Seriously, Annabelle, leave it to the police. They’re the professionals.
A little stung by Mike’s last text, Annabelle didn’t reply. She buried her nose in Biscuit’s fur and then lay her cheek on her silky, soft coat, reveling in the feel of it against her skin.
There was a rustle, and Philippa, once more wearing the dahlia-patterned pinny, starched to a standard that would make a sergeant major smile, appeared in the doorway, duster in hand.
“Venables has been released,” Annabelle said simply. Philippa gasped with horror.
“No! A murderer is on the loose! I told you!”
“Calm down, Philippa. Mike says they wouldn’t have let him go if they had evidence.”
“But still, either way, there’s a murderer on the loose.” Philippa started to pace the kitchen floor, wringing her hands. “I must tell people, warn the village!”
“Mike says I should stay out of it.”
“And he’s right! You could be in danger if you go blundering in!”
Annabelle blinked at Philippa’s retort. Respect for her detecting skills clearly wasn’t in evidence among those who knew her best.
She heard a clacking on the path and looked out to see Barbara hastening through her gate and up the garden path. There was a smart tap at the door.
“Back again, Barbara?”
“That man, the one I barred, the one they arrested for the murder up at the big house, he’s out, Reverend. I saw him at lunchtime as he left the newsagents,” Barbara said, before she’d even set foot over the threshold. “Want me to speak to him? Get him to talk to you?”
“Don’t encourage her, Barbara!” Philippa said marching over to Annabelle’s side.
“Oh yes!” Annabelle replied, her eyes bright. Seeing Philippa’s fuming expression, she quickly changed it to, “Hmm, that might be helpful,” in a low voice. Philippa huffed and looked mutinously at Barbara.
“I’ll get him in the pub, Reverend. I’ll text you,” Barbara said, ignoring Philippa.
“I thought he was barred from your pub,” Philippa said.
“If he’s going to be in one of the pubs, and he surely will be, it might as well be mine. That way, I can keep an eye on him.”
Annabelle smiled. Barbara was a matriarchal figure like no other, and the village would be much the worse without her.
“Right you are, Barbara!” Annabelle was suddenly full of energy and enthusiasm. “Synchronize watches! I’ll wait for your say-so.”
Annabelle tottered around the potholes on Lolly Lane, doing a little dance as she first avoided one, then another. Despite the heavy rain of two nights ago, they still resembled moon craters rather than ponds, and they still presented a significant threat to her ankles. Annabelle had decided to make another pastoral visit to the Brotherhood. She wanted to talk to Thomas about his mother and check on Sally. If she had time, she’d speak to Scott about his argument with Theo. She couldn’t help but feel that Ainslie and Lawrence were overlooking something important.
As she approached the gate at the end of the lane, the prospect of walking through the trees, past the site where she’d found Theo’s body, began to trouble her. She started to mutter quietly to herself and jammed her hands in her cassock’s pockets as she watched where she put her feet.
“Reverend!” Rebecca Hamilton was in her neat, orderly garden. She was hanging out washing. “I’m glad I caught you. Will you have a cup of tea?”
Rebecca was in her thirties, her slim figure not filling out her clothes that hung from her, wrinkled and shapeless, her auburn hair pulled up in a messy ponytail and secured with a scrunchy.
“Why not?” Annabelle replied, thirsty from her pothole dancing and keen to dispel her heavy feelings by spending some time with this busy, cheery woman.
They went inside to the Hamilton’s messy and well-loved kitchen. Rebecca pulled out a chair for Annabelle only to find a pile of clean laundry piled on the seat.
“Oh!”
In one swift, seamless movement, Rebecca turned a basket full of dirty laundry onto the kitchen floor and swept the clothes on the chair into it, tossing the basket into the corner and triumphantly presenting Annabelle with the empty seat.
“I’m guessing that’s not the first time you’ve done that, eh Rebecca?”
“Story of my life,” she said laughing. Rebecca put the kettle on. “What is going on? The police have been coming and going for days. One said there had been a murder! Is it true?” Rebecca was a very competent mother of five. Nothing much fazed her. She seemed positively energized by this latest piece of news.
