Horror in the Highlands (A Reverend Annabelle Dixon Cozy Mystery Book 5)

by Alison Golden

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.

  “Just in time,” Roger said, as he turned down the radio and rinsed off a few plates in the kitchen sink, “I was about to give up on you totally and put the breakfast things away.”

  “Where’s Bonnie?” Annabelle said, fluffing up her messy hair and yawning.

  Roger chuckled. “I took her to school a while ago. It’s nearly ten o’clock!”

  Annabelle nodded and sidled into a chair, lazily grabbing at the toast and marmalade that had been laid out. Roger poured her some tea.

  “People are worried what with having a murderer on the loose and all,” Roger said. “I popped into the shop for some milk, and it was all Mr. Glencoe could talk about. He even gave me too much change! That’s a first. How are you feeling?” he asked, seeing Annabelle yawn again.

  “Fine,” Annabelle nodded, “About as good as you would expect after running around in that terrible weather last night.” She gazed out of the window as she chewed slowly. “Most of the storm seems to have cleared away, at least.”

  Roger shrugged. “It’s only just stopped raining, and it’ll most likely start up again later today. It’ll probably rain off and on for a while longer until the storm blows itself out.” He looked at Annabelle. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up regarding the ferries or the flights just yet. The waves are still too high, and the wind is strong.”

  Annabelle groaned with disappointment. “We need the police from Fenbarra to get here.”

  “I suppose you’ll be off again today,” Roger said, “bothering the locals and playing detective?”

  Annabelle shrugged, “Don’t know. What are you going to do?”

  “Stay at home mostly, but I have to go pick Mrs. Cavendish up. She went to buy some more sugar. She’s gone through our entire stock of baking things to satisfy your sweet tooth.”

  Annabelle smiled at her brother. “I reckon Mrs. Cavendish could make something delicious from a pickle!”

  “Well, if you need a lift anywhere, I can take you.”

  Once Annabelle had eaten, dressed, and tamed her hair, they pulled on their boots and left the house.

  “Oh my,” Annabelle remarked, as she stepped through thick sludge to get to the car, “it’s terribly muddy.”

  Roger raised an eyebrow as he opened the door. “The storm is the easy part, it’s what comes after that’s the problem. Mudslides, felled trees, escaped livestock. It’s all part and parcel of living up here.”

  Roger drove slowly along the roads, careful to avoid any particularly threatening puddles or potholes. As they progressed at a snail’s pace, Annabelle considered what her next step should be. She pondered the questions that were troubling her as she gazed out of the window at the wide, open fields of grass that were flattened in different directions as the squally gusts of wind ran across them. The Land Rover shuddered, buffeted by the force.

  “Well, would you look at that,” Roger remarked.

  “What?” Annabelle said, spinning around to see Roger pointing out a figure beyond the windshield. She followed his finger and saw a tall, gawky man struggling to pedal a bicycle along the muddy windy road, its wheels sinking a good inch into it. He’d put the bike into too low a gear and was putting in a lot of effort for not much reward.

  “Is that Robert Kilbairn?” Annabelle asked.

  “Let’s see, he’s a fair-haired chap who’s riding a bike as if his life depended on it. I’d say it was.”

  Roger rolled down his window as they drew alongside the struggling cyclist. He was pointed in the opposite direction. Annabelle saw that his trousers were almost entirely covered in mud, and specks of it were evident on his jacket and even his face.

  “Need a hand there, Robert?” Roger called out.

  “No!” Robert Kilbairn replied loudly, shouting above the sound of his own exertions. “Perfectly fine!”

  Robert leaped off his bike, grit his teeth, and began pushing it.

  “Are you sure, Robert…?”

  “Quite sure! Thank you!” Kilbairn stared resolutely ahead and rushed past them.

  Roger looked back at Annabelle, and they exchanged amused shrugs before carrying on to the village.

  As they approached, Annabelle said, “You can let me out here if you like, Roger. I’m going to go to the pub.”

  “Bit early for a drink isn’t it? They won’t be open.”

