“He looks like he was playing the bagpipes when he died,” Fraser, the bearded man, shouted over the chaos.
Annabelle checked that Bruce was done taking pictures, then knelt quickly beside the body. She reached out but stopped when she felt Bruce’s hand on her shoulder.
“Should we be moving him? Maybe we need to leave it for the police.”
Annabelle glared at him through the sheeting rain.
“You are the police, Bruce!” she shouted against the wind, before turning back and reaching out again to pull the bagpipes away from Harry’s face. It was a more difficult task than she expected and when she paused, she realized why. The chanter, on which Harry played his squeaking melodies, had been rammed down his throat.
“He’s been murdered!” Davy shouted out from underneath his hood. He was barely audible above a loud roll of thunder.
Annabelle bent over further and studied the body intently while the wind and rain battered her face. There was a wound at the front of Harry’s head, and blood had run on to the sand. She looked around for some kind of weapon or other clue but found none. She closed her eyes and said a brief, solemn prayer.
“What shall we do?” Bruce asked.
Annabelle gently pulled the chanter from Harry’s mouth and stood up, clutching the bagpipes. Something fell from them, and Fraser leaped forward to retrieve it. He held it up and everyone saw that it was a metal rod with a flat tapered end. They all looked at each other. The question of its identity and purpose was written on all their faces, but nobody ventured an answer.
“How far does the tide come up? Can you take the body somewhere safe and dry?” Annabelle shouted at the two men.
Davy and Fraser looked at each other quickly.
“The boat’s nearest,” the bearded man said, “we could put him in the hold. He’ll be safe there until the storm lets up – whenever that may be.”
“Do that,” Bruce said, and the two men quickly obliged, each one taking an end of the pub landlord and carrying him down the sandy beach. Annabelle turned to Bruce, noticing that the man’s attention was now absorbed by the swirling skies.
“We should really get back,” he shouted with a concerned look, “the weather’s going to get worse very quickly.”
“Worse?” Annabelle cried, her hair now strewn across her face, her coat soaked and her cassock clinging to her knees. How could it get any worse? But she nodded and let Bruce lead her down the beach a way, the rocky incline now being far too dangerous to navigate. As they set off, she took one last look around and stopped abruptly. In the distance she saw a male figure still and alone on the grassy ground above them, watching silently. Annabelle squinted to see who it was. Spray from the sea mixed with rain from above formed a blanket of grey that made him appear some kind of ghostly apparition, but his outline was unmistakable. The figure, seeing her peer through the murky weather, turned and walked away in the direction of home. Pip Craven. She’d know him anywhere.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BRUCE AND ANNABELLE trudged up a sandy path that sucked at their feet, eventually returning to the slick, soaked, coarse grass. They sheltered under a wind-affected tree that had grown at a low angle to the ground and away from the beach.
Bruce picked out his phone from his pocket and shouted into it. Annabelle couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, and she was far too preoccupied with keeping herself upright to focus on anything else. She held onto the forlorn tree feeling great empathy with it for having to endure such a harsh environment. Eventually Bruce shoved the phone back into his pocket and drew close to Annabelle’s ear.
“That was Fenbarra,” he shouted inches away from her face, the rain and wind now a loud crescendo, “they’ve confirmed that all boats and aircraft are stopped. There’s no way anyone’s getting to the island tonight or tomorrow.”
Annabelle nodded. Bruce glanced at the bagpipes she still clutched under her arm, and reached out for them. They walked on for a while, walking inland a little but keeping the coastline in view so as to hold onto their bearings.
“I’ll walk you back to Roger’s house,” Bruce shouted again over the din.
Annabelle shook her head and looked over to the church, which was now in view along with the cottages over to one side.
“No, it’s okay” she shouted back, “I’ll go visit Felicity. Will you be alright by yourself?”
“Aye, things’ll get easier the more inland I go. Nothing I haven’t done a hundred times before.”
