“Thank you, Father,” Annabelle sighed, soothed by his assuredness and authority. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Father John smiled at her and shook his head. “And I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”
Since moving to London, Annabelle would wake up and ensure that until she had settled down for breakfast, she would not let the onrush of the day’s errands and planned activities into her mind. Instead, she would use the calm respite of her early morning routine to mentally contemplate her privileged position, to refine her sense of magnanimous faith, and to reflect upon her personal growth.
On the morning after the terrible events surrounding Mary, Teresa, and the young woman at the café, however, Annabelle found herself making an exception. She brushed her teeth purposefully, dressed in expectation of any and all surprises, and ate a hearty breakfast that she hoped would give her the fortitude to handle the day’s investigation.
Her first task was to call Bishop Murphy. She gathered her composure, braced herself for addressing such an influential and important figure, albeit in a different branch of the church, and made the call. Rather anticlimactically, the Bishop was not available, but Annabelle was reassured by the kind voice of the secretary on the line that she was welcome to call back later.
With some time left before her lunch meeting with Mary, Annabelle had a brief, pleasant conversation with Cecilia as she arrived to perform her morning duties before setting off on a walk. She even remembered to take her cell phone, and upon placing it into her pocket, was reminded of the cake that remained there. She decided to keep it on hand, having just eaten breakfast, and in anticipation of another long day gallivanting around town.
After confirming her meeting with Sister Mary, who sounded more rather than less stressed after her night of sleep, Annabelle set off. They had agreed to meet in Soho, the densely packed district in the very heart of London. It was extremely busy throughout the day, meaning it should be safe, while still being far from the sites of the two murders. There was also a rather enticingly colorfultea shop about which Annabelle had heard some positive things.
Annabelle stepped off of the bus. She smiled as she felt the warmth of the sun on her face and witnessed the pleasing scene of a London street in the middle of the day. It was difficult to feel the proximity of evil in such delightfully uplifting surroundings, however much she reminded herself to stay alert. She strolled along the pavement with a smile on her face, enjoying the surprised reactions of Londoners for whom a smiling pedestrian is as alarming as a crazy one, and reached the tea shop feeling full of verve and wonder.
She stepped inside to the sound of the doorway’s tinkling doorbell and nodded a happy hello to the proprietor behind the counter. After scanning the tables, she noticed the politely raised hand of Mary, who was seated at the very back clutching an orange cup. She was wearing her habit, though she still carried the same handbag she had the day before.
Annabelle gestured for Mary to wait while she bought herself an Oolong tea and a chocolate caramel bar, then carried it to the table.
“Mary! How are you?” she said, after they had exchanged a quick embrace and settled into comfortably old-fashioned chairs.
“I feel awful, Annabelle,” she muttered from beneath her downturned face.
“Did you tell everyone what happened?”
“I told them I had to stay in London a little longer than I had intended, but I didn’t say precisely why. Oh Annabelle, I couldn’t! I was far too frightened of what they might think of me.”
“I’m sure it’ll turn out fine.”
Mary shook her head. “So much depends on me, Annabelle. People are dying daily from easily curable diseases and afflictions in West Africa. We work almost around the clock with minimal resources, to put every penny toward the drugs and treatments that allow people to live. Even small donations allow multiple people to stop suffering. There are so many people in need, however, that we really need a lot of funding. That was my task. That’s why I’m here. And instead, I’ll return penniless!”
Mary seemed almost on the verge of tears as she finished speaking. Annabelle placed a hand over her friend’s and rubbed it supportively.
“Don’t worry, Mary. We’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise.”
Mary looked into Annabelle’s eyes. “Oh Annabelle, you don’t still want to… ‘investigate’ this, don’t you? We’re in enough trouble as it is.”
“Well actually, I think I might be on to something,” Annabelle said, leaning forward to grab her friend’s full attention. “Do you recall what the Inspector said about Teresa’s apartment? Shortly after we had left it?”
Mary thought for a few seconds, before latching on to what Annabelle was referring to.
“About it being in complete disarray?”
“Yes!” Annabelle exclaimed.
“It was rather strange…” Mary agreed.
“There must have been someone else who entered the house after us, who then proceeded to turn the place into the ransacked mess that the Inspector discovered.”
“The person who killed her, perhaps?” Mary said, becoming entranced by Annabelle’s enthusiasm.
“Very possibly. Likely, I would say. They must have killed Teresa with the intention of entering her apartment.”
“But why? I don’t understand what someone would get from destroying such a beautiful home.”
Annabelle wagged a finger and smiled sneakily. “What if they were looking for something?”
Mary placed her palms on the table and glanced around, finding herself almost as deep in conspiratorial thought as Annabelle. “One of her artifacts, perhaps! There must certainly have been some priceless valuables among those pieces.”
“Precisely,” Annabelle added, pleased to find her friend joining in with her deductions.
“But why kill her while we were there? Wouldn’t it have been much easier to do it beforehand, or at least wait until we had left? Then the thief could have easily taken what he – or she – wanted from the apartment, and nobody would be any the wiser. Did they not know we were there? Could that have been merely an extraordinary coincidence?”
