Authors: Alison Golden
“Mmm,” mumbled Annabelle, already chomping on a particularly rich and utterly delicious cupcake, her ravenous appetite winning the battle over ladylike reserve. “Your baking always stands out, Philippa.”
“Thank you, Vicar,” Philippa chuckled, “but there’s some stiff competition in Upton St. Mary. I even considered a baklava at one point. I do love them. They remind me of my youth and a trip I took to Greece.”
“Baklava? I haven’t the foggiest idea what that might be.”
“You’d love it. It’s an incredibly sweet pastry drenched in honey, with nuts.
Very
continental,” winked Philippa, with a mischievous tone.
“Well, I say jolly well go for it!” Annabelle exclaimed, putting down the cake reluctantly and sipping at her tea.
“Oh, I couldn’t, Vicar.”
“Whyever not?”
“Think of the outrage!”
Annabelle considered the point for a moment before nodding. Upton St. Mary was welcoming to new people but not nearly as benevolent to new ideas.
“I see we have company,” Annabelle said, gesturing toward the corner of the room. Biscuit, the church’s ginger tabby cat was sitting demurely by the door, lazily gazing at the two women while licking her lustrous fur.
“She dropped by last night and stayed here while I prepared the attendance and donation reports for the church. That cat visits more places around this village than you do, Vicar.”
Annabelle chuckled and reached down to urge the cat toward her. “Here, Biscuit! Here, girl!” Biscuit continued to gaze at her nonchalantly. Spurned by the feline and feeling a little foolish, Annabelle turned to Philippa and asked: “Did you feed her?”
“That cat is a complete mystery, Vicar. I put some food out for her last night, and I don’t believe she took more than a mouthful.”
“Hmm.”
“The strange thing is that she’s still putting on the pounds.”
“Well, I suspect half the village is probably feeding her,” said Annabelle, picking up the cupcake again. “Lucky girl!”
“Indeed. Well, cats are fortunate in that they don’t need to worry about such things,” Philippa said, disguising the comment by bringing her teacup to her face for an uncommonly long time.
“Philippa!” the Vicar said.
“Now, Reverend, I only say this out of concern. None of us are getting any younger. It would be a shame if you struggled to find a young man because of that sweet tooth of yours.”
Annabelle tried to protest but found her mouth full of succulent walnut cupcake and instead decided to put it down indignantly and furrow her brow.
“And if the rumors about the Inspector are true…“ Philippa continued.
“Philippa!” the vicar said again sternly, to which the elderly lady raised her hands in apology.
The two women sat in a silence that grew more tense by the second, gently pierced by the occasional clink of teacup on china, their eyes fixed upon the large window that looked out onto the deep woods behind Philippa’s cottage.
“What rumors?” said Annabelle, unable to hold her curiosity any longer.
“Well,” said Philippa with a twinkle in her eye, gleefully embracing the opportunity to indulge in her primary passion – gossip, “as you know, Dorothy’s sister-in-law has a son who works in Truro in a baker’s shop just a couple of streets away from the police station. He was the one who told us that the Inspector was probably married, but that was always just hearsay, we were never absolutely sure. And everybody who knows Dorothy’s sister-in-law is well aware of the time that she claimed –”
“Philippa, please. If it will take us the entire morning, I’d rather move on to another topic.”
“Sorry, Vicar. Well, essentially, Inspector Nicholls is single again. Now might be your chance. Oh, you would make such a lovely couple, Vicar. He’s such a dashing young man. Terribly smart. A vicar and a police inspector. It would be like something from a novel!”
Annabelle sighed. “I appreciate your concern, Philippa, but I’m in no rush to begin courting, thank you.”
“Whatever you wish, Vicar,” Philippa said, barely concealing a wry smirk, “though you may find yourself with some competition in the near future.”
Annabelle furrowed her brow again. She hated the gossip and rumor-mongering that passed for conversation with Philippa, yet the wily church secretary had a talent for piquing her interest.
“Are there people coming to the village?”
“You’re aware of the new person who was going to move into the large country house in the hills by Arden Road?”
“I’m aware of the rumors, yes.”