“Unfortunately, yes. Monday evening.”
“Golly.” Rebecca sat down and pulled the lid off a tin. “Chocolate finger?”
“Oh, no thanks, I’m trying to be good. But don’t mind me.” Rebecca didn’t, and she grabbed a couple of custard creams before putting the lid back on and placing the tin on a top shelf away, presumably, from her three sons and two daughters.
“It wasn’t anyone we know, was it?”
“Theo Westmoreland. Did you know him?”
“Theo. Was he the good-looking, charming one?”
“Yes.”
“Oh dear, that is a shame.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Oh no, but he seemed such a nice man. He had an easy smile. He always waved to the children when he went by. Such a difference from that other chap who lives there.”
“Which other chap, Rebecca?”
“The dark, swarthy one, the one who works at the smithy down the lane and around the corner. He were having a right go at that Theo the other morning when I went past. Monday, I think it was. Pointing his finger, waving his arms. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, mind, but they weren’t having a friendly chat.”
“Have you told the police this, Rebecca?”
Rebecca folded her arms. “Well, no. They haven’t asked.”
“Hmm, well, if they do come around, be sure to tell them, won’t you?”
“Okay, Vicar, I will. I hope they get whoever did this and fast. I don’t like to think of something like that happening so close. I’ll have to keep the kids in after school. Don’t want them roaming around with a killer on the loose.”
Annabelle drained her cup. “Well, I must be getting on. Thank you for the tea. Much appreciated.”
“Least I can do. You’ve got your hands full with that show you’re putting on, but I will say the children are enjoying themselves. They’re singing at the top of their lungs all the time. The only reason they’re not here now is because they went to the Palmer’s house to practice some more. Eleanor is singing in her sleep!”
“I’m glad they’re enjoying it so much. I think it’s going to be quite a performance, one way or another.”
“I bet it will be, Reverend. Well, I won’t hold you responsible. I know what it’s like.” Rebecca burst out laughing and patted Annabelle on the back. She followed her to the door.
“Bye, Rebecca. Thanks again for the tea.”
Annabelle hurried off. She looked at her watch. Scott might still be at the forge. Perhaps she’d skip the big house, make her way to the smithy instead.
The gate at the end of the lane creaked ominously as she swung it open, and when it clanged shut, her brooding mood returned. As she got closer to the site where she had tripped over Theo’s body, her heart beat faster. The summer late-afternoon sun was low, but there were a few hours of daylight left. She could see clearly, but the shade of the trees and the swaying of the leaves brushed by the light breeze were unnerving. The memories of last Monday night plagued her, even as she tried to stamp them away with her feet. She rounded a tree.
“Hello again, Vicar!”
“Oh!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Thomas held his camera to his face. There was a whirring sound, and he lowered it. “S–sorry, did I surprise you?”
“Yes, you did, Thomas. Do you always go around taking pictures like that, jumping out and scar
ing people?” Annabelle steadied herself as she leaned on a tree trunk to catch her breath.
“S–sorry,” Thomas tried again. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, yes, thank you.” Annabelle pushed herself off the tree and started walking again. Thomas fell in beside her. Up ahead on the path, she could see the white tent that had covered Theo’s body two nights ago. Yellow police tape wrapped around trees delineated the crime scene area.
“Are you going to have another l–look, Vicar?” Thomas nodded toward the tent.
“What? Good grief, no. I’m walking to the forge,” Annabelle said. “What have you been doing out here?”
“Just looking for a f–few good shots. B–birds, deer, voles, anything. I don’t discriminate. Any living creature will do. It’s a bit quiet though, today. Perhaps all the activity out here has made the animals go f–further afield.”
“Hmm, well I hope you don’t jump out on them like you did me,” Annabelle frowned.
