Killer at the Cult

by Alison Golden

  “Did you know about his room?”

  “Yes, he didn’t hide it from me. I was beholden to him, dependent. I was probably the only person he was truthful with, and I kept his secrets, to my shame.”

  There was silence for a moment. Annabelle considered the question she felt compelled to ask, “Were you ashamed enough to kill him?”

  “My own son? Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I do that?”

  “For shame.”

  “I wouldn’t kill him. I may be pathetic, but I’m not depraved, even if he was. Besides, he was my meal ticket.”

  "How did you support yourself once Theo was eighteen?”

  “During the years I was in control of his trust fund, I’d invested a little. We lived off that. It was hardly anything, but the markets were slowly recovering. It wasn’t enough in the end though, and we ended up here.” Margaret breathed out through her nose and drummed her fingertips on the table. “Look, I’m not proud of my circumstances, Reverend. I know who, and what I am. I was born into money, gained more of it through marriage, and lost it all. In the process, I ruined relationships, never worked, and drank too much. I am totally useless and ill-suited to poverty. My son is, was, more pragmatic, less burdened, and could bend with the wind. He was clever. He could make honey from milk. I needed him.

  “Other people, though, adored him. He could wind them around his little finger. Women were always falling in love with him. Sally is only the latest in a very long string of girls. But he never cared for any of them. He was only in love with himself. My sticking with him might not have been honorable, but it was expedient. And it kept me in gin.”

  “Do you not have any other family you could turn to? Besides Suki?”

  “No. Suki is as useless as I am at the practical things in life, but at least she has a sunnier disposition. She’s young and beautiful. Someone will marry her, and she’ll be alright. She’ll probably inherit my brother’s estate now that Theo is gone, although I suspect that she’ll burn her way through it in unfortunate haste.”

  “So Suki has a motive for killing her brother. Could she have killed him?”

  “Good grief, no. Suki couldn’t roast a chicken let alone shoot a person, especially her own brother. What kind of people do you take us for?”

  “Then what about a spurned lover, one of those girls you mention?”

  “It’s possible, but I doubt it. They always tended to be easily impressionable, vulnerable girls. Ones who would fall for his tales.”

  “And so what was your exact purpose for coming here today? To tell me all this, if it weren’t to expunge your soul?”

  “That definitely wasn’t it. I’m way beyond redemption, Reverend. I know that. If I’d had more courage or been a better mother, none of this would have happened. The reason I’m talking to you is to tell you about Thomas. The police seem pretty stuck on this Richard Venables, but I’ve seen you snooping around, and I think you should look at Thomas.

  “Thomas? What about him?” Annabelle was surprised. After Margaret’s tale of depravity and hate, talk of mild, gentle Thomas was startling.

  “Thomas is a Jew. His mother, the one he thinks no one knows about, survived the concentration camps. She was just nine when she was liberated, an orphan. I went to visit Alexander one day; his care home is just a few miles away. I hoped I could get him to change his mind about his estate and leave me at least a little in his will when he died.”

  “And did he?”

  “Did he what?”

  “Change his mind and leave you something?”

  “No, I left it too late to ask. He was beyond reason. But I did see a name on a bedroom door that intrigued me. Eta Reisman. When I got back, I asked Thomas about her because they shared such an unusual last name. He confirmed that she was his mother. He told me not to tell the others. I looked her up in the Holocaust database. She was her family’s sole survivor. They were members of the Resistance in Belgium. Her father forged papers. Eventually, though, they were shipped off to Buchenwald. It’s true,” she said, interpreting Annabelle’s look for one of skepticism. “Look her up.”

  “And you think Thomas may have known about Theo’s Nazi sympathies and harbored a grudge?”

  “Well, wouldn’t you?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Philippa was fuming.

  She was vacuuming the living room carpet, her mouth pressed into a tight moue. Yesterday she’d discreetly applied herself to some gardening while Margaret Westmoreland had been talking to Annabelle, but now she’d returned to her chores in the house. The church accounts lay forgotten across the dining table, files and loose papers piled meticulously in accordance with a system known only to Philippa, while around the table, she pushed the vacuum with such vehemence that it was a testimony to her skill with one that she didn’t destroy any furniture.

