the source of the tone. Their eyes settled on an elderly woman in the group who stared back at them. A second later, the woman started as she realized why they were all looking at her and hastily began rooting around in her bag.
“What?!” she shouted into her phone suddenly. She paused. “Are you sure?!” Her eyes widened at the response on the other end of the line. She quickly looked up at the others around her. “Stop, I’ll tell the Vicar to come over. Stay where you are.” The woman dropped the phone from her ear, “It’s Harry Anderson. He’s dead!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“DEAD?”
“Harry?”
“He was just in the pub a while ago. I saw him.”
The shocked responses came thick and fast. The small crowd of agitated villagers were almost riotous at this surprising turn of events. They were all astonished at how chaotic their usually calm, decorous Evensong was turning out.
As the crowd bombarded the elderly woman with questions that she struggled to relay into her phone, Annabelle turned back to Bruce.
“Shouldn’t you be doing something?” she asked.
“About Harry being dead?”
“Yes!”
“But what about the robbery?”
Annabelle shrugged incredulously.
“The robbery can wait!”
Bruce glanced fearfully from Annabelle to the crowd before venturing into action. He stood on the low step to the church. It wasn’t much help. It gave him just an inch or so of extra height.
“Everybody, stop yer yabbering! Now!”
Bruce’s voice got lost in the sound of the rain which was now coming down even faster than ever. A flash of lighting lit up the darkening scene. The clamoring villagers went silent.
“Let’s get inside,” Annabelle shouted.
The crowd shuffled into the kirk and focused all their attention on Bruce now that they weren’t being battered by the elements.
“Good,” Bruce said. “Now, Mrs. Blair, who were you talking to on the phone there? And what did they say?”
“It was my son Davy,” the woman said. “He’s been out on the boat, but they’ve just finished for the day. He found a body, Harry’s body, on his way home when he was walking along the beach!”
“Well, I never!
“I only saw him at lunchtime!”
The crowd attempted to resume its cacophony of questions and exclamations but was quelled by Bruce.
“Enough! Mrs. Blair, is your wee Davy sure it’s Harry Anderson?”
“Aye,” the woman said, her voice trembling, “but he’s not so wee anymore, Bruce. He knows it’s Harry alright. And he said he had his bagpipes with him.”
“Everyone listen,” Bruce said, growing into his role as leader, “go home. I’ll look into this now.”
“I’ll come with you to the beach,” Annabelle said, “perhaps I can help or at the very least offer a prayer.”
“Very good,” Bruce said. “Come on, then.”
Annabelle shooed the crowd outside. They were reluctant to disperse. Bruce began marching away from the church, toward the cliff edge and the ocean. Annabelle quickly followed.
“Vicar,” came a call from the crowd behind her, “what about Evensong?”
Annabelle stopped and turned. “I’m afraid Evensong is the least of my concerns right now. A man is dead, and the church has been robbed. It will surely take more than a few prayers to sleep well tonight.”
“But what should we do, Vicar?”
“I suggest whisky!”
As if mirroring the chaos and confusion of her thoughts, the skies began to erupt again with sporadic bolts of lightning. Thunder rumbled seconds after every flash, and the sound rolled around them as Annabelle and Bruce jogged over the soggy grasslands to a point where the route down to the beach wasn’t so steep.
Bruce led Annabelle past the ruined castle and Pip Craven’s house that sat a little beyond it. Though he was short, Bruce was also a heavy man. He stumbled occasionally as he hurried. As he trotted down a bank, his feet slipped out from under him, and he fell, rolling down the slope and coming to a stop in a heap several yards away among tufts of wiry long grass. Annabelle managed to stay upright and dolly-stepped her way down. She reached out to help Bruce up, her calm, gentle manner a contrast to the turmoil unfurling around them.
They left the ruins and Pip Craven’s house behind and shortly reached a craggy outline of rocks beyond which was the beach. As Annabelle got close, she saw there was a steep, pebbly slope before the ground leveled and the sand of the beach and ferociously cold water of the Atlantic Ocean took over. Two male figures stood down below on the wet sand.
“Can you make your way down, Reverend?” Bruce shouted above the lashing rain. “It’s slippery on these rocks – especially when it’s wet. Be very careful.”
Annabelle merely nodded, her sodden hair now pasted to her scalp. She selected a rock to step on. Carefully she followed Bruce, choosing the most stable, even boulders to clamber over. As the larger rocks
gave way to the even more treacherous loose pebbles, her feet slipped, sending stones tumbling away from her with each step as she struggled for control. With her arms outstretched and her knees bent for balance, she finally leaped the last few feet onto the sand where the two strangers ran to join her. She looked behind to see Bruce, who she’d overtaken, carefully completing his descent.
“Who are you?” one of the men said, only his sharp cheek bones and thin face visible beneath the hood of his padded jacket, a garment entirely more suitable for the horrendous weather than Annabelle’s cassock and coat.
“I’m Annabelle, filling in for Father Boyce,” she called out, wincing against the rain lashing her face.
The hooded man looked at his companion, whose beard was so large and hair so thick that only his ears, eyes and nose were clearly visible. He wore no hood or hat, leaving his hair to be tossed about by the wind, but seemed utterly comfortable in the rough conditions. The two men nodded at each other. Bruce joined them, and the bearded man and the hooded man led the other two further down the beach, where a prone figure lay still and vulnerable.
“Oh my!” Annabelle gasped, bringing a hand to her throat.
Although the bagpipes were covering his face, Harry’s Highland dress was clearly recognizable. He was lying on his back, his hands up either side of the bag, the drones of the bagpipes splayed out above his head like a grisly headdress. It was a strange, unsettling sight amid the windswept beach, the waves crashing noisily a few yards away.
“We found him like this, didn’t we, Fraser?” the reedy voice of the hooded man announced as they circled Harry’s body.
“Aye, we sure did. Me and Davy haven’t touched a hair on his head.”
The wind had picked up and the rain lashed down against the beach in a solid sheet. The three men and Annabelle turned their heads away as they braced themselves against the wind.
“I’ll take some pictures,” Bruce said, pulling his phone out.
Horror in the Highlands Page 7