02 Murder at the Mansion

by Alison Golden

  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.”

  She busied herself with church duties for a while, before the phone rang.

  “Vicar?”

  “Yes, Philippa?”

  “I’ve completed the reports.”

  “Wonderful! Thank you ever so much, Philippa.”

  “Of course, Vicar.”

  “Was there anything else?”

  There was a pregnant pause before Philippa spoke again.

  “Well, I’m dreadfully ashamed to bring it up…”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “It’s just that I like to know my portion sizes. Waste is a terrible sin, after all.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you, Philippa.”

  “Well…”

  Annabelle waited for a few moments before urging the church secretary again. “Do tell me, Philippa. You’ll have me awfully worried if not.”

  “Well, it’s the cupcakes.”

  “The cupcakes?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about them?”

  “The walnut cupcakes. The ones I laid out this morning.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “How many did you eat? Oh, I’m so ashamed to ask.”

  Annabelle struggled with her memory for a moment, then said: “I believe I had two. Yes. That’s it. I certainly had two.”

  “No more than that?”

  “No. Definitely just two. Why?”

  “You’re sure you didn’t have three, Vicar? I feel so embarrassed to ask. Do forgive me.”

  “I recall our chat perfectly, Philippa. I had two cupcakes – one with each cup of tea.”

  “I see,” Philippa said, trailing off into a note of disappointment.

  Annabelle sighed, and quickly checked her watch. “Was there anything else Philippa? I really must be off.”

  “No, no. That’s all, Vicar,” Philippa said, her dismay apparent.

  “Very well. I’ll speak to you later today then. Thank you very much for the reports.”

  “Of course, Vicar. Thank you very much.”

  Annabelle pondered the call for a few moments before remembering her appointment at Woodlands Manor. She rushed out of the church and back into her car. It was turning out to be a rather eventful day, and it had barely begun.

  Once again, Annabelle headed out to the discreet lane that led through the trees and into the luscious grounds of Woodlands Manor. Just over an hour had passed since her last visit, and her curiosity had only grown in that time. She found
herself chomping at the bit to see this mysterious newcomer for herself; this meditating nobleman, the source of so much conjecture in Upton St. Mary.

  She spun the Mini around the fountain, bringing it to a stop with a confident flourish of the brakes. She climbed out and marched up the steps to the intimidating doors. They were so tall that even Annabelle, with her five foot eleven inch frame, felt tiny in their presence. She thumped the knocker again and stepped back.

  The youthful face of the blonde girl appeared as she opened the door and smiled as she recognized the Vicar. She was just about to speak when she was interrupted by a wild, bloodcurdling scream, echoing down through the mansion from somewhere above. The gentle smiles of both women froze and then disappeared. Their expressions turned to horror as their eyes locked, and they found themselves stunned, shaken, and shocked by this absolutely beastly sound.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE GIRL BROUGHT her hand to her mouth in horror, gazing at the Vicar with eyes that were wide with fear. Annabelle, on the other hand, sprang into action. She pushed past the young woman and ran into the foyer with a speed and agility she had retained from a youth spent on hockey fields. She scanned the large entrance hall, looking for anything suspicious, then leaped up the stairs, two at a time, into the passageway of the second floor.

  In times of emergency, Annabelle’s clumsy charm and humble self-deprecation would give way to a keen wit and sharp reflexes. Within seconds of reaching the ornate surroundings of the second floor, a door at the end of the passage caught her attention. Its handle was slightly more elegant than those of the other doors, and it was framed by two perfectly preserved Ming vases on intricately carved pedestals. She assumed this was the master bedroom – and home to the source of that terrifying scream. She rushed toward it. The blonde girl scampered close behind her, as if the Vicar were a shield that would protect her from whatever lurked behind the door.

  “Fiddlesticks!” Annabelle said, as she grabbed the door handle and discovered it was locked.

  “I’ll go get the keys from the cloak room,” the blonde girl said, her voice no less musical for the shaky fear that permeated it.

  Annabelle turned to her and nodded her approval, at which the girl ran down the passage and spun so quickly onto the stairs that a last-minute grab at the bannister was the only thing that stopped her from tumbling head over heels. Loathe to wait, Annabelle grabbed the door handle once more and leaned into the door, expecting nothing but resistance. Much to her surprise, the door moved, slightly at first, before the antique door handle’s weak mechanism gave way, allowing the door to swing wide open under the force of Annabelle’s weight.

  The scene that confronted Annabelle was nothing short of astonishing. The room, much as she had expected, was large and elegant. A wide, antique bed sat against the far wall, and to one side there was an oak desk. On the other side of the room, three large windows that reached up toward the high ceiling, and down to within a foot of the floor, allowed a pale light to fill the room.

  The middle window was wide open, and beneath it lay the spread-eagled body of a man Annabelle assumed to be Sir John Cartwright. A single arrow was stuck deep within his chest, cleanly piercing his loose shirt and protruding from his heart like a macabre signpost. Annabelle rushed toward the prone figure, and quickly placed her fingers to the man’s neck. She waited for a few moments, just for confirmation, but Annabelle knew she wouldn’t discover a pulse. In her short time as Upton St. Mary’s vicar, she had seen the passing of many, almost as many as had been born, and she had developed what she considered a spiritual instinct about such things. She had known the moment she had opened the door that Sir John Cartwright was no more.