Bruce looked over to the ramshackle cottage, the apple tree beside it swaying threateningly against the onslaught.
“Okay. I’ll see you when I see you,” he called out, and he began walking back toward the village.
Annabelle hunkered down into her coat and forced herself forward toward the cottage. She slogged up cracked paving stones, in between weeds and straggly bushes, before violently slamming the dirty brass knocker on the front door of the cottage, eager to be heard above the tumult of the weather.
The door was quickly opened by the woman who had stood at the gate earlier. Now up close, Annabelle saw she was rather homely with dark, nervous eyes, her dry hair now tied into a messy braid.
“Yes?” she said, quickly. “Is Felicity with you?” The woman looked around to see if Annabelle was accompanied.
“I’m sorry?” Annabelle said.
“Felicity,” the woman repeated. “Do you know where she is?”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” Annabelle said, alarmed. “Has something happened to her? She’s not out in this weather, is she?”
The woman opened her mouth to say something, then stepped back further into the house. “Come in. I can barely hear you out there.”
Annabelle hurried inside as the woman closed the door behind her.
“I’m Kirsty Munroe,” the other woman said, her arms crossed tightly against her chest. “You must be Bonnie’s aunt. Felicity has told me about you.”
“But what’s happened to her? Where is she? A young girl can’t be out in weather like this!”
Kirsty’s eyes darkened, and her lips tightened.
“That girl is in a lot of trouble when I finally get my hands on her! I’ve told her so many times that she wasn’t to wander far, and now it’s,” she glanced at the clock quickly “seven-thirty, and she’s still gallivanting about the island! I have no idea where she is!” Kirsty’s anger made her face go a deep red, and Annabelle could see tears forming. “Och, it’ll be no less than she deserves! What on earth was she thinking?!”
“Ms. Munroe, please calm down,” Annabelle said, in as soothing a manner as she could. “I’m sure she’s safe. She’s probably at a friend’s house, sheltering from the storm. When did she leave?”
Kirsty struggled to stifle her angry sobs, but eventually looked Annabelle in the eye and answered her question.
“She was supposed to visit her friends who live four doors down, the cottage at the end. She spends most of her time there, getting up to God-knows-what, but I’ve called on them, and she left there a while back. They thought she’d come back here, but no. Not even a call. That girl has no idea of how much stress she causes me!”
“Listen,” Annabelle said, speaking soothingly and placing a sympathetic hand on the distraught woman’s shoulder, but inwardly feeling very concerned, “sit tight, and I’ll go out to look for her. You stay here, in the event she comes back. Call me on my phone if she does.” Annabelle quickly wrote down her number.
Kirsty growled but offered a shrug and a perfunctory nod in reply, overcome with exasperation and worry. Annabelle spun in her dirty, wet heels and left the cottage, out once more into the filthy weather. It had grown even more frightening now. Branches lashed against fences. Doors and windows rattled fiercely in their frames. Annabelle felt the rain change direction as the wind whipped it around as if showing it who was boss. Ahead and slightly to her left, the church stood resolutely against the battering as it had done for nearly two centuries.
She
rushed back down the cottage path, looking around her for some clue as to where Felicity might have gone. She called her name. Annabelle looked again over to the church and noticed the doors were firmly closed. She thought back to the lock that had been so decisively broken. On an impulse, she began scrambling up the path toward the church just as a crack of thunder sounded so loudly above her that it startled her.
“God, you are angry about something,” Annabelle muttered. “I can just, you know, tell.”
As she reached the doors, she leaned against them. Something was preventing them from opening. A sudden panic overtook her. The events of the evening had already been full of surprises, and enduring the terrible weather had tested both her physical capabilities and her nerves. She had little energy left for further shocks.
She braced her shoulder against the door, dug her boots into the wet gravel, and began pushing with all her might. The door slowly began to move, creating a crack at first, then a gap. Grunting, she leaned in further. Suddenly it broke wide open, the force propelling Annabelle forward through the small entrance hall and depositing her in a heap on the floor of the church aisle.
