“She’s right, sir. On this occasion, they must have done their gambling inside the bunker. I’ll take this and put it with the other evidence.” Raven looked at the Inspector, who nodded as the man left the office.
Nicholls turned his eyes to the puppy for a few moments, deep in thought, before shaking his head incredulously.
“I still don’t understand it,” he said. “A young man. A church organist. So good that he quits his job and moves halfway across England to tend to his sick grandmother. It’s not a profile I see very often in killers.”
“That was precisely why he did it,” Annabelle said, mournfully. “Jeremy had talent, youth, and the love of the whole community, but his only real passion, the thing he had based his entire identity upon, was his ‘goodness.’ It is rather ironic, in a sense, that he did the most awful thing imaginable in order to retain the appearance of being completely beyond reproach, completely ‘pure.’ The Bible is full of stories in which the consequences of one, small sin leads to the committing of many greater ones.”
“My case reports are filled with many of the same stories,” quipped the Inspector, darkly.
“Almost all acts of violence are committed following a humiliation of some kind,” Annabelle continued, “Among young men in particular. It’s the only way many of them feel they can redress the balance and cancel out the shame.”
Nicholls eyed the Vicar, a humorous look in his eyes.
“Are you considering a career in criminal psychology, Reverend?”
Annabelle chuckled.
“It’s certainly a fascinating subject.”
“Well,” Nicholls said, shuffling in his seat, “I’d much prefer studying it than engaging with it, to be honest. The real-life examples are a lot messier than the theories in textbooks, that’s for sure. When we dragged him in here, Jeremy told me everything like he was telling a bedtime story! No remorse, no sense of guilt or shame! Do you know, he waited outside the garage in the early morning on Saturday? He beat up Aziz before he got into work, wearing a balaclava so Aziz couldn’t identify him. And of course, no one would suspect the ‘pure and righteous’ Jeremy right off the bat. He called Mildred to distract her and crept up behind her while they spoke on the phone. She couldn’t even have looked him in the eye before he threw her in the pit, killed her, drove the car back over her and put the keys back on the rack! I’d have to go back years to remember a case where somebody murdered someone so clinically. It’s… pretty distressing.”
“Jeremy thought he was acting out God’s will. He’s obviously deeply troubled. His poor grandmother.”
“And he was right under your nose the whole time,” Nicholls said, a gently admonishing tone creeping into his voice. “You didn’t realize he was a psychopath in all the time he spent at the church?”
Annabelle pursed her lips. “Upton St. Mary is full of people with quirks and foibles. I always thought of him as slightly odd, of course, but…” She paused. “I suppose the idea was a little too close to home for me.”
“You found it hard to believe someone so devout could be so dangerous?” the Inspector asked.
Annabelle nodded. “Yes. Faith is a wonderful thing. It’s difficult to witness it being used to justify such terrible deeds.”
“He somehow thought tampering with the fuel would convince Mildred that God was punishing her for threatening to expose him. He thought it would stop her. I’m not sure it’s even faith at that point. Sounds more like madness.”
Annabelle shook her head, still unable to fully believe what she now knew to be the truth.
“It’s so difficult to imagine that this was going on in Jeremy’s life and I didn’t know anything about it. Just the idea of him gambling is hard to imagine, but to then blackmail Mildred into keeping it a secret by trying to ruin her business… And then to kill her when that didn’t work… You know, he must have come straight over to the church after murdering her. He sat there and played as if it were a typical Saturday. I even spoke to him! I would never have guessed he had just committed cold-blooded murder from our conversation.”
“And assault,” Nicholls added sorrowfully. “Don’t forget about Aziz.”
“Could he really be the one who attacked Aziz too?”
