Julia sat up a little straighter, surprised by this revelation. She leaned forward, her gaze relaxing. “Would you like to hold him?” She handed the small rabbit to Annabelle who cradled it in the crook of her arm and ran her hand over its back.
A couple came in to the tearoom. They looked at Annabelle curiously, but she took no notice. Rabbits were God’s creatures, after all. Holding her teacup with her free hand, taking a sip, and turning to look at Sally, Annabelle asked, “So where have you moved from?”
Annabelle guessed Sally to be in her early twenties. She was tall enough to be elegant without being so tall that she was awkward. Annabelle regarded her ruefully. A small, delicately curved nose, blue, sparking eyes, and an easy smile turned the heads of even the female patrons of the tea shop. Her loose, flowing dress couldn’t hide her tiny waist. She had long, slender limbs and shoulder-length, wavy blond hair. She was pretty much the kind of woman Annabelle imagined herself to be in her dreams.
“We moved from up north. We’d been there for six months, and it was time to move on. We like to move about, but I think the Brotherhood will stay put for a while now we’re here,” Sally said.
“Brotherhood?” Annabelle gulped her tea a little too fast and choked.
“We’re members of the Petrie Brotherhood. We follow and spread the word of Saint Petrie. You’ve probably heard of him, you being a vicar and all.”
“No,” Annabelle said slowly, frowning. “Can’t say that I have.” She frantically searched her brain for a memory that would help her. “Perhaps he was one of the minor saints.”
“Well, anyway, we live very simply. Sustainable, vegan living. We help the communities we live among. We meditate a lot and do our very best to live our lives for the highest good.”
“I see, and how many of you are there?” Annabelle asked.
Sally looked up at the ceiling, counting in her head.
“Five, officially,” Julia cut in. Her face was stern, and she fiddled with her teaspoon. “Two more, unofficially,” she added, her voice low, almost a growl.
Sally said, “There’s me and Julia. Theo, of course, he’s our leader, Scott, and Thomas. Theo’s sister, Suki, and his mother, Margaret, also live with us, but they’re not members, not officially. They just tag along.”
Julia took a sip of her tea. Annabelle couldn’t discern whether the grimace that formed around her mouth as she replaced her cup in its saucer was due to the strength of her tea or her opinion of the two hangers on.
“Hmm, and how are you getting along, in the village, with the villagers?”
“They’re very nice, in the main,” Sally said. “They’re a little distant, understandably. We can take some getting used to, what with our ways, but we rub along quite well, wouldn’t you say, Julia?”
Julia gave a curt nod.
“Do you get any trouble? Heckling or hostility?”
“Sometimes, but there’s no need. We don’t mean any harm. Why? Have you had any complaints?” A small frown creased Sally’s pale, smooth forehead.
“Well, you see, you seem very straightforward sorts, but the thing is, the villagers are rather disturbed. You talk to people, people you don’t know, and hand out flowers. We’re not used to that kind of thing here. The villagers are a little frightened of you, I think. They get a little suspicious. They wonder what you’re after.”
“We just want to be welcoming and friendly, Reverend. We share our beliefs, and if anyone’s interested, they can visit us to find out more, but there’s no pressure.”
Annabelle placed her cup carefully in her saucer. She wiped the fingertips of one hand on her napkin, the other still holding the rabbit. “Let me speak more plainly. People believe you to be a cult. That conjures up thoughts of strangeness, weirdness, brainwashing, ritual sacrifices, even evil.”
“Oh, we’re not like that at all!” Julia said. She sat forward in her chair and reached over to take the rabbit back. The animal had, at the sound of Julia’s voice, quickly traveled from the crook of Annabelle’s arm to her shoulder and was now nibbling her ear. “We love our animals, don’t we, Barnaby?” she crooned, picking him up and going nose to nose with the bunny. “There’s no ritualistic killings or evil goings on at all. I wouldn’t allow it, not around the animals. While you and I are mere imperfect beings, Reverend, animals embody all that is kind and good in the world. They represent the highest form of living. We humans can only hope to live up to their ideal.”
“What Julia means is that we love all living creatures equally. We believe good works are rewarded in the next life and so endeavor to do as many as we can as we live this one. We hope to recruit others to our mission and in so doing lighten their souls,” Sally said.
