Killer at the Cult

by Alison Golden

Annabelle pursed her lips in a rueful smile.

  I’ll try not to.

  She put the phone down and waited. She could hear the wail of sirens in the far distance.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The police detective striding toward Annabelle wasn’t Mike. That was for sure. He was older, sturdier, and he wore a trilby hat.

  He did wear the same trench coat, however. Annabelle wondered if the dark gray raincoat came with the job as part of the uniform. She watched the policeman nervously. She felt a little shaken and mistrustful and disoriented, unable to discern who was friend and who was foe. However, she was glad the loneliness of waiting had been replaced by the bustle of a murder investigation in full swing.

  The detective stood in front of her, his feet apart, his arms folded. “So, you’re the local vicar? The one who found the body?” His voice was gravelly, his eyes unfriendly. He looked her up and down, and Annabelle wondered if her attempts at removing her makeup had been successful.

  “Yes, that’s right, Inspector…?”

  “Chief Inspector. Ainslie, Brian Ainslie.”

  “We normally get Inspector Nicholls.”

  “Get a lot of murders around here do you?” Ainslie squinted at Annabelle. “Nicholls is away, so you’ve got me for your troubles. Now tell me, Vicar, what do you know?”

  The Chief Inspector got out a notebook and pencil, an increasingly rare sight. Even Mike had upgraded to a tablet after Annabelle pointed out he’d spend less time behind a desk if he did. “You don’t use a tablet, Chief Inspector?”

  “Nope. When I was in the field, back in the day, paper and pen did me alright. And they’ll do me fine once again.”

  Annabelle waited as he licked the end of his pencil and readied himself to write down her words.

  “Now, how did you come to find the body?”

  “I tripped over it as I was making my way back to my car. It was, is, parked in Lolly Lane. I couldn’t see well in the dark, and oof, there he was.”

  “Hmph. You seem very calm about it.”

  “When you’re in my line of work, Chief Inspector, you see all sorts. This isn’t, unfortunately, my first murder investigation.”

  Ainslie stared at her, narrowing his eyes. “Seems a strange place for a vicar to be at this time of an evening. What were you doing here? Were you part of…with these…people?” He waved in the direction of the big house behind him. In the distance, she could see the remains of the bonfire that earlier had been fierce, flaming. Only glowing embers remained.

  “The group, the Brotherhood, invited me to their celebration.”

  “The who? The what?”

  “The Brotherhood of St. Petrie. That’s what they call themselves. The people who live in the big house.”

  “The Brotherhood of…? What on earth’s that when it’s at home?”

  “That’s what I was here to find out, Chief Inspector. It seems they live here in a sort of commune under the auspices of doing good in their local community. I came to find out more about them. They’ve been wandering through the village and putting the wind up the locals a little.”

  “Is that so? In what way exactly?”

  “Oh, they just chat, give out flowers, sell a few things. Nothing harmful. They’re strangers though, and the villagers are always suspicious of strangers, especially when they act and dress so differently. You know how it is in small communities.”

  “More of a city man, meself.”

  Annabelle relayed to the Chief Inspector everything she’d learned about the group including a description of the ceremony they had performed earlier.

  “A bunch of weirdos, then.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t—“

  “And this chap,” the detective thumbed in the direction of Theo’s body. It had been covered with a white tent. “What do you know about him?”

  “Nothing really. He seemed charming, a little fervent perhaps, a little manipulative, but relatively harmless.”

  “Any enemies?”

  “Really, I have no idea, Chief Inspector. I only met him a few hours ago.”

  The detective wrote her words down, ending his writing with a decisive flourish and looked up.

  “Hmph, right Vicar. That will be all for now. You may go up to the house and wait there until my sergeant has taken your statement. It seems clear to me that the murderer must be one of the people out here at the time, and seeing as you were one of them, you can’t be discounted.”

  “Excuse me, Chief Inspector! Are you saying that I am a suspect?”

  “Can’t rule you out, Vicar. You have no alibi, so you will just have to wait it out in the house until we’re through. I’m sure it’s nothing, but for now, please humor me.”

