02 Murder at the Mansion (9 page)

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 5

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 with 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.

“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.”