“We complimented the apartment,” Mary added.
The detective raised his other eyebrow suddenly.
“You complimented the apartment?”
“Why yes,” Mary said, “it’s full of wonder.”
Cutcliffe jabbed his pen back over his shoulder, as if specifying the building. “That mess? You complimented it?”
“Mess, Inspector?” Annabelle said, taken aback both by DI Cutcliffe’s apparently poor taste and his crude manner of expressing it. “How can you call a place so full of history, of beauty, and of rarefied artifacts a mess?”
“Quite easily,” the detective responded, now displaying his own confusion. “When there’s junk piled from the floor to the ceiling, and it looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in a year.”
Annabelle and Mary gasped. Reading their surprise, the detective continued.
“Are you saying that it wasn’t like that when you arrived?”
“Not at all, Detective!” Mary exclaimed. “Why, it was utterly immaculate when we were there. We barely breathed heavily lest we knock something out of place.”
The detective nodded, far more thoroughly this time, and scribbled so much into his notebook that he had to flip a page angrily, as if irritated that he was required to do so.
“Do you think somebody entered the apartment after us and wrecked it, Detective?” Annabelle asked.
“If you’re telling the truth,” DI Cutcliffe responded casually, as if it were still uncertain, “then that’s precisely what happened.”
“Who would do such a thing?” Mary asked.
“I have some ideas,” the detective said dismissively, glancing back at his officers who were now cordoning off the area. “So she collapses, and then what?”
“I went to her, checked her pulse, and discovered that she was dead – I’m a nurse, you see,” Mary added, initiating another bout of manic note-writing from the detective. “I found something very curious, actually. A thin shard of ice, embedded in her neck. We checked for a puncture wound and thought we found one.”
“Hold on,” the detective said, raising his hand. “You’re saying there was a piece of ice in her neck? Like some kind of dart?”
“That’s what I believe,” Annabelle answered, “yes, Inspector.”
“And where is this… ice dart now?”
“It was melting,” Mary said, after a few seconds of thought. “I held it, but Annabelle knocked it out of my hand when we realized it may have been the cause of Teresa’s death.”
“I imagine it would have melted away by now, Inspector,” confirmed Annabelle.
“Convenient,” came Cutcliffe’s reply, as he continued to write.
“Inspector!” Annabelle cried, when realizing the insinuation. “You do not seriously believe that we caused this horrible death, do you?!”
Cutcliffe noisily flipped to a new page in his notebook and raised his fearsome eyes to meet Annabelle’s.
“I don’t believe anything in my line of work. I just deal with facts. You have been at the site of two very similar deaths within the past three hours. The woman at the café died from poisoning, and I would bet a large chunk of my retirement fund that this Teresa died from the same poison.”
Mary gasped. The detective handed his notebook and pen to Annabelle.
“This time I want your contact details and phone number, please,” he said, firmly.
Annabelle reluctantly took the pen and the notebook, though she huffed slightly, hoping the detective would detect her annoyance. Cutcliffe just glared at her before continuing.
“You’re telling me that an ‘ice dart’ that has ‘melted away’ was what killed one, or possibly two of these women. You’re telling me that an apartment that looks like wild elephants ran through it was ‘immaculate’ and worthy of ‘compliments’ merely an hour ago. It’s certainly not impossible, but it’s definitely not probable either.”
Annabelle handed back the pen and notepad. “But—”
“The most infuriating thing,” Cutcliffe interrupted, “however, is that you withheld evidence. Not only did you hold back a critical piece of information, but you acted upon it yourselves.”
“It was—”
The detective raised his square hand to silence Mary. “And to top it off, you’re off buying cakes after witnessing the death of a defenceless old woman! What are they,” Cutcliffe said, leaning over the bags Annabelle clutched in her hand, “chocolate?”
“We didn’t—”
“I’ve heard enough. When I need to speak with you – and I most certainly will need to speak more with both of you – I’ll be in touch. Until then, stay where I can reach you.”