  “Oh, I’m not going to be drinking, I want to talk to Mairéad, see how she’s coping. A compassionate call from the local clergy. I’m sure that’s what Father Boyce would do.”

  “Whatever you want, Bumble,” said Roger, as he slowed the car. Annabelle smiled and opened the door, but before she stepped out, Roger tugged at her sleeve. “Do try and get back home before nightfall this time. I know that once you’re set on something, you think of little else, but you did come up here to see us – to see Bonnie – not to fight crime. We’d like to see a bit more of you before you leave.”

  Annabelle smiled apologetically. “You’re right. I’ll make sure I’m home in time to do something with Bonnie. I’m sorry. I get carried away sometimes.”

  “It’s fine. That’s one thing we love about you,” Roger said warmly.

  Annabelle waved him goodbye and turned to push her way through the doors of the pub when she heard shouting from down the street. Recognizing Bruce Fitzpatrick, she quickly made her way over to him and his two flustered companions. Annabelle quickly realized they were the American tourists, Mitch and Patti.

  “Every time! Every single goddamned time!” Mitch boomed, his voice high with frustration.

  “Mitch please, calm down. I hate seeing you like this,” Patti soothed.

  “Hold on, please,” Bruce said, patting the air with his raised palms as he tried to placate the irate American. “I know this is frustrating. I’d really like to help you.”

  “Everyone,” Mitch erupted, raising his voice a few more decibels, “on this island has been nothing, but welcoming, kind, and helpful – except the one guy we came to see! Robert goddamned Kilbairn!”

  “Mitch, please honey, don’t raise your voice,” Patti pleaded, before noticing Annabelle walking up to them. “Oh, Annabelle. It’s so nice to see you again,” she said breaking into a big smile.

  “Annabelle!” Bruce said. He clutched her arm and stood beside her. “Maybe you can help these good people.”

  “What’s going on?” Annabelle said, looking at all three of them. “Is Robert Kilbairn still avoiding you? We saw him just now heading up the road. He seemed in a terrible hurry again.”

  “He always is,” Patti said sorrowfully.

  “Every single time!” Mitch added, still frustrated, but slightly less loud now in the face of Annabelle’s kind, compassionate presence. “We’ve spent two days chasing him around the island like headless chickens. Whenever we go to the pub, he leaves out the back, or gives us the slip in the crowd. When we saw him riding on the path, he suddenly changed direction and was gone in a flash. He even hid in the bathrooms when we chased him down in a local restaurant. I was banging on the door like a crazy man, but he climbed out the window!”

  Patti rubbed her husband’s back as he stared at the ground and shook his head to suppress his mounting anger. Annabelle exchanged a pitying look with Bruce.

  “Have you tried going to the castle again?” she asked slowly.

  Patti sighed deeply. “It’s locked every time. It’s impossible to get inside, or even see if he’s there.”

  “It’s a goddamned castle!” Mitch exploded again. “The wall around it is fifteen feet high and the doors were built to keep the English out! Unless I can buy a one of those giant sling shots…”

  “A trebuchet, honey,” his wife interjected.
<
br />   “…Exactly, and, and… a battering ram at the local convenience store, then neither you, me, nor a barbarian horde are getting inside!”

  Annabelle held back a small smirk at the man’s wit.

  “How long are you staying on the island?” she asked.

  “We don’t know. It was to be two weeks—“ Patti said.

  “I’ll stay as long as it goddamned takes!” Mitch interrupted. “I’m a Lord of the Clannan tribe, and I’ll set foot on my land before I leave Scotland. Mark my words.”

  “Well, there should be some police officers arriving tonight or tomorrow,” Annabelle said, “Once they’re here, we can let them know about your problem. Hopefully they’ll be able to help. At least you know no one’s going anywhere.”

  Mitch and Patti looked at each other, then at Annabelle, a small glint of hope in their eyes once again.

  “Thanks, Annabelle. That means so much,” said Patti.

  “Yeah,” Mitch said, the redness of his cheeks already dissipating. “I appreciate it.”