  The flaps on the white tent parted, and out stepped the local pathologist, Harper Jones. She spoke to a constable standing guard who pointed over to Annabelle and the detective. She acknowledged them with a tip of her chin and walked over.

  “Good evening, Chief Inspector, Reverend,” she said looking at them both before addressing Ainslie. “Harper Jones, I’m the local bones.” They shook hands. “Reverend?”

  “I found the body,” Annabelle said simply.

  “What can you tell us, Dr. Jones?” Ainslie interjected.

  Harper swung her gaze from Annabelle to Ainslie and gave her summary report without pausing for breath.

  “He was shot through the chest from close range. Death would have been instantaneous. The wound is unusual, though. Not the typical shotgun wound that you’d expect in these parts.”

  “Time of death? He was seen around 10 PM, and then this vicar lady here found him shortly afterward.”

  “That sounds about right. I’ll have more for you in the morning. We’ll remove the body now. We’re done here.”

  Harper gave Annabelle a warning look, “Take care of yourself, Reverend,” before walking away, peeling off her paper coverall as she walked to her car.

  Annabelle hesitated, but seeing the Chief Inspector looking at her squarely made her realize she had no option but to follow Harper away from the crime scene and carry on up to the house.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Margaret Westmoreland was sitting in the same deckchair on the steps outside the kitchen much as Annabelle had found her earlier except that now her hair was rumpled and she looked as though she had aged ten years. It was dark, the only light being the red glow from the end of a cigarette as Margaret pulled on it, her hands shaking. The rain had stopped. Theo’s mother clutched a coat around her. On the ground next to her sat Suki wearing an oversized cardigan, the long sleeves of which she used to wipe her face as tears streamed down it silently. Her head was in her mother’s lap. Margaret stroked her daughter’s hair and stared blankly ahead.

  “I’m so terribly sorry for your loss, Margaret,” Annabelle said. Margaret didn’t look at her but waved her cigarette around, causing flakes of smoldering ash to fly into the air.

  Suki lifted her head. “Who could have done this, Annabelle?” she cried. “Th–Theo was a friend to everyone.”

  Sally’s father wasn’t too keen on him.

  Margaret dragged on her cigarette. She had an empty tumbler in her hand. On the floor next to her was a bottle of gin. It was almost empty. Margaret picked it up by the neck and unsteadily sloshed what was left into her glass.

  “Get me some ice, would you?” She waved the tumbler at Annabelle. Annabelle ignored Margaret’s impertinence and took it from her, went into the kitchen and over to the fridge. She opened the icebox and picked out the ice cube tray, holding it over the glass as she popped out a couple of cubes into it.

  “What did you tell the police?” Margaret asked when Annabelle came outside again. It was cooler now that the storm had moved on but still warm enough to sit outside comfortably despite it being nearly midnight.

  “I told them what I saw, that I was observing the ritual, and that everyone disappeared into the woods. I didn’t hear anything except people yelling and screaming. And I didn
’t see anything that would pertain to…to Theo’s death.”

  “That stupid legend.” Margaret jabbed her cigarette into the ashtray perched on the stone balustrade next to her and lit another. “Someone was always going to get hurt. All that heightened emotion, running around, and screaming, and those ridiculous masks offering anonymity. It was asking for trouble.”

  “But Mama, the others said that Theo had been shot!” Suki looked wildly at Annabelle. “Shot! We don’t have any guns. How could it have happened?” Suki stopped. “Perhaps it was a poacher? Someone shooting rabbits. That could be it. It could, couldn’t it, Annabelle?”

  Annabelle seriously doubted it, but the alternative was to point out that Theo had been murdered and probably by one of the people he lived among.

  “The police will find out who did it, Suki. I’m quite sure of that.”

  “Hmph,” Margaret squinted as she pulled again on her cigarette but made no other comment.

  Annabelle decided to leave them with their grief and ventured into the house to find the others. She could hear the sounds of Sally still wailing. She found a bathroom and splashed water on her face, washing off the remnants of makeup still left there. Her earlier antics seemed foolish now.