“Sorry, Vicar. I can be a bit awkward s–sometimes.” Thomas sighed and pushed his glasses up on his nose as he stared at the ground. “I know the others get a bit f–fed up with me at times. They think I have my head in the clouds, that I go out with my c–camera and lose track of the time, returning back at all hours, forgetting to show up for m–meals and m–meetings. And that does happen sometimes, not as often as they think, but it makes me unreliable in their eyes.” He sighed and Annabelle looked at him sympathetically. Loneliness was most stark when it occurred among a crowd.
“When did you start to get interested in photography, Thomas?”
“I picked it up when I was about f–fourteen. My nan gave me a camera for my b–birthday. I love being outside, just me and Doris – that’s what I call my camera, after my nan.”
Annabelle didn’t blink. Fred Caravaggio at the coffee shop called his espresso machine “Caesar,” and no one seemed to pay him much mind.
“…I love the countryside and the animals, l–love being by myself. No one takes much notice of the p–person behind the lens, and that suits me just fine.”
Thomas stopped and peered at Annabelle through his rimless glasses. After continuing for four more steps, Annabelle stopped too. She looked back at Thomas, who shied away from her gaze, and it occurred to her just how little Thomas wanted people to notice him.
“Is there something else, Thomas? Something you’re not telling me?”
Thomas looked all around him. He fingered a leaf on the shrub next to him, avoiding Annabelle’s eyes.
She walked up to him and took his hand. He let the leaf drop and looked into Annabelle’s open, earnest face.
“It’s what Theo said the other night and what might still happen now he’s g–gone.” Thomas waited for Annabelle to respond. When she remained silent, he continued. “It’s my mother, you see.” He sighed and paused. He took a deep breath before continuing. “I told you that I used to live with her, that she got too f–frail for me to care for her any longer, that I put her in a home. I had to sell the house to pay for her c–care.” His voice cracked and he looked down at the ground. There were more deep breaths as he released his hand from Annabelle’s and rubbed his palms on his thighs. Annabelle waited patiently as he calmed himself. “That’s why I joined the B–brotherhood. It’s virtually free to live here. I can do my photography and contribute to the group while being able to c–come and go as I please. I visit my mother at least three times a week. She’s in Exeter. I c–catch the b–bus to go see her. We used to live much further from here, and I didn’t get to see her very often then. It was like Christmas when we moved so close. I couldn’t believe my l–luck. If we have to move away again, well, it would be very hard.” Annabelle’s eyes flickered. “I don’t talk to the others about Mum. I like to keep myself to myself. She’s happy, and that m–makes me happy. As long as she remains so, and I can go visit her and do my photography, it’ll work out.”
“Why don’t you tell the others your concerns? They might be able to help.”
“I don’t want them to make f–fun of me. They think I’m out shooting pictures when I go to see her. If they find out I’ve been deceiving them, they m–might not like it.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I don’t know. I just do. The most important lesson I learned at school was that it’s best to keep my own counsel. Safer that way.”
Annabelle reached out and took his hand again. “Least said, soonest mended, eh?”
“Look, I’ve said too much. They’re nice people here, good people. I’m the one that’s a little…off. I know that. F–forget I said anything.” Thomas withdrew his hand and clasped his camera. He played with the strap.
“Is there anything else, Thomas, that you want to tell me?”
Thomas looked down. He let out a big sigh. “I have a confession to make. I know you’re not C–catholic, nor am I, but I think it would be for the best if I tell you what’s on my m–mind.
“Okay,” Annabelle said. “What is it you want to tell me?”
“After Theo died, I did something I shouldn’t have. I–I went in his room. I–I got mad about what I saw in there, and I kicked a few things about.” Beads of sweat were appearing on Thomas’ brow. “I know I shouldn’t have, but I was so angry.”
“What made you angry, Thomas?”
“Theo was always so m–mysterious. He had a tiny swastika t–tattoo on his hand, did you know that? He n–never let anyone in his room, and I was curious so I slipped in Tuesday after the p–police had gone. He had all this Nazi stuff in there! My m–mother is a Holocaust survivor. The rest of her family died in the camps. The idea that Theo was a Nazi s–sympathizer made me so mad. I know I shouldn’t have, but I was taken by a fury. I c–couldn’t stop myself. My mother, my dear sweet mother had been t–traumatized, nearly killed, lost all her family because of people like him. I threw a f–few things around. I’m sorry. I sh–shouldn’t have.” He breathed heavily. “Look, I must go b–back. I’m hoping the police will let me out of here tomorrow. I normally see M–mum on a Th-thursday. She’ll be confused if I don’t turn up.” Thomas made to move off.