  Annabelle viewed the ferocity with which her housekeeper and church secretary was flying around the room and silently wondered if the vacuum was Philippa’s version of a broomstick, before chastising herself for such an uncharitable thought. Annabelle was the reason for Philippa’s bad mood. When Margaret Westmoreland had left the cottage, accompanied by PC Raven, Philippa had knocked on the back door. Annabelle was sitting at the kitchen table, papers in front of her, a pen in her hand.

  “Coo-ee Annabelle! Is it alright if I come in?”

  “Yes, yes, the coast is clear.”

  “I was getting on with the accounts when that woman arrived, but shall I put the kettle on?”

  “Gosh, I’m fine, Philippa. Really. I’ve had so much tea today, I’m going to drown if I have any more.”

  “What about a scone, then? I’ve made some fresh.”

  “No thanks. You know I’m trying to be good.”

  “What are you doing?” Philippa was hovering.

  “I’m setting out the program for the show. Working on the cast list. Woe betide me if I leave anyone out. Parents will have my guts for garters.” Annabelle didn’t lift her eyes from the list that she was working on.

  Philippa slapped her thighs with her hands and looked about her. She opened a cupboard and brought out a cylindrical tub. She took off the lid and waved it under Annabelle’s nose.

  “Chocolate Hobnob?”

  Annabelle recoiled. “No, Philippa. I told you, I’m trying to be good. Anyone would think you didn’t want me to lose a bit of weight. Wasn’t it you telling me a while back that I should?”

  Philippa ignored Annabelle’s question because it was true. She rapped the tube of Hobnobs on the table’s wooden surface, roughly pulling out a chair and sitting down with a plop. She stared at Annabelle.

  Annabelle sighed and put her pen down wearily. “What is it Philippa?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Philippa picked up a napkin from a pile that lay on the tabletop. She started rolling it up from one corner.

  “Philippa? This wouldn’t have anything to do with the visitor I just had, would it? The one who brought her own security?”

  “Well, I was wondering what business she had here. She lives up with that cult. She could, for all we know, be a murderer. And she is, after all, a vegan.” Philippa didn’t look up from her rolling. The freshly ironed and starched napkin now curled up at the corners.

  “I’m not at liberty to divulge our conversation, Philippa, I’m sorry.”

  “But Reverend, there’s a murderer on the loose.”

  “The police have someone in custody. And besides, if I have information relevant to the inquiry, the place to share it is with the appropriate authorities.” Annabelle was being officious on purpose. She knew Philippa was simply fishing for gossip.

  “Well, I think you should share it with us, Annabelle. The villagers could be in danger!”

  “I really don’t think that’s the case, Philippa. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get on with this list. I’m missing two names.” Annabelle dropped her head and started examining the paper in front of her.

  “Right. Well. I’ll be off home the
n. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Philippa stood up abruptly and with an injured air swept out of the room, leaving the tube of Hobnobs on the table. Annabelle looked up and with a roll of her eyes, pushed them out of arms reach.

  Now, as she stood at the doorway to the living room, Annabelle considered that perhaps she should share Margaret’s information, at least with the police. Her conversation with Margaret had weighed on her overnight. She felt she was breaking a confidence. She wrestled with the idea of betraying Thomas, but Margaret’s news was pertinent, and Annabelle felt she had a duty to tell the police what she knew.

  “I’m going down the station, Philippa.” Philippa gave no reply. Annabelle really was in the doghouse. There was a rap at the door. Annabelle answered it.

  “Oh, hello Vicar!” It was Barbara. She was wearing a violet and gold dress with matching eye makeup.

  “Hello, Barbara, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, um, I need to speak to Philippa. I heard her vacuuming so thought I’d drop by.”

  “Come on in. I’m just on my way out.”