Annabelle nodded, then looked at her tea concentrating deeply. When she looked back at Mary’s face, she wore deep frown lines on her brow.
“I believe that wasn’t a coincidence,” she said, deliberately. “I don’t see how they couldn’t have known we were there. We were clearly visible through the windows.”
“Then why not wait until we had left?”
“Mary,” Annabelle said, using the tone of her voice to prepare her friend for a statement she wished she didn’t believe as much as she did, “I believe somebody is trying to frame us. More accurately, I believe they’re trying to frame you.”
Mary’s hand was barely quick enough to her mouth to smother the loud, shrieking gasp she emitted. Tea drinkers from the surrounding tables whipped their heads around to see the source of the high-pitched noise. Annabelle turned and smiled toward them.
“It’s alright,” she assured, “she’s just never tasted chocolate caramel bars before.”
She turned her head back to Mary, who had now managed to calm herself enough that she was able to pull her hand away and speak.
“Frame me? Why would anybody seek to frame me of all people?”
“That’s one of the questions that’s been troubling me since I woke up,” Annabelle replied.”
“And who would do such a thing, anyway?”
“That’s the other question,” Annabelle said, confirming her lack of further answers by taking a sizable bite out of her own sweet treat.
They sat silently, sipping their tea and considering the irritatingly perplexing questions that hung in the air between them. Every once in a while Mary would frown at her own thoughts, until finally sighing sorrowfully at her inability to conclude them. Annabelle could feel the deep worry and intense strain that her friend was under as keenly as if it were her own.
>
“Oh Annabelle,” Mary said, eventually, “where will this all end? I don’t see how I’ll ever get out of this pickle. At best, I’ll return to Africa late, disgraced, and without any of the funding that I tried so hard to get. At worst… I daren’t think about it, but if I am being framed, then I won’t just be punished, I’ll bring huge amounts of shame to the work my fellow nuns are doing all over Africa, perhaps the entire Catholic Church!”
“I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you believe.”
“I cannot share your optimism, Annabelle. Can you imagine what the papers would say if they found out? A nun? Accused of murder – and possibly stealing? It would probably make the front pages! The indignity!”
Annabelle sipped her tea. She wished that she could calm her friend’s worries, but to deny them would be a lie. Mary was right. If the newspapers did find out, the ensuing mess would be dreadful for everybody involved.
“What should we do now?” Mary said, eventually.
Annabelle nodded as she placed her tea cup down gently, as if she too had been considering the very same question.
“There’s one person who can help us.”
“Who?” Mary quickly said, eager to follow any avenue that could lead her away from her sticky situation.
“Bishop Murphy. Apparently he has already heard about this spot of bother we find ourselves in. He left me multiple messages yesterday and is keen to speak with me. I would imagine he’d like to speak with you too.”
“Yes. He called after me too, but I had hoped to delay meeting with him until… well, until I had rather more positive news.”
“Let’s hope that Bishop Murphy can provide us with that positive news himself,” Annabelle said, pulling her cell phone from her pockets.
“I should mention something before you call,” Mary said, placing a hand over Annabelle’s phone.
“Yes?” Annabelle said, raising an eyebrow.
Mary squirmed a little before speaking. “The Bishop may not be as sympathetic toward me as you might expect. You see…”
Annabelle’s eyebrows and ears pricked up at this somewhat peculiar tone in Mary’s voice.
“He and Teresa knew each other. I’m not sure, but I believe they were friends. She was a well-known contributor to the Catholic Church. It was the Bishop himself who suggested I seek her out in order to gather resources for my hospital. He is probably gravely concerned about her death, not least because of my involvement – or I should say – suspected involvement.”
Annabelle considered her friend’s words briefly, but carefully. She pushed away the unthinkable thought that popped into her mind and proceeded to smile good-naturedly as she sought out the Bishop’s number in her phone.
“All the more reason to get him on our side as quickly as possible,” she declared, bringing the phone to her ear. “Let’s just hope that his judgment is as capable as his faith.”
The two women set off as soon as Annabelle had arranged a meeting with the Bishop’s secretary, who had assured them that Bishop Murphy was anticipating their meeting greatly.
Bishop Murphy’s home was in the heart of Kensington, one of London’s oldest and wealthiest boroughs. With its clean, tree-lined streets, and the well-maintained fronts of its vast and diverse homes, it was an area that drew the kind of people who enjoyed the distinctive flavor of London life while still requiring the peaceful repose of quiet streets and luxurious homes more often situated in suburbia.
For the first time since they had met again, Annabelle and Mary felt relaxed as they strolled through the safety and the beauty of the area’s spotless streets. They walked arm in arm, just as they had as children in search of their next adventure.
“This is it,” Annabelle said, as they stopped outside the address given to her by the Bishop’s secretary.
“Oh my!” replied Mary, as she craned her head back to take in the full majesty of the Bishop’s abode.