  Smiling for the first time, the couple wrapped their arms lovingly around each other and set off into the village. Annabelle and Bruce watched them go.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THANKS FOR THAT, Vicar,” Bruce said, pulling off his flat cap and rubbing a hand through his hair. “I didn’t have a clue how to handle that.”

  “Well, it’s not over yet. I just hope the police can help them.”

  “Aye,” Bruce said, putting his hat back on. “Where are you off to?”

  “I’m going to visit Mairéad to see how she’s doing.”

  “Ah, I went to tell her the news last night. She was, as you’d expect, quite upset.”

  Inside the pub, it was gloomy but warm. Shafts of light from the window picked out dust motes floating in the air. Annabelle heard the crash of a door, and Mairéad looking pale and wan came through to the bar from the back. From where Annabelle stood, the young woman appeared to be impassive, but the vicar could sense the overwhelming sadness that resided just beneath the surface of her pale, freckled skin. Mairéad caught sight of Annabelle immediately.

  “Oh, good morning, Vicar. I’m afraid we’re not open today.”

  “I’ve not come for a drink, Mairéad. I’ve come to express my sincere condolences and to see how you are coping, if you need anything. Such a terrible business!”

  “Thank you, Vicar. It was quite a shock.”

  “Do you have someone with you? Looking after you?” Annabelle looked concernedly at the young woman.

  “I have my friend, Anne. She’s come over to be with me. I’m alright, thank you.” Mairéad gave Annabelle a weak smile. “Look, why don’t we sit down? Would you like a drink?”

  Mairéad got them both a glass of orange juice, and they sat down at one of the small, round, wooden tables.

  “Bruce said Dad’s body had been found on the beach. Said he’d been murdered. How can that be?” A tear rolled down her cheek, and she pulled a crumpled tissue from her sleeve to dab at it.

  “We don’t really know, Mairéad. We’ll have to wait for the police to arrive to conduct a proper investigation.”

  “Did he really have his bagpipes rammed down his throat?”

  Annabelle nodded.

  “I always did hate those things. But now I’m so sad. I’ll never hear them again!” Mairéad started to sob in earnest. Annabelle put a hand on her arm. When the younger woman’s tears subsided, Annabelle brought out her phone and pulled up the photos of the jewelry.

  “Mairéad, do you know anything about these? I showed them to your father in the pub yesterday lunchtime. I’m wondering if they have anything to do with what happened?”

  Mairéad peered carefully at the photographs, swiping backward and forward several times.

  Finally, she said, “I do remember these. It was a few years ago. I was just a teenager. We have a big ceilidh on Burns Night, and everyone dresses up. Well, as much as anyone dresses up on this island.” She looked up at Annabelle with big shining eyes. “There was a woman there. She was wearing this emerald necklace and these ruby earrings,” Mairéad pointed at the photos. “I remember because they were beautiful. I’d never seen such magnificent jewelry before. They matched her tartan.”

  “’Her,’ Mairéad?”

  “Aye, back then I was just an island girl who’d never been anywhere much. She looked like a vision to me. Beautiful she was, so happy and smiley. The men couldn’t take their eyes off her.”

  “Who was she, this vision in tartan?” Annabelle repeated.

  “Oh yes, her name was Moira. Moira Ballantyne. Felicity’s mother."

  Annabelle stood outside the pub, blinking and considering what to do next.

  “Hello again, Vicar! We keep bumping into one another, don’t we?” Bruce Fitzpatrick strolled up to her. “How was Mairéad?” he asked quietly as he sidled up.

  “As well as can be expected in the circumstances. Poor girl. Such a shock!”

  “I’ve just been to Glencoe’s, our local grocery store. I heard a rumor that Harry and Mairéad had an argument before he died.” Bruce lowered his voice even more.

  “Really?” Annabelle turned and looked back at the pub door.

  Bruce looked over Annabelle’s shoulder. “Can’t be nice having the last words with your father be cross ones. Apparently,” he said, warming to his subject, “Harry was seen striding down the southern road by a number of the locals. Mairéad was chasing after him, screaming her head off. She was ‘fair reekin’ as they say around here. Furious about something or other, she was.”