“Well, he’s here, and he’s already causing quite the stir.”
“Really?”
“Why, yes. Apparently he’s been inviting all kinds of women into the house since he moved in, just a few days ago. Can you
imagine,
Vicar? It’s extremely concerning. Those sorts are ten a penny in London,” Philippa said, growing visibly irate, “but
here?
This is the last place to find… that kind of person. People say he doesn’t even have a denomination!”
“Calm down, Philippa. I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice man. This is all conjecture. People running wild with their imaginations.”
“I hope so, Vicar. I really do.”
“What is he doing here?”
“That’s just it. Nobody knows. What if he intends to open some sort of… Well, to put it in the devilish terms it deserves… a brothel, in the village!”
“Philippa, please. I wish you wouldn’t allow yourself such ridiculous flights of fancy.”
“But Reverend, to invite not one, but multiple women to – “
“Look, I’ll pay the gentleman a visit today. It’s likely that people have been so carried away with gossiping that they have forgotten to welcome our new resident. Let me speak with him and set everybody’s fears to rest.”
“That sounds like a good idea, Vicar. Perhaps you’re right.”
“Do you happen to know his name?”
Philippa pretended to ponder a moment before saying, “I believe it’s John Cartwright. Yes, yes, that’s it.”
“Very well. I shall speak to Mr. John Cartwright myself. Extend the hand of neighborly friendship, as it were. In the meantime, I do hope you can refrain from indulging in these fantastical stories, Philippa. They don’t help anybody.”
“Oh, I will, Vicar,” said Philippa, and though Annabelle knew she meant it, she also knew that Philippa would find it hard to resist.
Be it gossip or cakes, some things were beyond certain people’s control.
Annabelle left Philippa’s house with a nagging feeling in the back of her mind. Nothing good ever came from gossip, and as if offering a stark contrast to Upton St. Mary’s idyllic scenery, the rumors that occasionally spread rapidly around the village tended toward the extravagantly fearsome. Though Annabelle was only too aware of this fact, she could not shake the worry that tainted the clear, pure atmosphere of the emerging morning. What
was
the elusive stranger doing in Upton St. Mary? Could there be any truth in the concerning rumors? It seemed unlikely, thought Annabelle, but even a stopped clock is right twice a day.
After revving up the perky engine of her blue Mini and waving cheerily at Philippa, who turned quickly back into the house to continue with her church bookkeeping duties, Annabelle whipped the car around and carefully trundled on toward the church, mindful of both the early hour and the speed limit.
Pushing her disquieting thoughts away, Annabelle decided to pay a quick visit to the Wilshere family, who had just returned from the hospital with their new baby. They were a jolly kind, the sort of people who had worked the land and served the good folk of the village for generations. The parents, Mitchell and Michelle, were both rotund and bubbly, and with puffy cheeks prone to flushes, they were much like babies themselves.
Being that this was their firstborn, the parents were still doting nervously over the new baby boy when Annabelle arrived. She cooed and cuddled the baby, and the parents exchanged looks of pride when the baby smiled at the Reverend as she held him. Annabelle politely declined their appeals to sit and have tea but left feeling serene and content from the warmth and good humor of the happy-go-lucky Wilsheres.
She continued on toward the church absent-mindedly, enjoying the hypnotic greens and browns that passed by her windows. As she did so, she found herself thinking of the Inspector. Single again? Maybe she should pay him a little visit. Just to see how he was getting on. It had been a while since they last spoke, and he really had looked rather handsome when she had last seen him….
Annabelle buried the thought by remembering John Cartwight. She really should discover the intent of this newcomer and nip all the rumor-mongering in the bud before it was assumed he was some terrible monster and found himself confronted with pitchforks at dawn. She chuckled to herself at the thought and took the long and winding Arden Road up toward the newly-occupied expansive estate in which she hoped to find him.
It had been a very long time since Annabelle had last visited the estate. There were, in fact, a few such large properties of its kind at varying distances from the village, though not much was known about the owners. Most of them popped up in the village or at community events just frequently enough to keep rumors at bay. They tended to be older sorts from distinguished families, left to enjoy the serenity of their abodes as their offspring ventured into the metropolitan cities of the world to seek out their fortunes (or squander it, as some rumors suggested).