They were standing in front of a tall, four-story Victorian structure, though it displayed none of the typically Victorian austerity, with vast, arched windows and double doors almost as large as those of Annabelle’s church. The white-stone walls of the building were purer and brighter than any other on the street. A dense array of colorful flowers lined the gravel path up to the door, as inviting to newcomers as they were to the bees and butterflies that frolicked among them.
“Have you ever been here before, Annabelle?”
“No, though I’m incredibly curious to see what it’s like inside. If it’s half as striking as it is outside, we’re in for a treat.”
“You go first, Annabelle,” Mary said, as if daring her friend.
“Off I go!” Annabelle chuckled breezily, before opening the gate and leading the way up the large steps toward the big, brass knocker.
CHAPTER 4
SECONDS AFTER ANNABELLE had confidently and firmly struck the knocker, the door was opened by a young woman dressed demurely in a grey pencil skirt and white blouse. With her black, perfectly coiffed hair, her dark eyes, and dusky skin, Annabelle assumed she must be of Spanish or Italian descent. She smiled, revealing a set of perfect teeth, as white and as strikingly large as the front of the building.
“You must be Sister Mary and Reverend Annabelle,” she said, in husky voice with an accent that Annabelle couldn’t quite place. “Please come in.”
“Thank you,” the two women responded, stepping carefully inside.
Suddenly, they felt as if they had stepped into some kind of portal, for the large entrance hall was more like that of a castle or stately mansion than a home tucked into a corner of Kensington. A thick, red carpet sat in the middle of the marble floor. To one side, there was a small, tidy desk and to the other, patterned carpeted stairs chased up the wall toward the second floor. Doors led in all three directions from the entrance, guarded by plinths upon which various busts stared blankly forward, like an unimpressed audience.
“Golly!” cried Annabelle, as she stepped onto the soft carpet and craned her neck to see the religious artwork hung high upon the walls. “It looks larger inside than it does outside!”
“How impressive!” Mary added.
The dark woman retained her smile and clasped her hands in front of her.
“This property has actually been owned by the Catholic Church since shortly after it was built in 1822. It has been used for a multitude of purposes over the years, mostly involving visits from various Catholic officials abroad. Pope John Paul II was rather fond of stopping here when he traveled to London. Currently, as you know, it is predominantly being used by Bishop Murphy, as both his main place of residence and that from which he conducts his London-based affairs.”
“It’s almost inconceivable that such a place would lie behind what seems to be a simple Kensington home,” Mary said.
“It’s interesting you should say that,” the dark woman replied, retaining her upright, prim posture. “The building once had a far more elaborate – and rather striking – exterior. However, two years ago, Kensington council introduced a set of initiatives to help retain the harmony of the neighborhood’s appearance. Although this building was protected by various laws pertaining to matters of religious and historical importance, Bishop Murphy agreed to have the façade redesigned so that it was more in line with the area’s aesthetics.
“Though it seems small from the outside, there are actually twelve large rooms in the building, along with three bathrooms and a sizable kitchen. There is also a large cellar in which items of value and significance are stored and occasionally displayed to select visitors.”
“How interesting!” Annabelle said, turning her head to the woman for the first time since she had entered.
“My name is Sara,” the dark woman said, unclasping her hands to shake Annabelle’s and then Mary’s. “I’m Bishop Murphy’s secretary. He’s expecting you. If you’ll just hold on a second, I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”
Once, when they were children, Mary and Annabelle had been ca
lled to the headmaster’s office together. As they had taken the solemn walk toward his extremely private office, they realized that it could only mean one of two things. One, they were to receive a commendation for the recent, well-designed, soda-bottle-rocket project they had conducted in science class. Or two, they were about to be punished for said soda-bottle-project’s destruction of the science classroom’s ceiling, as well as the clothes of everybody in the room at the time. As they waited for the Bishop, they shared the same mixture of foreboding and excitement.
Sara stepped lithely toward the desk, leaned over it, pushed a button on a panel, and spoke briefly with the Bishop.
“He’ll be down immediately,” Sara said, flashing her fashion magazine smile at the visitors once again.
“Thank you,” Mary said.
Though Bishop Murphy was renowned for his warmth and his inviting nature, the two women felt as if they were preparing for an occasion with all the glamour and pomp of a visit from the Queen. Mary brushed a little dirt from her friend’s cassock, to which Annabelle nodded a curt “thank you.”
Soon, they heard the sound of well-heeled shoes upon marble steps, as Bishop Murphy came down the stairs. The sense of being in the midst of a special event only increased as they watched the slow, descending emergence of his polished, elegant shoes, then his tailored suit, his tall, athletic build, and finally his dashing, combed-back hair.
Though he was well into his fifties, Bishop Murphy had all the vigor and sharpness of a man half his age. Were he not a relatively high member of the Catholic Church, many would have described him as having a “roguish charm.” Instead, they referred to his “energetic dynamism” and “sparkling personality.”
“Hello,” he said in an Irish brogue as warm and as satisfying as good malt whiskey. He stepped toward the visitors keenly, his hand already outstretched.
“Hello, your Excellency,” Mary said, shyly, wondering how such terrible events could result in something as honorable as a meeting with the Bishop.
Death at the Café (A Reverend Annabelle Dixon Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 5