  “Oh good, um, going anywhere nice?”

  “Just the police station. See you later.” Annabelle stood back to let Barbara by, the pub owner’s strong perfume tickling her nose as Barbara wafted past. Halfway down the garden path, she patted her pockets, and then rummaged in her bag. She’d left her phone inside the house. Turning, she made her way back up the path. As she opened the front door, she heard Barbara and Philippa talking in the living room.

  “We can Google him, Barbara.”

  “Google? That can’t be right, Philippa. You’re thinking of goggle box, surely?”

  “I’m not, Barbara. Google, as in googly eyes. Like the Reverend when the Inspector is around. Googly.”

  Annabelle closed her eyes. She picked her phone off the hall table and shut the front door quietly.

  “Good morning, Mr. Penrose!” she called out as the elderly man walked his gray Pitbull, Kylie, on the other side of the lane just as he had every morning for years, long before Annabelle arrived in the village.

  Mr. Penrose raised his walking stick in salute. “Lovely morning for it, Vicar.” Annabelle sneezed, Barbara’s perfume having finally overwhelmed her.

  A few minutes later, Annabelle pulled her Mini Cooper into a parking space outside the police station. She quickly ran up the steps into the old building. Behind reception stood a familiar face, Constable McAllister, Upton St. Mary’s only female police officer.

  “Hello Reverend. We don’t see you in here very often.”

  “No, thank goodness,” Annabelle smiled. She’d always liked Jenny McAllister. The woman was friendly and efficient, and Annabelle suspected the station wouldn’t operate nearly as well without her. “I wonder if Chief Inspector Ainslie is in.”

  “He’s not, I’m afraid. But Sergeant Lawrence is here. Would you like to see her?”

  “Oh, um,” Annabelle didn’t want to see the slim, spiky sergeant with the sharp haircut, but couldn’t put her finger on exactly why. “Yes, that would be lovely, thank you.”

  PC McAllister disappeared and shortly returned. “She’ll be with you momentarily.”

  “Thanks, Jenny.” The desk phone rang, and the constable reached for the receiver.

  “Upton St. Mary Police.”

  The police station reception was small and Annabelle, not expecting to wait long and not wishing to intrude, turned to examine the police noticeboard with unswerving dedication.

  After seven minutes, she sat down. After another seven, she started to read a recent police report about the capture of a swan found wandering along the M5 near Exeter. Five minutes after that, she got out her phone and started scrolling aimlessly.

  Eventually, Sergeant Lawrence appeared. She opened the door to the back office of the station with force. “Morning,” she barked. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” Annabelle didn’t get the impression that she was sorry at all, but followed the woman who was dressed as before in black combat pants, a black t-shirt, and this time, a vest more suited to the streets of New York than Upton St. Mary.

  “Gosh, a bullet-proof vest in our little village,” Annabelle said, laughing a little longer than was appropriate.

  Lawrence looked down at what she was wearing. “Not bullet-proof, stab-proof,” she said.

  “Oh, right.”

  “So, what can I do you for? Is it about the murder investigation?” Sergeant Lawrence sat back in her chair. She didn’t look at Annabelle, but at her computer screen, her arms stretched out, fingers poised over the keyboard.

  “Yes, I received some information yesterday. From Margaret Westmoreland. I thought you should hear it.” Annabelle spent the next few minutes relaying to the sergeant what Margaret had told her about her family history, Theo’s fascination with Nazi history, the Lord Darthamort connection, Thomas’ mother being a Holocaust survivor, and Margaret’s opinion that her own son was a nasty piece of work. She carefully omitted her own visit to Theo’s room courtesy of PC Raven.

  Sergeant Lawrence typed all of this into her computer.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Annabelle was taken by surprise. “Because I thought it relevant to the investigation, Sergeant. There are several lines of inquiry I thought you might be interested in following up.”

  Sergeant Lawrence typed furiously ending with a final thump as she finished her sentence before flicking a switch. Her screen went dark. She swiveled in her chair and leaned her forearm on her desk, looking at Annabelle intently.