“Goodbye, Thomas.”
He started to trudge toward the house.
“I hope you get to see your mother again soon!” she called to him before the trees swallowed him up.
Annabelle watched him go, mulling over what he had just told her and what relevance it might have to Theo’s murder. She turned to face the white tent once more and squared her shoulders. She would have to leave the path and cut through the trees to go around it. She gritted her teeth, and humming loudly to herself, continued to stomp her way into the brush and back onto the path beyond.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The pony coming toward her was agitated.
As Annabelle opened the metal gate into the cobblestone yard, the animal side-eyed her. And perhaps unnerved by her flowing, black cassock, it trotted nervously sideways, the whites of its eyes showing as it threw its head. The pony’s owner held on firmly to the horse’s bridle, and to Annabelle’s relief, brooked no nonsense. The baseball-capped woman clicked her tongue and urged the pony to “walk on” as she heaved her body into its flanks.
Annabelle flattened herself against the gate. It was at times like these that her city upbringing and lack of experience in certain country ways were underscored. Grateful that she had avoided a nasty bite or painful, trodden-on toes, Annabelle exhaled when the pony passed her only to be immediately flayed about the face by the swishing of a coarse, hairy tail.
“Oh, oh, dear me,” she said, brushing her face and picking horsehair off her robes. Checking carefully to make sure there were no other large animals that might assail her, she walked up to the smithy’s open door where the air temperature immediately rose by a significant degree. A red-hot coal fire roared in the furnace. Scott was bent over it, his eyes covered with clear plastic goggles, his workman’s shirt and jeans protected by a filthy, heavy apron. His hands were bare, and
now Annabelle could see clearly why they were so red, scarred, and rough. He turned and on seeing Annabelle, called in a deep, loud voice, “Out the way, Vicar.”
Annabelle leapt back as he carried a glowing chunk of iron from the fire. He threw it on his anvil and started attacking the metal. Using the tongs, he quickly turned the burning lump over, hitting it repeatedly with the hammer, intent on working it into shape before it went cold and rigid. When the metal cooled, he briskly plunged it back into the furnace to warm it up some more.
Annabelle flinched and blinked every time the hammer came down. Scott’s muscular, hairy arms sent droplets of sweat into the air. He was concentrating hard, seeming to have forgotten Annabelle was there, and she heard a few choice words muttered as he shaped the glob on the end of his tongs to his liking.
Annabelle waited quietly until he finished pounding the metal and had cast it aside to cool. He stood staring into the burning embers of his furnace, wiping his hands. She coughed.
Scott ripped off his safety goggles and regarded her.
“Oh hello, Vicar. I’d forgotten you were there. Um, sorry about my language.”
Annabelle waved away his apology. “Mind if I have a look around? I’ve never been to a forge before,” she smiled.
Scott swung his palms forward. “No, go ahead. Take your time. Just be careful you don’t trip. Smithies aren’t the tidiest of places, and you could fall on something nasty.” Scott wiped his hands on his apron and walked over to an outside tap. He washed his grimy hands in the cold stream that gushed from it, a juddering noise pulsating the pipework as it ran.
“Fancy a cup of tea, Vicar?
“That would be lovely, thank you.”
Scott picked up a blackened kettle, shook it, and satisfied there was sufficient water in it, put the kettle inside the forge on top of the glowing coals. He picked up a pair of bellows and puffed some air into the cinders, making them glow a deep red, giving them life.
Annabelle was walking slowly around the room. It was dark, the only light coming from the furnace and the daylight that came in through the door. The air was surprisingly smokeless, but it was dry and heavy. It made her eyes itch.
Killer at the Cult Page 12