“Ouch!” she groaned, pushing herself up and clutching her elbow. She winced in pain. A soft pair of small hands pressed gently against her back. She turned. “Felicity! Thank goodness you’re alright!” she cried.
The girl’s delicate blue eyes were big and full of concern as she looked at Annabelle. “Are you alright? I’m terribly sorry, Reverend. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I’ll be fine. What are you talking about?
“I stopped you from getting in. I pushed the collection table against the door to keep it shut. The lock was broken.” Felicity said, suddenly a little coy. “I hope you don’t mind. It was heavy, but I managed it eventually. I saw it was you pushing at the door. I moved it so you could get inside. And then… then you ended up on the floor!” Felicity looked down at her lap.
Annabelle got up on her feet, took a few steps over to one of the pews, and flopped down. She held her arm up for Felicity to join her and shuffled over to give her room. The young girl’s face was full of remorse.
“Felicity,” Annabelle said, putting her arm around the girl’s shoulder, “what are you doing in here? Your aunt is going out of her mind with worry. It’s dark, and there’s a terrible storm outside.”
Felicity sighed and looked at the ground again.
“I just felt so awful and guilty. I wanted to hide away. I couldn’t bear to face anyone.”
Annabelle pulled her closer.
“Come now! What do you have to feel guilty about, eh? What are you going on about?”
Felicity gazed up at Annabelle, her almond-shaped eyes brimming with tears.
“I heard Mrs. Gallacher, she’s my neighbor, talking about the church being broken into, and the jewelry being stolen, and about Mr. Anderson being… dead! It was me, wasn’t it? It’s all my fault!” she gabbled.
“Why ever would you say that, Felicity? How can it be your fault?”
“If I had just left that jewelry box where I’d found it – or just done what I was told, never gone to play in the abandoned house in the first place – none of this would have happened! Mr. Anderson might still be alive! It’s my fault!”
Annabelle squeezed Felicity against her again.
“Poppycock!” she said. She rubbed Felicity’s back. “You did the right thing. If I had found the jewelry box, I would have done the same. The only ones who should be feeling bad are the person who broke into the church, and the person who killed Harry. We—“
“Somebody killed Harry?!” Felicity started to gasp and sob.
“Shush, now,” Annabelle soothed. “We don’t even know if the two are connected. None of it has anything to do with you, Felicity. Do you understand? Shush, shush.”
Felicity sobbed a little longer, her head on Annabelle’s chest. Annabelle stroked her fine, dark hair until she stopped crying. Eventually, Felicity looked up.
“I suppose,” she said seriously.
“Good,” Annabelle said. “Now let’s get you home to your aunt.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AFTER SPENDING A few minutes to jam the broken lock of the church in such a fashion that it would hold shut, Annabelle took Felicity by the hand back to her aunt’s cottage. Kirsty seemed even more angry and disheveled than she had before.
“Where have you been, Felicity? I have been tearing my hair out!” Kirsty’s hair looked like she was telling the truth.
“She was sheltering in the church,” Annabelle intervened.
“But why didn’t you just come home? Why did you go all the way up to the church in this weather?”
Felicity hung her head.
“Och, away wi’ ye,” the woman said to the girl.
Felicity turned to Annabelle, her earlier distress replaced by stoicism, the kind Annabelle was more accustomed to seeing in the wealthy widows of her parish the day after their unpleasant husbands had died. Felicity said, “I’ll be in my room. Please say ‘hi’ to Bonnie for me, Annabelle. Tell her I’ll see her tomorrow at school.”
After Felicity had gone to her room, Kirsty grudgingly allowed Annabelle to wait for Roger to pick her up. Kirsty sat at her kitchen table, furiously working on her laptop while lamenting the loss of her internet connection. Annabelle spent an uncomfortable time waiting in silence.