“I can’t!” Mary cried. “I have to return to the rectory and then to Africa within a week!”
The detective shook his owl-like head with resolute refusal. “That’s not going to happen. Like it or not, both of you are embroiled in what seems to be a double-murder case, and I’ve already stretched the limit of my leniency by not throwing you into a cell until we’ve answered more questions than we’ve asked.”
Annabelle opened her mouth to offer a reply, but by the time she had thought of something to say, the detective was already heading back toward the apartment entrance, directing orders to his constables.
* * *
Annabelle and Mary sat beside each other in silence on the way home. If the earlier part of the day had brought to mind fond memories of their schoolgirl adventures, their second meeting with DI Cutcliffe had reminded them of the inevitable scoldings when things went too far. They stared into space, forlornly clutching their – now, rather pathetic-seeming – clear bags containing Teresa’s cakes.
“What are you thinking?” Annabelle said, after almost half-an-hour of quiet contemplation of her wrongdoing. It was the same phrase she had always used as a kid, when breaking a long silence between herself and Mary.
“I’m thinking about how to explain this all to the Mother Superior. I’m thinking about how many people I’ll have to inform that I may not be back when I said I would and thinking about how disappointed they’ll be when I tell them I didn’t get the funding,” Mary said, as slowly and as considerately as a night-time prayer.
Annabelle cast a determined look at her cake, her eyes narrowing.
“What are you thinking?” Mary asked.
“I’m thinking about how we’re going to solve this case,” Annabelle replied.
Mary stiffened and turned to Annabelle, all steadiness disappearing from her voice.
“Solve the case?! We can’t solve the case!” she screeched.
“Whyever not!?” Annabelle said, adamantly. “We are two smart, confident women of God.”
“But we’re already under suspicion!”
“All the more reason we need to fix this terrible situation! The Inspector obviously didn’t believe us with regards to the ice dart and the destroyed apartment, but we know that it’s true. And that means we’re in a much better position to uncover the real murderer than the Inspector is. If we don’t, then we may find ourselves being put on the block for lack of a better suspect!”
“Oh Annabelle,” Mary said, slumping back into her seat, “you’re going to get us into an even bigger mess!”
Mary tentatively agreed to meet Annabelle for lunch the next day, circumstances allowing. Annabelle pocketed her cake, exited the train, and made her way back to St. Clement’s Church, her thoughts still with her friend who would have a lot of explaining to do when she returned to the rectory where she was staying.
When Annabelle entered the imposing, awe-inspiringly crafted doors of the large church, she heard the satisfying clink of tea cups in the kitchen to the side. She entered the small kitchen to find Cecilia Robinson, church secretary, cleaner, and expert tea-maker.
“Hello, Reverend,” she said, in her cheery Manchester accent. “You must have had a busy day. I’ve not seen you at all. Tea?”
“The words ‘yes, please’ have never felt so insufficient,
” Annabelle said, taking off her coat and placing it on the coat rack. “Oh,” she squealed suddenly, fishing around in her sizable coat pocket. “I’ve got cake.”
“Don’t bother,” Cecilia said, “Mrs. O’Dwyer brought some of the cherry cupcakes you like this afternoon. You know what they’re like; soft as snow when she’s just made them, and hard as rock the morning after.”
Annabelle caught sight of the pile of cherry-dotted crumbling magnificence Cecilia placed on the small table and completely forgot about Teresa’s Surprise Cake.
“Just when I was beginning to question my faith,” Annabelle joked.
Cecilia tutted a mild disapproval. Though she had a dark past, Cecilia had rebuilt her life around the Lord, and she was now in possession of a devout faith that put even a lot of priests to shame.
Annabelle took the mug of milky tea that Cecilia handed her and picked out what she deemed the largest cupcake.
“Father John is in the back, Reverend. You should see him as soon as possible.”
Annabelle questioned Cecilia with her eyes, her mouth fully occupied with the cupcake.