Annabelle looked from one woman to the other, a shadow of doubt crossing her brow.
“Look, if you don’t believe us, why don’t you visit? Come and meet us all. How about the day after tomorrow? Theo will be back from London. He can tell you all about us. He’ll reassure you, and maybe then you can reassure the village.”
Annabelle considered the idea for a moment. Competing voices shouted loudly inside her head. On the one hand, she felt there was something not quite on the up and up about the group, and she hated the idea that her presence would give them credence, even acceptability. But her curiosity and the need for distraction argued for accepting Sally’s invitation. Maybe, just maybe, the group would turn out to be as benign as the two women next to her insisted.
“Alright,” she said. “I accept your invitation. Thank you.”
“Marvelous,” Sally said, draining her cup. “How about five on Monday?”
“Perfect.”
They stood to leave.
Julia popped Barnaby into her pocket.
“No need to dress up, we’re quite casual. We’ll look forward to seeing you, Reverend,” she said, much more friendly now.
“Goodbye, Julia, Sally, er—” Annabelle looked down, “…Barnaby.”
The bunny’s button nose bobbed back at her.
CHAPTER FOUR
Annabelle decided to park her car in Lolly Lane and walk the rest of the way. The path comprised an ancient dirt track left to form naturally of rocks, stones, and sandy soil beaten down over centuries by herds of animals that regularly made their way down it on their way to grazing pasture. At intervals, the track was interspersed with potholes that in rainy weather were the size of small ponds but currently resembled craters on the moon’s surface.
Annabelle tip-toed her way along the straight track that led up a slight incline, walking in a zig-zag pattern as she avoided the obstacles that lay across her path. Bramble had grown over the walls of Cornish stone and earth that separated the lane from the properties and fields on either side. Grasses, cow parsley, and the occasional crop of daisies or wild pink betony made up the hedgerow and grassy margins. In her hands, Annabelle carefully carried a rhubarb flan, a gift for her hosts.
As she aimed for the iron gate that marked the border of the estate on which the Petrie Brotherhood lived, she passed Mr. and Mrs. Cuddy’s home, Oakcombe Cottage. Their front garden frothed with wild flowers in full bloom. Stems of navelwort, their red trunks supporting masses of tiny, ground-pointing, pale green tubes, stood tall and majestic in deep flowerbeds. Whenever she saw navelwort, Annabelle imagined hundreds of miniature trumpets ready to announce the arrival of a fairy army, and that thought always made her walk a little more carefully. Lower to the ground, poppies, wild honeysuckle, and buttercups flourished.
The Cuddy’s adored their garden but admitted that their green fingers stretched only as far as allowing the plants to self-germinate and giving whatever wildlife that found its way to their “little patch of heaven” a free roam. They regularly spotted birds, bees, butterflies, hedgehogs, and even a family of badgers among their flowers and shrubs. “We believe in letting nature do its thing,” Mr. Cuddy had once told Annabelle. “We can’t take any credit.”
It was another hot, humid afternoon, and th
e weather continued to be muggy. Nonetheless, Annabelle marched on, banishing the thought of fairy armies and foraging animals from her mind. She passed the other house on Lolly Lane and paused to dab her brow. The Hamiltons lived at this house. They were a family of five, but their garden was as much a study in order as the Cuddy’s was in unruliness.
A neat, bright green lawn spread from the front of the house all around to the back. There was a swing set off to one side, and bikes propped up against the wall of a large, wooden shed that sufficed as a garage. Flowerbeds filled with white rosebushes, pruned with care for symmetry and balance, graced one corner of their patch of land. A royal blue front door brightened up the rather dour, gray, brick, boxy house that served as the Hamiltons’ home.
The house lacked the charm of the Cuddy’s cottage, which looked as though it was lifted from a picture postcard with its thatched roof, cream exterior, and small leaded windows. But the Hamilton’s two eldest girls, Eleanor and Elaine, were senior cast members in Annabelle’s show, and she knew them to be a kind and happy family with good manners and a Border collie named “Lass.”
