“So who will benefit from your uncle’s will now that Theo is gone?”
“I don’t know. Me, perhaps? But I have no contact with my uncle. He could have left his estate to a bunch of cats, for all I know.”
They walked in silence until they reached the outer trees of the woods.
“Look, I’m going to leave you here,” Suki said. She looked back in the direction of the house. “I don’t really want to go back there so soon.”
“Of course. I understand.”
Suki hesitated. The two women stood awkwardly, each waiting for the other to make a move.
“If I can help with anything…?” Annabelle said. She raised her eyebrows expectantly.
Suki gave her a strained smile. “No, there’s nothing, Reverend. Thank you for coming by.”
“Well, I’ll be seeing you then,” Annabelle turned to walk away.
“Actually, there is something, Annabelle, Reverend. Look, it’s probably nothing,” Suki paused. Annabelle waited.
Suki sighed. “It’s just…well, Theo and Scott had a blazing row a couple of days ago. I went over to the forge to see Scott, hang out with him for a bit, and there they were, going at it hammer and tongs.” After her initial hesitation, Suki’s words had come out in a rush, like water after a dam had broken. “It was over money. Scott was accusing Theo of stealing funds from the group, that he wasn’t distributing it fairly and not keeping proper records so we couldn’t trace what happened to it. Theo was furious. I’ve never seen him so angry. At one point, Scott grabbed him. Scott’s a good earner for the group, and I think he feels underappreciated.”
Suki’s shoulders sagged, and she looked down at the ground. She gently kicked a stone with her foot. “I can’t believe he’s a murderer, though. I didn’t tell the police because I didn’t want to get him into trouble. But perhaps you could talk to him? He seemed to like you when you were at dinner the other night. Scott can be a little uncommunicative at times. Surly. He doesn’t like everyone, that’s for sure. And perhaps he knows something. He’s at the smithy if you want to go see him.”
“Thanks, Suki. You go back to the house and see how your mother is. I’m sure she could do with some company however she may appear.”
The two women went their separate ways. Suki went back up to the house while Annabelle, after initially pressing on through the trees, changed her mind and walked out of them again. She decided to take a route that skirted the outside of the wood. It would take her much longer to get home, but it offered open skies, a clear view, and didn’t entertain the darker corners of her imagination.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Annabelle decided to leave talking to Scott for another day. She was eager to be home. At the junction with the main road, she eschewed the path tracked into the grass next to the hedgerow, and noticing the green public footpath sign that pointed across the fields, crossed the road to climb over the stile. Navigating it in her cassock wasn’t easy, but after several attempts and much gathering of skirts, she managed it without snagging anything.
As she walked down the gentle slope into the village, her mind once again turned to Mike. They’d walked this grassy path just a couple of weekends ago. It had been a hot, sunny day like this one, and the dogs had gamboled up ahead; not far, but far enough for them to have a good stretch. They’d brought a picnic and walked down to the river, spreading their rug in the shade under the trees that overhung the water.
It was a romantic spot, and Annabelle thought, hoped, that Mike might take their relationship to the next level with a kiss. Even some kind of declaration of intention would have been progress. But while there’d been lots of direct eye contact and the occasional touching of fingertips, it had been incidental and accidental and hadn’t led to anything. She felt clouds of hopelessness descend, and she uncharacteristically felt sorry for herself.
She looked about her at the glorious countryside and sighed as she pressed on, telling herself she had much to be grateful for and that “God works in mysterious ways,” a truism she usually avoided in her work because she felt it hackneyed, supercilious, and unhelpful. She stopped to pick up a long, unusually straight brown stick. It would be perfect for staking the sunflower she had grown outside her kitchen window, but which was so bent over on itself that the yellow petals almost touched the ground. Annabelle put the stick in her belt and tightened the knot in front of her. “Come on, Bumble,” she whispered to herself, using the nickname her brother had coined for her. “Pull yourself together. Stiff upper lip and all that.”