“Apparently the Catholic Bishop has called twice today, asking about you,” Cecilia continued. “I spoke to Father John a little while ago. He said, “if she’s not returned in an hour, I’ll call the Bishop back myself!’”
Annabelle chewed slowly, swallowed, and pursed her lips.
“Is something wrong, Reverend?” asked Cecilia, receptive to Annabelle’s look of deep concern.
“Yes,” replied Annabelle.
“What is it?”
Annabelle held the cupcake aloft, as if to inspect it in the light. “I believe Mrs. O’Dwyer has begun using tinned cherries.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE OFFICE OF St. Clement’s church was Annabelle’s pride and joy. It had originally begun life as a room for the incumbent reverend to change clerical garments, gain some respite, and to store things. Over the years, however, numerous priests had added to and refined the room’s purpose, finding its size and the large window that overlooked the giant sycamore trees in the church’s grounds an enticing place to spend time. A bookcase added here, an oak desk there, some leather seats, an expertly carved prayer stand, and the room was now a fully-fledged office, from which a priest could conduct all manner of affairs.
As Annabelle stepped inside the warm and inviting room, Father John pulled his head away from his Bible and leaped up out of the office chair.
“Annabelle! Where on earth have you been?” he exclaimed, as she allowed her body to drop into the inviting couch next to the desk.
“Oh, Father,” Annabelle replied, still new enough in her position that she referred to him by his title, despite his protests. “I have just experienced one of the most eventful days I believe I’ve ever had.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you, Annabelle – and indeed, I’ve been waiting for you here – for the entire day. I do wish you would take your phone with you when you go out.”
“I assure you, Father, I only intended to be away for an hour or two. I left my phone here as I hate interruptions. Cell phones are terribly rude.”
“Well, this is exactly the sort of circumstance in which they’re also ‘terribly’ useful,” Father John chided, as he stepped around the desk and paced the floor in front of Annabelle. “Bishop Murphy – he of the Catholic Church, no less – has called multiple times. He left a message.”
“What did he say?”
Father John shrugged curiously. “He’d like to speak to you. He sounded very insistent. I believe it has something to do with whatever bother you managed to get into today. You were with Sister…”
“Mary.”
“Yes, Mary. It’s likely he’ll want to speak to her, too.”
Annabelle sighed.
Father John pitched his trouser legs up slightly as he leaned back slowly against the desk, folded his arms, and looked at Annabelle with the patience of a sympathetic parent.
“What happened today? Tell me everything.”
Annabelle shook her head and took a deep breath. She figured out where to start and began. The meeting with Mary, the identical deaths, DI Cutcliffe’s penetrating questions, Mary’s despondency at explaining it all, they all tumbled out. When she had described every event in full detail, she looked up at Father John’s confused face, and asked, “What should I do, Father?”
He scratched at his short, well-pruned beard as he considered the question.
“That’s an astonishing story,” he said, slowly. “To witness not just one death but two? In the space of a few hours. It’s incredible. You can hardly blame DI Cutcliffe for being suspicious.”
Annabelle smacked her thighs in disappointment at the Father’s dispiriting but fair appraisal.
“But I know DI Cutcliffe well. He’s a good detective. He wouldn’t have allowed you to leave if he suspected you as much as you think he does, though it’s possible he may just be trying to give you enough rope to hang yourself,” the senior cleric continued.
“Would he really do that?”
“As I said, he’s a good detective, and part of the reason for that is because he works somewhat unconventionally.”
Father John cast a thoughtful look at Annabelle that made her jaw clench.
“What is it?” she said, curious to discover whatever thoughts had caused him to look at her like that. “What are you thinking?”
Father John gestured with his hand, as if using it to form his thoughts into speech. “Now don’t be offended, this is just an idea I find myself unable to shake. It’s the most obvious question that springs to mind.”
Annabelle’s eyes narrowed, trying to decipher where the Father was leading her.
“This Sister Mary,” he said, slowly, “how well do you actually know her?”