This particular property had always been shrouded in mystery. Annabelle had heard it referred to by some of the older villagers as Woodlands Manor, presumably due to its peculiar position tucked deep into a thickly wooded area. While many such properties were sought after for their magnificent views and the isolated peace of such a mellow and sleepy part of the world, this secretive and secluded estate had garnered little attention. Until now.
Annabelle eased her car off the smooth surface of Arden Road and onto the grassy, overgrown path that led blindly into the trees. The stiff, firm wheels of the Mini jostled over the ground, giving Annabelle a good shaking, until she emerged a few dozen yards later into an expanse that made her squeal, “Crikey!”
The grounds of Woodlands Manor were immaculate. Vivid green lawns extended away in front of her, pressing up against the wild woods like some vast oasis of the desert. Delicately pruned hedges and tastefully arranged patches of irises, roses, and petunias threw elegant splashes of color onto the grounds like an expert painter’s canvas. A gently curving gravel path extended deep between the guiding hedgerows, leading the way to the Elizabethan mansion that stood proudly aloft, as though surveying the beauty of its surroundings.
Annabelle eased the car forward slowly, taking in the impressive scene that surrounded her. Why on earth would such a well-preserved estate be tucked away beyond view of everything around it? Had these astonishingly lavish grounds always been here? She rounded a large fountain that stood tall on the open area facing the property, parking the car in front of the stone steps that led to its gigantic oak doors. Upon exiting, she allowed herself one more look at the incredible sight of the mansion grounds, spun on her heels, and marched in her determined manner up the steps. After a couple of enthusiastic whacks of the heavy iron knocker, the door was opened by a young, attractive woman in jeans and a t-shirt. She had golden blonde hair that framed her pretty face nicely, and thin, sharp lips that lent her musical voice an upbeat tone.
“Hello?” she said, curiously, before noticing Annabelle’s collar, “Oh. How may I help you?”
“Good morning,” Annabelle said in her most cheerful voice, “I’m Reverend Annabelle Dixon. Of St. Mary’s church in the village. I recently learned that someone had moved into this magnificent property, so I wished to extend a welcome.”
“I see. That’s very kind of you, Reverend,” the girl said, set at ease by the Vicar’s open manner. “I’m afraid Sir John is unable to meet you at the moment, however.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. He has just begun his daily meditation.”
“Really?” Annabelle said, considering this information. “Well, taking the time to reflect is very important and difficult to find these days. Do you happen to know when he will be available?”
“He is not to be disturbed for another hour yet. If you are able to return then, I’m sure he’d love to chat with you.”
“Wonderful,” Annabelle said, clapping her hands together, “I shall call upon you in an hour. Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome, Reverend. I’m sure Sir John will greatly appreciate your visit.”
“I look forward to speaking with him. Well, it was very nice to meet you. See you shortly!”
The girl nodded and closed the door as Annabelle jogged down the steps and settled into her Mini. As she urged the car around the fountain and back along the satisfyingly crunchy gravel toward Arden Road, she thought about what the girl had said.
Sir
John Cartwright? Philippa had not mentioned anything regarding a knighthood. Could this elusive stranger really be a knight of the realm?
The sheer size and stature of the property would certainly fit but knights tended to have reputations that preceded them. This “Sir” had arrived with little fanfare or foreknowledge. It was, thought Annabelle, possible that the title had been self-adopted. It would not have been the first time a person of wealth had done so in order to gain social standing and acceptance into the circles of aristocracy. Members of such classes were above checking credentials, making it surprisingly easy to pass oneself off as a person of nobility. But if he really were a knight, how had he achieved such a title? And what of the women that had allegedly been invited to Woodlands Manor? The girl who had greeted her was rather young. She had seemed perfectly nice and respectable, yet Annabelle felt she had detected a note of reticence. She had not even offered her name….
“Oh, stop it, Annabelle,” the Vicar chided herself when she got home. She parked the car and entered the wonderfully gothic church she called her own. “You’re getting as bad as Philippa. You’ll be grabbing a pitchfork yourself, soon.”