After fifteen minutes, Roger arrived at the house muttering words she couldn’t quite make out about “Southerners” and their “daft ideas.” He drove home slowly through the thrashing weather, taking care as he navigated the barely visible, slippery roads while roundly admonishing Annabelle for not wearing a sufficiently thick and robust raincoat.
“Yes, yes, Roger. I get it. In future, I’ll wear at least three warm layers and carry a plastic mac with me at all times. Now will you stop your scolding,” Annabelle responded irritably.
Her brother looked at her quickly and ceased his chiding. Annabelle stared out at the rain.
Once home, she took a long, hot bath, put on her pajamas, and was given a big mug of hot chocolate by Bonnie, who had only just completed her homework. Annabelle sank into the sofa, her gaze lazily fixed upon the fire that Roger had stoked, her limbs still throbbing from her exertions, her muscles still fatigued. Roger came in the room and shook his head at her fondly, his anger having dissipated.
“Bonnie’s all tucked up in bed. You look like you’ll need tucking in soon, too. Careful you don’t fall asleep there and spill that hot drink all over you.”
Annabelle returned his smile.
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened today.”
Roger settled into his favored, worn armchair beside the fire, his expression turning serious.
“I did hear something about that. Are you going to tell me about it? You’ve only been here two days and I’m already asking you for the local news.”
Annabelle sipped slowly at the hot, sweet, creamy cocoa.
“Well, first the church was broken into and a jewelry box was stolen.”
“A jewelry box? What was Father Boyce doing with a jewelry box? He gets grumpy when he sees a lad with an earring.”
“It wasn’t his. It was given to me by… someone. To keep safe.”
Roger leaned forward.
“Oh? Who?”
“I can’t say,” replied Annabelle, reaching for her phone and bringing up the photos of the jewelry. She handed it to Roger. “The person who gave me the box found it in an abandoned house. Do you recognize these?”
Roger flicked through the pictures before shaking his head.
“Sorry,” he said. “They look expensive, though.”
“I suspect they are.”
“What do you think the story is?”
Annabelle sighed. “I think that once I learn a bit more about those jewelry pieces, I’ll learn who stole them.”
Roger chuckled. “You sound like a detective on a case.”
“Well,
it doesn’t seem there’s anyone else here able to take it on.”
“Yes,” Roger mused with a wry smile. “Though Bob McGregor does solve a lot of the feral goat problems.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Sad news about Harry,” Roger said, getting up to stir the fire a little.
“You heard about that?”
“You can’t keep news like that quiet in a place as small as this.”
“It looks like he was murdered.”
“Wow, no! Really? We have a murderer on the loose? I suppose you’re going to try and solve that one as well.”
Annabelle shifted in her seat.
“I’ve got a pretty strong suspicion that the two incidents are connected.”
“Oh?” Roger said.
“Yes,” Annabelle replied. “A few hours before he was found, I showed Harry one of those pictures. The next thing we know, he’s dead.”
“Hmm, nasty,” Roger commented. “But perhaps it’s just a coincidence.” He leaned over and poked at the fire. “The island is cut off right now. That means that one of us locals is the murderer. I can’t fathom it. I can’t think of anyone on the island who would murder someone.”
“What do you think he was doing at the beach? And with his bagpipes, too? Did you know he was killed with his own bagpipes! Bashed in the head, and a pipe thrust down his throat,” Annabelle said.
“Harry always took his bagpipes with him,” Roger said, “He liked to play as he walked around the island. Mairéad – his daughter – can’t stand the sound of them. You can hear him coming a mile away.”
Annabelle grunted. “Well, there you go,” she said, raising her mug of hot chocolate, “I didn’t know that. I’m already making progress.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Monday
ANNABELLE HAULED HERSELF out of bed, dressed, and strolled groggily into the kitchen, feeling fully the effects of braving the storm the night before. She had slept well, drifting off the second her head hit the pillow, but even though the chills and tiredness were gone, they had left behind a series of dull pains and a throbbing headache.
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