“He said he did, and I’ve all but confirmed it. We found Aziz’s phone a little way down from the garage, he must have been holding it when he was attacked. There’s a path that runs around the back of the garage leading to a small gap in the fence. Jeremy must have used it when he was diluting the fuel. The thing is, Aziz also seemed to have used it when walking to work. It makes a good shortcut if you’re on foot, but only to the garage. Jeremy must have come upon him there. He probably attacked Aziz before he could see him. He couldn’t have a fit, young lad come between him and what he had planned for Mildred.”
“Oh my, it’s so awful.”
“When Aziz recovers, we’ll talk to him and confirm it, though it’s pretty much a foregone conclusion.”
Annabelle sighed and placed her hands on the armrests of her chair in order to push herself out of it. She caught sight of the puppy, snoozing in the corner, exhausted after her day’s efforts.
“I suppose that’s everything then, Inspector. I should get home. I’m desperately in need of a good night’s sleep, although how I’ll ever relax enough to drift off, I don’t know.”
Annabelle stood up and walked to the door. She placed her hand on the doorknob and opened it.
“There was one more thing,” the Inspector said, before Annabelle could step outside his office. She turned around to look at him. “I’d prefer it if you called me Mike. It’s not like you have any respect for my authority anyway,” he added, grinning.
After laughing gently, Annabelle said, “In that case, I’d like you to call me Annabelle.” The Inspector nodded graciously. “I’ve always respected your humanity, Inspect— I mean, Mike. Perhaps this will help us relate on more equal terms.”
Nicholls had an appreciative glint in his eye as he smiled at Annabelle.
“Perhaps, Annabelle. Perhaps.”
EPILOGUE
DESPITE THE COLD, wind-whipped rain and only the barest glimmer of light peeking through the grey clouds, almost half the village dropped by the church of Upton St. Mary the following Sunday. When Annabelle had taken on her role as Reverend in the Cornish countryside, she had introduced the celebration of the Winter Solstice to her parishioners. Solstice was an opportunity for all the villagers, no matter what their faith, to show their generosity and gratitude by donating food items and other offerings to needy families just in time for Christmas. As a village full of cooks, bakers, and gardeners, Upton St. Mary was particularly well disposed toward anything culinary, and even more so when it involved sharing food with others.
Annabelle stood at the entrance to the church, offering her thanks as members of the community arrived. She watched as the villagers walked up the aisle to hand over their donations to Philippa and Mrs. Applebury. The two women usually decorated the church with large, abundant floral displays but now put their skills to work showing off the villagers’ kindness with flourish and flair. The giant table placed at the front of the church was piled high with fruit, vegetables, pies, hams, poultry, joints of meat, cans, loaves of homemade bread, cakes, wine, and Christmas crackers. Spirits were high, and the villagers seemed as generous with their smiles and laughter as they were with their edibles as they milled around to talk and enjoy the convivial atmosphere of the church.
“A far better turnout than last year,” Philippa said, as Annabelle walked up, “and it wasn’t even raining then!”
Annabelle chuckled and exchanged a nod with a young child who walked up to proudly place a can of beans on top of the trembling table. The Vicar pulled a bonbon from the open bag in her pocket, a precautionary measure she had taken, knowing herself well enough to realize the sight and smell of so many baked treats would have her mouth watering.
“Well, I think this,” she said as she loo
ked around her, “has heightened everyone’s mood.” Annabelle rolled the soft sweet in her mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. “There hasn’t been much cause for celebration in the village for a while now.”
“Hmm,” Philippa said, scanning the room before saying gravely, “That still might be the case. It’s all well and good providing for the poor, and the Lord knows we have a few more needy families in the village this year.” Philippa had been shocked and appalled at the news of the gambling ring. “But we’re still nowhere near our goal of renovating the cemetery.”
Annabelle turned to her beloved bookkeeper and smiled. “I’m sure we’ll find a way, Philippa. We always do.”
Philippa shrugged. The two women turned to look at the food table as they basked in the pleasant hum, chatter, and good humor that resonated within the church’s great walls.
“Is that… Ted?” Philippa said, as a heavily-coated figure carrying multiple bags in each hand hustled his way through the doors.