“There are three things to remember, Bumble,” her mother had told her one afternoon after a hard day’s cleaning other people’s houses. “When times are tough, ‘pull yourself together,’ ‘least said, soonest mended’ and ‘mustn’t grumble,’ are the best pieces of advice. Don’t forget them, and you won’t go far wrong.”
Annabelle smiled at the memory. Annabelle’s parents were solid East London folk whose pride in their daughter’s acceptance to Cambridge University was matched only by her graduation three years later. Annabelle’s success had been extraordinary among her peers, and she knew that she lived her dream of being a countryside rector largely because of her parent’s sacrifices and the beliefs they had instilled in her, attitudes that still formed the basic fabric of traditional British life.
Annabelle looked ahead of her at the jumble of dwellings that rose up in the middle of the rolling green and yellow fields that spread outward as far as her eye could see. Upton St. Mary had been relatively untouched by modern development, and the view up ahead of her had remained virtually the same for centuries. She studied the roofs of the family homes and small businesses. Gray slate and tile covered the medium-sized and larger buildings, while thatch protected the smaller cottages, the care of which generated a thriving business for Johnny Morton. Johnny was the local thatcher who traveled the county fixing and replacing the thatch in a craft that had been handed down in his family for generations. Inside every house, whether large and lavish or humble and homely, she knew good people lived there, genuine people, all in need of respect, support, and an opportunity to thrive. She considered it her job to minister and take care of those people. She lifted her face to the sky. It was just that sometimes, it would be nice if someone could take care of her.
In the center of the huddle of buildings, also reaching up to the sky was the soaring, majestic stone spire of St. Mary’s. Annabelle was particularly fond of the effect of the yellow lichen that grew on the steeple’s sides. It made the five-centuries-old spire appear to glow when the sun shone in the late afternoon, a sight she could see now as she made her way there. Annabelle always fancied that the spire acted as an alternative compass needle for villagers and travelers, directing them to a place of care and comfort when they were away from home. She distracted herself from her thoughts of Mike, their stalled relationship, and the group in the big house by focusing on her church and the comfort and sense of belonging it gave her. She quickened her pace, suddenly wanting to be home already.
As she walked the last few yards to her whitewashed cottage, her pace slowed, however. She spied Constable Jim Raven and Philippa standing outside her garden gate. Raven’s hands were in his pockets. Philippa’s arms were folded. A police car stood at the curb.
“Here she is,” Raven said. He looked fresh-faced, ruddy, much more cheerful than he had earlier.
“Finally. Annabelle, we’ve been looking for you everywhere.” Philippa was flustered. Pink spots flushed her cheeks. She was wearing a brightly colored apron imprinted with yellow dahlias. The fact that she was wearing it in public alarmed Annabelle. Philippa was meticulous about not wearing housekeeping garments when out of the house. ‘Pinnies’ were for indoors only.
“Is something wrong?”
Philippa took her by the arm and quickly guided her up the garden path. “I was doing the church accounts, and there was a knock at the door. You’ve got a visitor. That’s why Constable Raven is here. He’s security.” Phil
ippa raised her chin and straightened her back.
Annabelle stopped abruptly and took her arm from Philippa’s grip.
“What do you mean, he’s security?” Annabelle looked over her shoulder at Raven who shrugged and raised his hands, palms up.
Philippa nodded briskly toward the front door. “In the kitchen,” she said, her eyebrows raised.
Leaving Philippa behind, Annabelle pushed open the front door and marched down the hall to her rustic, cozy kitchen. It was her favorite room in the house. It had exposed beams running across the ceiling and down the walls. It was a place of calm, communion, and cupboards full of cake.
She pushed open the natural wood door to see a woman sitting at the table, a teapot, two cups and saucers, a milk jug, and sugar bowl in front of her. At the sound of the opening door, Margaret Westmoreland slowly turned to her and looked her up and down.