There was no sign of anyone being home. Annabelle cruised by, panting and sweating a little from the long walk and the heat, before she finally came to the five-bar gate. She lifted the metal catch and pushed it open with a shove, brushing aside the bracken that held it fast. Once free, it swung open with a long creak, and she passed into the wooded area beyond.
It wasn’t unusual in these parts to have a large house surrounded by trees, but as she closed the gate behind her, Annabelle slowed her pace. She looked above her, wide-eyed. The trees grew close together, and the mass of leaves high above formed a canopy that made the area very dark. At least, it was blessedly cool.
Bending her head and looking where she placed her feet, she pressed on. It was nearly five o’clock, and she hoped Sally and Julia would be waiting for her. Annabelle had told no one she was making this visit, certainly not Philippa, who she suspected would have been horrified and would have tried to stop her.
Eventually, the trees came to an end, and she emerged onto a lawn that was bisected by a path that led up to the large house. Annabelle stopped to stare at it. She hadn’t visited before. It had clearly been magnificent in its heyday, and even though it was now crumbling and in need of a good amount of restoration, Annabelle could still detect the stately majesty the house had once embodied.
The house resembled a mini castle. Rounded turrets propped up the outside walls at each corner. It was built with traditional Cornish red stone with tall windows running in two rows on all the sides that Annabelle could see. She imagined they were built so that those who lived there could look out at the stunning views that comprised vast, sweeping lawns, imposing, centuries-old trees, dense woodland, and rolling, pillow-like hills.
From where she stood, Annabelle could picture what the house must have looked like in its prime. Now though, it was looking a little tired and worn. Some of the crenellations at the top of the turrets were missing, the stonework was chipped and disintegrating in places, the bushes of hydrangea that dotted the base of the house were wild and straggly, and the boxwoods that guarded the path up to the huge double front door were stringy and misshapen. Annabelle could just make out the rounded, inverted, pyramid shapes topiarists had clipped into them in times past.
She was tired now and regretted her decision to leave her Mini in Lolly Lane. She made her way up to the double front doors, clambering up the wide, stone steps, knocking on it a little breathlessly. No one came, so she tried again, the flat of her hand painful as she slapped the flaking, splintering wood. Still no one arrived to welcome her, so she tried the handle. The door opened, creaking as it swung wide.
“Hello? Cooee? Anybody home?” she called out, peering inside. She tentatively took a step over the threshold and looked around.
Annabelle’s heels clacked as she walked across the stone floor, and her voice echoed, reverberating around the low-lit cavernous entrance hall. The air had a musty, stale patina of age, damp, and neglect about it. Enormous stairs opened up in front of her. On the ground floor, doors leading to other parts of the house were closed, the paint on the walls was peeling and cracked, and dust cloths lay like strangely shaped body bags over furniture, dirty and faded. She peered through the gloom looking for signs of life.
Spying a door on the other side of the vestibule, she took a deep breath and walked over to it. The glass in the paned door was filthy with dust and age. She cleared it with her fingertips. She placed her eye close enough to peer through and spied a courtyard, although due to neglect and the passage of time, it was now more yard than court.
Piles of bird droppings punctuated the ground below the guttering at intervals close to the walls of the house that bordered the outside space. Weeds grew up between the cracked, uneven paving while elaborate, stone planters shaped like tulip heads stood broken and empty. The courtyard was only saved from an air of complete decrepitude by virtue of the open sky and the caw of the circling seagulls.
Annabelle heard a rumble of low voices. She looked over and, at the end of the sunny courtyard, saw a woman lounging in a wooden deck chair, the kind of which Annabelle avoided because she couldn’t fathom how to work them without pinching her fingers. The woman was smoking a long, thin cigarette, her skin prematurely aged by the habit and the sun she was soaking up. She was talking to Sally, who was perched on a cushion atop an upturned flowerpot, shelling peas into a bowl.
Annabelle tried the door handle. “Cooee! Sally!” she waved as the door opened. Sally looked up.
“Reverend! You made it!” Sally put down her bowl of peas and stood, brushing down her skirts. “It’s lovely to see you. Come here!” She walked over to Annabelle and gave her a hug. “Oh, thank you!” she said when Annabelle offered her the pie. “Come and meet Margaret. I’ve been telling her about you.” She took Annabelle’s hand, her long, full skirt billowing around her.