“I believe it is,” Annabelle replied, watching him bump his way through the crowd toward them.
“Hello, Vicar,” Ted said, cheerfully. He placed his bags down in front of the table and began taking from them various cans and boxes. He placed his contributions on the table as Philippa hastily slotted them artfully into the display.
“Hello Ted,” Annabelle said with confusion as he continued to pull from the seemingly bottomless bags. “Would you like some help?”
“Oh, no,” Ted smiled, performing the task as though it were a complex mechanical maneuver requiring intense diligence and precision. “I’ve got it.”
“Where on earth did you get all that?” Philippa asked abruptly.
Ted looked up at the church secretary and smiled shyly.
“I’m no cook,” he said, in between exertions. “And I don’t grow anything. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t help.”
“But I thought you were broke!” Philippa exclaimed.
Ted laughed and placed a few more items on the table before realizing that there was no more space. He pushed his remaining bags underneath with his foot. “Actually,” he said, “things are looking up for me.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” he smiled. “I suppose you haven’t heard. Apparently Mildred left the garage to me in her will. I’m the new owner!”
“That’s wonderful, Ted!” Annabelle exclaimed, clasping her hands together.
“How are you going to manage that?” Philippa said, not appearing quite so joyful. “You can’t run a garage when you’re hitting the sauce every night!”
“Philippa!” scolded Annabelle.
Ted laughed again. “No, she’s right, Vicar. Owning a garage is a lot more responsibility than simply turning up and doing what the boss tells me. That’s why I’m staying sober. No more pubs. No more gambling,” he said, winking at Annabelle.
“I’m so happy to hear that!”
Ted nodded shyly. “Well, I always said I just needed a lucky break. It doesn’t get much luckier than suddenly being given your own business.” He looked sadly at the giant cross at the head of the church. “Mildred’s still taking care of me, even now that she’s gone. I owe her.”
“I think she would be very proud of you,” Philippa said, her reproachful tone softening. “She obviously thought you could do it. She wouldn’t have left the garage to you if she didn’t.”
“I won’t be alone, of course,” Ted added, “Aziz will still work with me, and he’s a real talent, so it should make getting to grips with it a lot easier. That reminds me,” he turned to Annabelle, “Aziz wanted me to thank you for helping him. He was going to come along, but he’s got a lot of schoolwork to catch up on.”
“I understand,” Annabelle said. “How is he?”
“He’s good. Recovering. He’s a tough lad, more bothered about his studies than what happened.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Annabelle said. “Take care, Ted.”
“You too, Vicar,” Ted said, turning away. “See you when your car breaks down!”
Annabelle laughed and watched Ted make his way out of the doors, only to be stopped and drawn into a conversation with someone.
“How about that?” Annabelle said.
“I don’t care for surprises, myself,” Philippa replied, “but there are some people for whom a shock does the world of good.”
Annabelle looked at Philippa, acknowledging the wisdom of her words.
“I do believe you’re right, Philippa.”
Annabelle stood for a few more minutes, thanking the villagers who were still streaming into the church with their offerings as Philippa returned to helping Mrs. Applebury arrange the overflowing pile that had now exceeded the table’s capacity and was spreading along the floor, the front pews, and all around the base of the pulpit.
Mr. Malik and his daughter Samira even dropped by to donate some fine tobacco and a plate of Mrs. Malik’s Florentine slices.
“How are you, Samira?”
“Very well, Reverend. I want to thank you for what you did for us, for Aziz.”
“Hush, it was nothing. I’m glad to hear that he’s doing well. What are your plans now?”
“I’m going to stay in the village until the new year, but then I’ll be off back to uni to my studies. I’m looking forward to it.”
“I hope you’ll enjoy your last few weeks with us. We’ll miss you when you’re gone.”