After a day of corralling forty schoolchildren, a prowl through a dusty bedroom, a ramble among woodland, and an hour’s hike through the hilly countryside, Annabelle was not looking her best. Her hair was fluffy and mussed, the hem of her cassock was dusty, and her face was flushed from sun and exercise.
Margaret, in contrast, wore a black and white dress with a blue leaf and pink flower print. The sleeves were sheer, and around her neck she wore a single string of pearls. There was a matching bracelet around her wrist. Her hair was freshly styled and she wore a full face of makeup, her lipstick matching the pink of her dress exactly. She was enveloped in a haze of floral scent.
“Margaret! So good to see you!” Annabelle’s arms swung back and forth, and she was immediately conscious of behaving inappropriately, like an awkward schoolgirl. She clamped her mouth shut, cupping her elbow in her hand, her other hand covering her chin and mouth. She looked steadily at Margaret before pulling out a chair to sit down.
“Oof.” Annabelle doubled over, as the stick in her belt jabbed her in the ribs. “Sorry, sorry. Forgot it was there.” She stood to open the back door, and pulling the stick out like a sword, threw it outside without taking her eyes off her visitor. With her foot, she kicked the door shut and plopped down on her chair, lifting the teapot and immediately pouring herself a cup. “Now, where were we?”
Margaret stared at her.
“I hope I haven’t made a mistake,” she said. “It took quite some convincing to get permission from that ghastly police sergeant to come here.”
“Ah, that’s why you’ve got security?”
“What?”
“Constable Raven. He’s here to escort you.”
“I told them as the mother of the murder victim, I needed some spiritual support.”
“Ah, I see.” Annabelle put her cup down and dipped her chin, focusing her gaze on Margaret as she looked at her from under her eyelashes.
“Except that’s not why I’m here, at all.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I heard you were at the house earlier, talking with the others. I saw you coming out of Theo’s room. I wanted to…to explain.” For the first time, Margaret Westmoreland looked vulnerable. She blinked rapidly. Her eyes were moist.
Annabelle’s heartbeat slowed, her shoulders relaxed. “Please, Margaret, go ahead. Take all the time you need.” She reached over and placed a box of tissues within Margaret’s reach.
The older woman took one and blew on it delicately. “You see, Reverend, I loved my son, very much. He was charming and kind. He was smart and such a cheeky little chap when he was young.” She smiled at her memories, focusing on a point behind Annabelle’s head. She gave a little sniff and dabbed her upper lip. “But he could also be cruel and selfish. There’s a strong streak of spitefulness and malice in my family, and Theo hadn’t escaped its curse. Ultimately, he has paid the price for it.”
Margaret had been looking out of the window directly ahead of her, but now she focused her gaze on Annabelle. “Reverend, it pains me to say this, but I was ashamed of my son. I know that sounds terrible, but I was, I am. Oh, I know I might come across as one of those frightful women who care only about appearances, but I’m not, in fact, one of them. I have wondered over and over if I had anything to do with Theo’s…problems, or if I could have done anything about them had I known earlier.”
“What problems were they, Margaret?” Annabelle asked gently. She handed the older woman another tissue. Margaret wiped her eyes, her tea long forgotten.
“I have an uncle, you see. We haven’t spoken in years. He has no family, and as his closest relative, I was his heir before he disinherited me.”
“Over what?”
“I can’t even remember now, any number of things. It doesn’t matter. He was an all-round nasty piece of work.” Margaret once again looked over Annabelle’s shoulder, lost in thought before remembering herself. She shook her head briskly. “My uncle is Lord Drummond.” She paused, but seeing no recognition in Annabelle’s face, she continued, “He was a friend to the stars, politicians, aristos, in his prime. He was named in a political scandal in 1982 that brought down half the Cabinet. But he started out as simple Alexander Drumrof, a poor German refugee who made his way to England as a teenager along with the rest of my family just before the breakout of World War II. After they anglicized their name to Drummond, Alexander made a pile of money in arms dealing. Later, he received a title for services to the country and dished out favors to the rich and famous. He did it for years and profited handsomely. He lived in splendor in Kensington, only moving down here a decade or so ago. After my husband died and we lost everything, I appealed to Alexander for help. I begged, Reverend. Can you imagine how humiliating that was for me?” Margaret’s voice was thick. Annabelle leaned over to hold her hand.