“Just what are you insinuating?!” Annabelle gasped, her hands shooting to her hips. “Mary and I have been friends since we were babies almost! Why, she was born in the very taxi my father drove!”
“Yes, yes,” the Father acknowledged, trying to calm Annabelle’s offended reaction. “You’ve told me that before. But you haven’t seen her in a while, correct?”
“Two years, but if there’s one person in this world I would trust, it would be Mary. She’s one of the kindest, gentlest, most beautiful human beings I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet!”
Father John nodded toward Annabelle, as if taking her comments sincerely. He began to pace a little.
“I’m sure of it. You’re a very good judge of character, Annabelle. It’s just…”
Annabelle watched the Father walk up and down, her head following his path as if observing a very slow tennis match.
“Well,” he continued, “the whole encounter seems shrouded in strangeness. Arranging to meet a woman she’d never met before, who didn’t even show up; a meeting arranged merely half an hour before yours.”
“She’s been very busy since she arrived in London,” Annabelle said firmly, as if objecting in a court of law.
“She ‘forgot’ to give Cutcliffe the slip of paper, only showing it to you later. And as far as you’ve told me, it was she who discovered the ice dart in Teresa’s neck.”
“That’s pure coincidence! She was trying to help!”
“Was there a moment when you weren’t looking at both Teresa and Sister Mary? A split-second, even?”
Annabelle opened her mouth to utter an instinctive confirmation before remembering something and closing it again.
“What was it?” urged the Father.
“Well, there was one moment, when Teresa had offered us the cakes, during which I spent a few moments...”
Father John waited, before saying: “Yes?”
“…my eyes were closed – I was fully engaged in the enjoyment of the cake, so I didn’t have my eyes on them all the time. But that doesn’t mean anything! This is an entirely preposterous idea, Father, and I’m gravely disappointed in you for even thinking it!”
&
nbsp; “I’m just considering the possibilities, Annabelle,” Father John said, in a voice devoid of malice. “I assure you, DI Cutcliffe won’t be nearly as merciless once he’s conducted his preliminary investigations.”
“I suppose,” Annabelle uttered, reluctantly.
“A nurse – no doubt well acquainted with concoctions that can kill as well as heal – who has recently returned from Africa, where various poisons are still frequently used in hunting. It’s all rather incriminating, even if not reality.”
“But why, Father? Why would Mary do anything like this?”
“You said yourself that she was in need of funding. Perhaps she felt murder was the only way to get it – or perhaps the entire idea of funding her hospital in Africa is a pretence for something else.”
Annabelle stood up angrily, and once again she thrust her hands onto her hips.
“I would sooner send myself to the gallows than believe Mary is guilty of such things! She is innocent in every sense of the word! All you’ve done, Father, is further convince me that it is imperative that I find the truth behind what went on today and do it quickly!”
Father John looked at Annabelle’s stance of rock-like steadiness and smiled, impressed.
“I must say, your faith in your friend is extremely noble, Annabelle. But it’s always worth remembering that blind faith can lead us as wildly astray as easily as it can fortify us.”
“It is not faith, Father. I know her to be innocent.”
“Very well. Then you should consider the other possibilities.”
“What are they?” Annabelle asked, loosening her arms and settling down once again into the couch.
“Well, in my experience, such closely timed, similar deaths, are usually gang-related. Or at the very least, some kind of family feud. It seems coordinated enough for that, but an old lady… Look, we could sit up all night creating conspiracy theories and motives. What you need right now is a good night’s rest. We can talk about this again tomorrow. In the meantime, the one thing you must do, Annabelle, is co-operate with the police. Trust DI Cutcliffe to do his job. He rarely gets it wrong, and if, rather like your cake, there are further layers to this, he’ll be sure to uncover them. You could even bring the matter of your faith in Sister Mary’s innocence up with Bishop Murphy when you speak to him. He’s a smart man, and if things do get a little… heated for your friend Mary – or yourself – then you’ll need his help.”
Death at the Cafe Page 4