  The police had commandeered the former drawing room as their interview suite. Two police constables that Annabelle didn’t recognize stood at the doorway. Inside, she found Sally being comforted by Scott who still had his arm around her shoulders. Sally was leaning with her elbows on her knees, her hands covering her face as she sobbed into them. Thomas came up to Annabelle as she walked in the room.

  “She’s very upset.”

  “Yes, I can see. Perhaps I can help.”

  Thomas stepped aside, and Annabelle crouched down next to Sally. “I’m so sorry, Sally. This is terribly difficult. I know you held Theo in very high regard.”

  “I loved him!” Sally raised her head from her hands. “Oh, he didn’t love me, but that doesn’t matter now. I adored him.”

  Scott started, but he didn’t take his eyes off her, merely clasping one of her hands that were now in her lap scrunching a crumpled tissue.

  “Who could have done this? Who?” Sally repeated. “He was one of the nicest, most charming, most compassionate men you could ever meet. He couldn’t have been kinder to me when I first arrived. He was always willing to help out in the kitchen, and he was so clever. He did all the accounts!”

  Annabelle kept her expression neutral. “It is truly devastating, Sally. I’m sure the police will do all they can to find out who did this.”

  Sally looked into Annabelle’s eyes. “Do you think, oh my gosh, do you think it was my dad?” Both Thomas and Scott looked away, but Annabelle held Sally’s gaze. “I don’t know. I’m sure the police will question him and get to the truth.” She turned to Scott. “Do you know where Richard went, Scott? After you led him out?”

  Keeping one arm around Sally, Scott spread his other hand wide. “No idea. I watched him stumble down the driveway and into the woods.” Sally gave a little squeal and hid her face in her hands once again. “After he disappeared, I came back inside.”

  “D–Do you know…Was he really shot?” Sally said.

  “It looks like he was, yes.”

  Relief flooded Sally’s face, her shoulders relaxed. “Well, there you are then. It couldn’t have been Dad. He doesn’t know how to use a gun. I doubt he’s ever even held one.” She stopped squeezing her tissue for a moment. “But if it wasn’t Dad, then who was it?” She started working the tissue again. “I mean, if it wasn’t him, it could have been one of us?” Sally looked at the two men in turn. Scott was still sitting next to her, but now he was leaning forward, his feet apart, his elbows on his thighs. Thomas stood a few feet away, leaning against the large stone fireplace, his hands in his pockets.

  Sally jumped up, a look of fear and disgust on her face. “I’m not sitting here. I’m leaving. Who knows what kind of monster I’m sharing this house with?”

  “You’ll do no such thing, ma’am,” a commanding female voice boomed. A tall, slim woman with cropped blond hair walked into the room. She was wearing a gray, short-sleeved t-shirt over a white long-sleeved one, and black cargo pants. She looked fit, sharp, and trim. Annabelle’s first thought was to wonder how she could wear cargo pants and still look stylish. She had tried on a pair once and her image in the changing room mirror had come back to her via her nightmares. Accompanying the policewoman were Julia, Suki, and Margaret.

  “You’re all to stay here. This is a crime scene, and until we find out who committed this heinous act, Chief Inspector Ainslie has instructed that you are to stay on the estate,” the woman said in a South London accent.

  “What? Even me?” The words were out before Annabelle registered she was saying them.

  The woman eyed Annabelle. “Yes, even you.”

  “But this is The Reverend Annabelle Dixon from St. Mary’s in the village,” Suki said. “Surely, you can’t think…”

  The woman looked Annabelle up and down. Annabelle felt the color rise in her cheeks. The woman’s face remained implacable, however, and it was clear Suki’s entreaty would have no effect.

  “Look, my name is Scarlett Lawrence. I’m the sergeant running this case with Chief Inspector Ainslie, and if he says you’re all to stay here, then you’re all to stay here, got it?”

  Everyone except Margaret nodded.

  “Now, I’m going to call you over and take your statements one by one. When I’ve done you, you’re free to leave the room, but you have to stay in the house, alright?”