“He refused to help us, so I begged a little more. The more he refused, the more I begged. In the end, we came to…a deal.” She gulped. “He offered to educate Theo at a private boarding school. He’d settle a small trust on him for day-to-day expenses and make him his heir.” Margaret took her hand from Annabelle’s and rubbed her brow. She stared down at the table.
“That doesn’t seem so bad. What was the problem?”
“It was what he wanted in return. He wanted Theo to live with him during the school holidays. We weren’t to see him on a regular basis, just the occasional weekend. I would oversee his trust fund until he was eighteen, which meant that if I were careful, I could use it to live on. But Alexander became Theo’s de facto parent.”
“I see. That is very cruel.” Annabelle’s eyes were full of pity for the woman, although she couldn’t help wondering why, in order to support herself and keep custody of her son, she hadn’t simply gone out to work. The price of charity seemed terribly high.
“But that wasn’t all.”
“Oh?”
“If I’d thought Alex would have been a good influence on Theo, I wouldn’t have been too concerned. I realize that must sound terribly callous of me, but people of my class are different to yours, Reverend.” Annabelle drew herself up, preparing for an insult that Margaret’s condescension implied would be forthcoming.
“People like me regularly give our children away to those who we believe will develop them, give them character, prepare them for the destiny we believe is theirs. Cozy family mealtimes and mother and son outings are secondary to other priorities. No, it wasn’t that Theo would be going away. It was what he was going away to do.”
“And what was that, Margaret?” Annabelle was utterly befuddled at this point from all the twists this story was taking.
“Alexander was going to brainwash him,” Margaret said baldly.
Annabelle stared at her. “Really? How?”
“He was planning to indoctrinate him in his political beliefs. My uncle, for all that he owed England, for all that he paid homage to the freedoms and privileges he had benefitted from since his settlement here, was a Nazi sympathizer. He has been his entire life. He’s 93 now.
“All this Lord Darthamort nonsense was Alexander’s doing. It was he who taught Theo ab
out exploiting people. Alexander told him that most people are sheep crying out to be shepherded, that Theo would be doing them a favor if he became their leader. Clearly Alexander was right, at least in part, because Theo had no trouble getting people to believe in him. It was Alexander who created this whole charade about Petrie and Darthamort. Theo simply lived it out and got others to live it out too.
“Reverend, my son came to believe that kindness, decency, and honor were akin to weakness. He despised other people. He saw them as tools with which to exact a better situation for himself, and moreover, he took pleasure in using them. I heard that Richard Venables called Theo a psychopath. I would agree with him.”
Annabelle took a sip of her tea. It was cold, but she hardly noticed. “You heard about that?”
Margaret turned down the corners of her mouth. “Suki told me. Alexander wanted to mold Theo into his own likeness. I don’t know exactly how he did it, but Theo, on the occasions when we would see him, changed from the boy we knew. He was darker, more brooding. His personality changed completely. He would take long walks alone in the countryside. He started hunting, something in which he’d shown no interest before. He would lambast us with far-right, Aryan-state, anti-semitic, nationalist politics. We didn’t know what to do. Eventually, Theo turned eighteen and decided to go to university abroad. We supported that, in the hopes that if he was away from the toxic environment created by Alexander, he might come around. But when he finally came home after graduating and spending some years flitting about the world, it seemed that he hadn’t changed one bit.”
“That’s a shame.”
“But he had learned to hide his nature better. In some ways that was worse. Now he appeared to be the Theo we had known as a young boy, but there was a hateful personality lurking just under the surface.”
Killer at the Cult Page 10