  “Do you have any idea what it was about?” Annabelle asked.

  “I’ve no idea, but Harry could be trying at times, very trying. Larger than life he was, but that can get on your nerves after a while, can’t it?”

  “She didn’t say anything about that to me.”

  “Perhaps it’s the shock.”

  “Hmm,” Annabelle said, loathe to believe what Bruce was saying about the bereaved young woman.

  “It’s a shock for everyone,” Bruce continued. “Nothing ever happens on this island. We probably haven’t had a murder since the 1300s, and we’re a lot more civilized now than we were back then. Where are you off to now?”

  “I think I’ll go to Kirsty Munroe’s. Her house has a perfect view of the church. She may have seen something that could be relevant to the break-in, and if the two of them are connected, Harry’s murder.” Annabelle decided not to let Bruce in on what Mairéad had just told her about the jewelry.

  Bruce nodded. “The locals are all of a tizz this morning. I hope the Fenbarra police get here soon. Joe Conway, he’s one of the local farmers, is talking about putting a vigilante group together.”

  “Pitchforks at the ready, hmm? Well, it is rather alarming. Having a murderer in your midst isn’t what anyone wants, especially when they’re trapped on the island with you.”

  “Mind if I join you?” Bruce asked Annabelle.

  “Of course not.”

  The two of them set off. They were becoming rather accustomed to one another’s company as they zig-zagged around the island on their various jaunts.

  “Did you figure anything out yet?” Bruce asked suddenly. “I mean, about the burglary or the murder.”

  “Not really, I’m afraid. Did you?”

  Bruce sighed. “No. I was up half the night just staring at Harry’s bagpipes, trying to put it all together. It’s just so…random. And I couldn’t stop thinking about this, as well.” He pulled out the small metal rod from inside his coat. He handed it to Annabelle. She studied it as she walked. “What do you think it is?”

  “Looks like it might be something to do with his bagpipes. For cleaning, mebbe?” Bruce asked.

  Annabelle frowned as she turned it over in her hand. Suddenly she stopped walking and ran her finger over the thin, tapered edge at one end, before turning to look at Bruce.

  “There were marks on the church doors, as if something had been jammed b
etween them in order to pry the door open. It could very possibly have been this.”

  Bruce’s face lit up. “Aye! Good thinking,” he said, taking it from her. “I’ll go and check the marks, see if they’re a match. If they are, perhaps the murderer used this to break into the kirk. Perhaps he dropped it when he killed Harry. That’s the connection!”

  They began walking again.

  “Perhaps,” Annabelle said, looking at the sky absently as she thought it over. “But not necessarily.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It could have been Harry who broke into the church.”

  “Harry?” Bruce said, his screwed-up face indicating his disbelief. “I doubt it.”

  “Ah, we’re here.” Annabelle said. They were abreast of the cottages.

  “I guess I’ll leave you here then, Vicar,” Bruce said, nodding toward the church on the hill. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “Thanks, Bruce.”

  “No problem,” the man said, tipping his hat gently as he turned away.

  “Wait,” Annabelle said. Bruce raised his eyebrows. “Why are you still doing all of this? I thought you were only filling in for Bob McGregor.”

  “I still am,” Bruce smiled.

  “Has he not fixed that clogged toilet yet?”

  “Naw. He fixed it alright. But he’s always got important work to do after a storm.”

  “What’s more important than a murder investigation?“

  “You’ve been here long enough to know that, Annabelle. The murderers and thieves aren’t going anywhere,” Bruce said, without an ounce of irony. They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. “But feral goats, they’re everywhere!” Bruce shook his head and carried along the path to the church.

  “Of course, feral goats. Why didn’t I think of that?” Annabelle murmured.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  KIRSTY OPENED THE door moments after Annabelle knocked.

  “Vicar.”

  “Hello, Kirsty. How is everything today?”

  “Och, all back to normal,” Kirsty replied, dourly.