The two women exchanged a hug, and Annabelle reciprocated Mr. Malik’s slight bow with a hesitant and much deeper one of her own. She watched them walk proudly back down the aisle and out into the rain.
As she did so, her eye was caught by an old man who was making his way into the church. He had a distinctive bow-legged gait. She knew him to be a rather isolated man who lived by himself in a secluded, decrepit farmhouse a little outside the village. Not much was known about him other than he enjoyed collecting war memorabilia and that each Saturday he went to the pub to consume exactly two pints of bitter and a bag of peanuts in his favorite spot.
It was not only the surprise of his visit that got Annabelle’s attention (she had never seen him in church before), but it was also what he was carrying. Rather than the plastic bags and cardboard boxes that the other villagers had used to carry their donations inside, the elderly man’s hand was tightly clenched around the thin handle of a flat, metal box, something more appropriate for tools than food.
Annabelle watched patiently as he ambled with incredible slowness toward her. After a rather long time in which to consider the possibilities of his visit, he stood in front of her and raised his bald, liver-spotted head to look at Annabelle with his small, brown eyes.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Mr. Austin. It’s rather nice to see you in church.”
Mr. Austin nodded slowly, as if the words took some time to reach him, then he spoke again.
“Can we talk somewhere private? Er… Father?”
Annabelle chuckled. “‘Reverend,’ is just fine, Mr. Austin. And of course, follow me.”
She led the short man slowly off to the side, where the church office, kitchen, and storage spaces were located. After opening the door to the office for him and closing it behind her, Annabelle joined the old man as he stood beside the desk on which he had placed his peculiar storage container.
“So what did you want to speak to me about, Mr. Austin?”
“I’d like to make a donation to the church.”
“Oh! That’s marvelous! Thank you very much. We are always grateful for such kindnesses.”
Once again, there was a pause of a few seconds before Mr. Austin nodded. He turned to the metal box, flipped the latch, and opened it.
“Golly gumdrops!” Annabelle cried loudly, placing her palms to her cheeks. She stared from the money that filled the entire interior of the toolbox to Mr. Austin and back again.
“It’s yours,” Mr. Austin said calmly. “But I would like my box back.”
“How much is in there?”
was all that Annabelle could muster.
“A little over fifteen thousand pounds, I should say.”
“Golly,” Annabelle repeated, this time in a whisper of amazement. “Mr. Austin, where exactly did all this money come from?”
The old man rarely grinned, but his eyes did sparkle as he looked up at the Reverend.
“Do you know anything about the card games that have been going on recently?”
Annabelle sighed. “I am rather more acquainted with those events than you would believe, Mr. Austin.”
“Well,” he said, gesturing at the money, “I’m a good card player.”
Annabelle gawped with astonishment at the man before her. His sleepy appearance and innocent eyes seemed the very last place one would find the wits and shrewdness of a card maestro.
“Do you mean to say that you won this money from those crook-ridden card games?”
Once again Mr. Austin took a moment to answer, but when he did, his voice had a mischievous quality to it and his words seemed borne of a man who had seen a lot and thought even more throughout his decades on this earth.
“Card games are a simple matter of probability, Reverend. When you play with crooks, the probability is that someone is cheating. As I told you, I’m a good card player,” Mr. Austin said, reaching into the pocket of his brown slacks and pulling out a bag of half-eaten bonbons, “but I’m even better at cheating.”
It took a few seconds before Annabelle realized it, and when she did, her jaw dropped. Those were her bonbons! She searched her cassock for them but found her pockets empty. Mr. Austin held the packet out to her and winked. She took it slowly, stunned and speechless.
“How did you do that?” Annabelle said, once she had gathered enough composure to form her words again.
“Despite appearances,” he began, “I am not from England. I was born in a far more unpleasant place. During the war I had to make my way across Europe any way I knew how, and I picked up a lot of skills along the road. Cards was one of them.”
Grave in the Garage (A Reverend Annabelle Dixon Cozy Mystery Book 4) Page 13