  She knelt solemnly beside the old man’s body, crossed herself, and clasped her hands in a quickly-mumbled, sincere prayer for the “dearly departed.” Once she was done, she opened her eyes and stood, feeling oppression in the silence that always seemed to follow the end of a human life. Though in her duties as a servant of the Lord, Annabelle was accustomed to death, she had never seen anything as shocking as this. She realized this was almost certainly murder, and thus, death of a vastly different kind to the natural and godly kind of passing that Upton St. Mary was commonly home to.

  She looked around the room once again, seeking further signs of foul play. She gazed out of the open window at the dense woods that wove themselves into the hills at the back of the mansion. Where was the girl? Annabelle wondered, remembering the blonde’s promise to fetch the keys to the master room. Surely she would have found them by now? In the shock of discovering the dead body, Annabelle had almost forgotten the young female’s presence. With a deepening sense that something curious was afoot, she set out to look for her.

  A few minutes later, Annabelle was confident she had searched almost every spot in the grand house that the girl could have gone to. She hoped that the girl’s disappearance had merely been fear getting the better of her. Perhaps she had caught a glimpse of the body as Annabelle prayed, the morbid surprise causing her to cower in some corner. However,after searching the major rooms of the expansive house, Annabelle resigned herself to the truth – the girl was gone.

  Cautious of wasting any more time, she fumbled for the number in her cell phone and called the local police constabulary.

  “Vicar! Been a while since I heard from you!” said the chirpy voice on the phone.

  “I noticed. Your presence is sorely missed in the congregation.”

  “Um, well, yes. Busy, you know…”

  “Never mind. Something serious has occurred. I need you to come as quickly as possible. I’m at Woodlands Manor, the estate by Arden Road.”

  “That doesn’t sound too good,” the Constable said. I’ll be on my way as soon as I’m done with –”

  “Now, Constable,” she said firmly.

  Annabelle could almost hear the look of surprise her brusqueness caused.

  “What is it?”

  “Murder, Constable. A man is dead.”

  There was another pause, in which Annabelle could hear him slam his cup down and stand up from his desk.

  “I’m on my way.”

  Constable Jim Raven was well into his thirties, but the constant glint in his brown eyes, as well as his boyish, cheeky grin, made him appear much younger. It was a well-known joke that he’d only become a police officer in order to avoid getting into trouble himself. He was the type to join children in a game of street football or take a little longer than was strictly necessary ensuring everything was in order at the local pastry shop. The truth be known, his laissez-faire approach to police work would have had him reprimanded almost daily, were it not for the scarcity of criminal elements in Upton St. Mary. It also helped that Jim Raven was an incredibly effective police officer.

  With a wink and a joke, Jim could diffuse even the most hostile of disputes, and his breezy, infectious manner could persuade the most stubborn residents of Upton St. Mary to see the funny side. Children of the village would even confess their transgressions to him like an elder brother. If there were a traffic accident or pub fight, Jim could be relied upon to resolve the situation in an amicable exchange of verbal agreements, handshakes, and gentle chidings. However, Constable Jim Raven had never had to deal with murder before.

  He jumped into a police car and sped away from the station, forgetting even to put his siren on until he had completed half the journey. To Jim, sirens had proven more useful when giving villagers a funny fright or for children to play with as he gave them a lift home, than for actual police work. He reached the fountain in front of Woodlands Manor and screeched to a stop. The tires of his small police car slid across the gravel, giving the Constable a guilty sense of drama and excitement. He turned off the sirens, and leaving the flashing blue light on, got out of the car and fixed his hat firmly onto head.

  Jim entered the open entrance of the estate to find Annabelle sitting on an upholstered bench beside the staircase. Her face was fixed in an expression of intense thought
and concentration. The two knew each other very well, having frequently crossed paths amid the daily affairs of the village. Their shared love of laughter had instigated many a rumor to flare up regarding a possible romance although there was a slight incongruity in that the police officer, at only five foot five inches, was towered over by Annabelle who had a full half foot on him. It made them an odd couple when in close proximity – not least when Annabelle wore heels. Eventually, the stark contrast between Annabelle’s diligent and sharp mind and Jim’s perpetual seeking of mischief forced even the most persistent of matchmakers to give up.

  As he saw Annabelle sitting there, Constable Raven braced himself for a long story. He knew the Vicar well enough to be aware of how she could regale events in full detail, with elaborate and expressive language, many digressions, and only when she was fully ready. This time, however, Annabelle simply stood silently and led the way up the staircase. Jim followed behind, growing increasingly nervous at the absence of talk.

  Annabelle reached the master bedroom with the Constable close behind. She stepped aside to reveal the still figure of Sir John Cartwright. Within seconds, Jim had turned around and put his hand over his mouth, leaping toward the private bathroom. After examining the inside of the toilet bowl more closely than he would ever have liked, splashing water onto his face, and returning to the bedroom, the Constable found Annabelle standing in the doorway, surveying the scene as if looking for something she’d forgotten.

  “I’m sorry, Vicar. This is the first time I’ve ever seen a dead body.”

  “It’s alright, Jim.”

  “It just caught me by surprise, is all.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I’ve had this stomach bug for days, anyway, you see. I shouldn’t have had that fry-up this morn –”