  “But what should we do, Sergeant?” Suki lamented. She sighed, standing on one foot, wrapping the other around her ankle. She tilted her head.

  The woman rolled her eyes. “It’s late. Go to bed. That’s what I would do. Now, hand me your phones. You’ll get them back when the Chief says so.”

  Amid much muttering and sighing, the seven of them handed their phones over. Sergeant Lawrence dragged an old chair over to a table in the corner of the room. As they waited to be called, they sat in silence some yards away on faded, dusty couches, except for Thomas, who stood looking out of the window over the lawn and the woods beyond.

  Margaret sat stoic and upright on a chaise longue, the fabric of which depicted, if one looked closely, scenes of the hunt; a fox chased by hounds and red-coated men on horseback. Next to her, Suki, still dressed in diaphanous white, held her hand. Across from them on an equally faded, pale green couch sat Sally. She looked exhausted and desolate. Next to her was Scott. He looked down at his lap, his lips pursed, his arms folded. Julia perched stiffly on the edge of the couch next to him.

  Annabelle stood next to the fireplace looking at the forlorn group around her, her arms behind her back. It was not a happy scene.

  One by one, Sergeant Lawrence called them over and took down their statements. After they had read and signed them, each person filed out of the room without speaking or looking back.

  Only Annabelle stayed. Despite her efforts, she fell into a doze on the couch. She awoke sometime later when there was a bang and a clang, as a door was pushed open and left to close under its own weight. Chief Inspector Ainslie stormed in, his bulk creating its own updraft.

  “Okay, give the Vicar her phone back, and she can go,” he said to his sergeant. He thumbed at Annabelle. “I spoke to Nicholls. He vouched for her.”

  With her back to them, Annabelle’s eyes widened at the sound of Mike’s name. Her heart swelled a little. Ainslie walked around to her. “You can go home, Vicar. But make sure you check in with us tomorrow, okay? We’re close to arresting someone, and you’re not out of the woods yet.” He chuckled at his little joke.

  “Arresting someone? Already?”

  “Yeah, open-and-shut case, no doubt about it. You were here. There was an altercation tonight, wasn’t there? Between the father of one of the women who lives here and the victim. A Richard Venables. We had more than one statement that described how he threatened th
e deceased. We’ve not picked him up yet, but we will. We have officers combing the woods and the local area for him, so it won’t be long.”

  “I see, Chief Inspector. Well, if I can be of any help, please let me know.”

  “A quick word with the big man up top wouldn’t go amiss, Vicar, but we practically have it in the bag.” Ainslie was loquacious now that he had a strong lead, and he clapped Annabelle on the shoulder as he pushed her out of the door into the night.

  “Can one of my chaps help you to your car?”

  “That would be very kind, Chief Inspector.”

  “Raven!” he yelled at Constable Jim Raven, one of the local bobbies, who was standing by the police patrol car on the gravel driveway. “Take the kind Vicar here back to her car, would you?”

  “Of course, Chief Inspector.”

  “Thanks, Jim. It’s next to the Cuddy’s in Lolly Lane. Seems an awfully long time ago that I left it there.”

  “It’s been quite a night, hasn’t it Reverend?”

  “It certainly has, Jim. It certainly has.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Annabelle opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. The events of the previous night slowly began to seep into her mind like the spread of a puddle below a dripping pipe. When she’d arrived home, she had turned on her phone to confront the stream of texts from Mike that variously communicated his horror at her situation, concern for her well-being, and frustration at her ability to get herself into all kinds of trouble. She’d replied calmly to reassure him that she was alright and to thank him for his help. Because of him, she’d been able to sleep in her own bed, something for which she was incredibly grateful.

  Biscuit pushed open her bedroom door and padded into the room. She jumped onto the bed, and Annabelle’s early morning reverie was broken as the cat nonchalantly walked across her stomach. “Oof. Don’t mind me, Biscuit.”

  The ginger tabby blissfully squeezed her eyes tight shut as Annabelle rubbed her finger down her nose, before Biscuit folded her front paws and pinned Annabelle to the bed by settling on her chest.