Annabelle allowed herself to be taken over to the woman in the deckchair, who made no move to either get up or put out her cigarette.
“Margaret, this is Reverend Dixon from the church in the village. Remember, I told you she was visiting us today?” Margaret didn’t appear to recollect anything of the sort, but still sitting, she held her hand out for Annabelle to grasp.
“Annabelle, this is Margaret Westmoreland.”
“Pleased to meet you, Reverend,” Margaret said, not smiling or indicating pleasure of any kind. Margaret’s hooded eyes were a little too close together, her nose too broad, and her mouth too small, but there was a symmetry to her face and an intelligence to her eyes that marked her as attractive, if rather dispassionate. Her short, wavy hair was styled in a fashion more suited to the sixties, while her slim frame was draped in a gray and cream cotton sundress that reached her ankles. She wore flat, brown, strappy sandals on her feet. Her toenails were painted an antacid pink, and tiny studs made from seashells of a far more delicate shade graced her ears.
“Likewise, Ms. Westmoreland,” Annabelle responded, not taking her eyes off her. She didn’t want to compensate for the woman’s diffidence by being overly enthusiastic. She thought it better, on this occasion, to be measured and calm until she got the lie of this suspected “cult.”
“Please, call me Margaret,” the woman said. “And what should I call you?” Margaret lazily looked up at Annabelle. A wisp of smoke escaped her lips. She sucked it back in again, smiling slowly.
“Oh, Reverend should do it, I’d say,” Annabelle replied. As Margaret Westmoreland’s smile vanished, her gaze hardened. “Or Vicar. That works too.”
Margaret lowered her lids to regard Annabelle. “I think I’ll leave you ladies to it,” she said, suddenly stabbing her cigarette end into the ashtray on the steps next to her. “Help me, would you, Sally?” Sally held her hand and pulled the older woman up. Margaret straightened her dress and walked into the house. “I’ll be in my room if you need me. Goodbye, Reverend.”
; Sally looked at Annabelle and grimaced. “Sorry about that. Margaret is Theo’s mother. She’s not part of the Brotherhood. She just lives here with us. She can be a little, hmmm, difficult at times.”
“No problem, Sally. I understand.” Annabelle surveyed the courtyard and the four walls that surrounded it. “Tell me, this is a lovely house, at least it was once. How did you come to be here?”
“Honestly, Reverend, I don’t know the full story. It’s owned by someone in Theo’s family, I believe. It’s too big for us really. We live mostly in this part of the house, although our bedrooms are spread all over.” Sally indicated the end of the house behind them. “The old servants quarters. It suits us. Come on in, we’ll be having dinner soon. Would you like to stay and eat with us?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Annabelle and Sally moved into the kitchen. It was a big square room of flaking green cupboards with a white subway tile backsplash. The grout was gray with age and missing in places. The countertop was old, wooden, butcher block, and under the side window lay a huge, deep, rectangular porcelain sink.
In the middle of the room sat a large wooden table. Julia was sitting at it, peeling carrots. Barnaby was on the table eating the green tops.
“Hello again, Reverend,” Julia said. “Joining us for dinner? We’ve got soup with homemade bread made by yours truly, coconut curry with quinoa, and crumble for afters.”
“That sounds tasty,” Annabelle replied.
“It’s quite a feast because we’re celebrating.”
“Oh?”
“Tonight we celebrate the legend of St. Petrie and Lord Darthamort,” Sally explained.
“And how do you do that?” Annabelle asked. She sat down at the table and stroked Barnaby’s soft, soft fur as he nibbled.
“We have a big bonfire, dance around like mad things, and make a lot of noise,” Sally said. “It’s fun.”
The door to the kitchen opened and in poured another young woman, impossibly beautiful and willowy. She, like Sally, was wearing a long flowing dress, although she carried herself in a more sensual fashion. The short, puffed sleeves were pushed off her shoulders, the neckline low on her chest. Her blond hair was pinned up in a messy do, tendrils falling around her face and onto her shoulders. From her ears dangled long droplets of gold.
Killer at the Cult Page 3