  “Thank you for coming in today to tell us this. We will review your information and take action if we think it necessary.” The sergeant turned her attention back to her screen and reached for her phone, effectively dismissing Annabelle.

  “Necessary? But of course it’s necessary. At the very least, you should speak to Thomas about his mother.”

  Lawrence didn’t look up from her phone. “We have someone in custody. We’re just waiting for forensics before we file charges. We are quite sure we have our man.”

  “But, but…There hasn’t been a thorough investigation. You’re making your facts fit your theory.”

  The woman looked up. “Is that so? Learned police investigative procedure from Inspector Nicholls, did you?”

  Annabelle went pink. “I –I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

  “He talks about you, down at the station in Truro. Seems to think a lot of you.” Sergeant Lawrence muttered something under her breath that Annabelle didn’t quite catch. There was a bang as a door was roughly pushed open. The bulk of Chief Inspector Ainslie appeared in the doorframe, blocking out the light that would otherwise have streamed in from the brightly lit reception.

  “What’s going on, Scar— Ah, Vicar. What are you doing here?”

  “Miss Dixon came to give us some information about the murder investigation, sir,” Sergeant Lawrence said. “I’ve logged it all. She was just leaving.”

  “I see. Well, thank you for coming in.” Ainslie said. “We’ll be in touch if we need to speak to you again.” Lawrence looked sharply at Annabelle. Annabelle stood, but hesitated. “You can run along home now,” Ainslie’s gaze hardened, and he leaned in. “Let us professionals handle this investigation. We know what we’re doing.”

  Annabelle’s eyes half closed and the pink spots on her cheeks got pinker. “Well then, I shall leave you to it.” She walked, her chin high, to the door before turning. “And by the way,” Lawrence and Ainslie looked at her in surprise, “it’s Reverend Dixon.” She spun on her heel and left the station, almost forgetting to acknowledge Jenny as she passed. She climbed in her car, strapped herself in, and started the engine, blowing out her cheeks. A small smile crossed her face. He talks about you, down at the station.

  As she looked over her shoulder to reverse her Mini out of her parking space, she noticed a familiar figure push against the doors of the station. The man squinted. It was the first time in nearly two days that Ric
hard Venables had seen daylight. He looked disheveled, unshaven, and there were bags under his eyes. Deep lines on his face made him look older than he had just a couple of days earlier. He shrugged on a bomber jacket and quickly tripped down the steps. He turned in the direction of the High Street, passing villagers walking in the opposite direction. No one except Annabelle paid him any heed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Annabelle was having a hard time concentrating. She was writing her notes for Sunday’s sermon. A few words would come, but then her eyes would stray to the garden outside. For a while, she sat mesmerized by the sight of her bees methodically flying back and forth into and out of their two hives. If only life were so orderly. She got up and poured a glass of water, drinking it over the kitchen sink, as she waved to Mr. Penrose who was now taking Kylie for her afternoon walkies.

  She turned and sighed, flopping back down on her seat at the table. She picked up her pen and bent over, ready to start writing again, only to be interrupted by Biscuit jumping onto her lap, an action so rare that Annabelle put down her pen to stroke the cat’s cheeks and look deep into her eyes, “You’re not sickening for something are you, Biscuit?”

  Biscuit purred and forcefully pushed her head under Annabelle’s hand. With her paw, she prodded the pen out of Annabelle’s reach. “Okay, okay.” With one hand, Annabelle scratched Biscuit’s ears, with the other she began tapping out a text.

  Venables was released. What do you think that means? Annabelle waited to see if she would get a response, rubbing Biscuit’s ears between her thumb and forefinger as she waited. There was a ping, and she picked up her phone eagerly.

  They can’t have enough evidence, and they’ve run out of time. They have to let him go.

  Do you think I should speak to him?

  To Venables? Leave it to Ainslie. There’s obviously a maniac out there, and until he’s caught, you could be in danger.

  But I might be able to find something out they can’t.