Killer at the Cult

by Alison Golden

“I just walked and walked. Those woods are big. I went back to my car and was dossing there for the night when the police found me. But I had nothing to do with killing that guy. Nothing at all!”

  He pursed his lips. Annabelle looked at him steadily. Her hands were clasped in her lap.

  “Do you know what a bolt gun is?”

  “Uh, sure I do. I work in a slaughterhouse. We stun the cattle with them. Used one for years. Look, I’ve been all through this with the coppers.”

  Venables sat up, and tossed the coin onto the table. Annabelle gave a slight start. Venables lowered his shoulders, and pushed out his chin, before closing his eyes for a second. Life seemed to drain out of him.

  “Look, I’ve got previous. From when I was young. Since then, I’ve made it my business to get clean. Settled family life, steady job.”

  He leaned forward. Annabelle leaned back, slightly alarmed. The way Venables thrust out his chin unnerved her.

  “I wouldn’t wreck everything I’ve worked for, not after twenty years, because of that twit.”

  He leaned back and Annabelle relaxed. “But what about Sally?”

  “Sally is my only child and that…that man stole her from me! Any father would do the same thing. He turned her head, distanced her from her family. I was worried he’d take her money, but I was much more worried that he’d take her from us, and we’d never see her again. You hear such stories.

  “She would’ve come to her senses eventually. I just wanted it to happen sooner rather than later, and I didn’t want to see her be made a fool of. Her mam and me have given her everything. She is our precious doll, and it hurt her mam so much when she went off like that, without a word, and well, you saw me. I lost my rag, didn’t I?” He clenched his fists. “But I didn’t kill anyone.”

  Richard put both elbows on the table and hid his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes. A moment later, he sat back, blinking, his face red. He let out a sigh. His shoulders heaved and returned to rest. He regarded Annabelle with sorrowful eyes.

  “Can you help me, Reverend? I’ve really messed things up, haven’t I? I don’t know what to do. I want to take Sally home with me, especially now, but I daren’t show up at the house, and I’m not sure she’d speak to me if I did. What do you think I should do?”

  “Perhaps you could give her some space, Richard. Allow her to come around in her own time. Let her know that home with you and your wife is a safe place for her. Encourage her with honey, not vinegar.”

  “Could you talk to her, Reverend? You seem to understand.”

  “I think she needs to hear directly from you, Richard. Quietly, no drama, no shouting.”

  Venables nodded. He looked down at his pint. “I could drink less, too.”

  Annabelle stood. “That would be a step in the right direction, yes. Good night, Richard.”

  “’Night, Vicar.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Thomas! Thomas!” Sally was walking around the house. Thomas hadn’t shown up for breakfast. That wasn’t so unusual, but when he didn’t turn up for lunch either, she had started to worry.

  Everyone in the house was on edge. Now that Sally’s father had been released, there was some small amount of relief for her, but the others weren’t entirely convinced of his innocence. And even if Richard wasn’t the murderer, the specter that someone else, someone still on the run, possibly even one of their own, had killed Theo was making them nervous and suspicious of one another. The night before, Sally had been forced to intervene in an argument between Scott and Margaret over her smoking in the house. Scott said he got enough smoke during the day, he didn’t want it at night as well. Margaret had insolently ignored his grumbling. The atmosphere had caused Julia to take to her room with Barnaby while Suki had been squabbling with everyone.

  Sally was devastated not just by Theo’s death, but also by the rancor in the house and the thought that her father might be the killer. She found it hard to believe he was guilty, but things didn’t look good for him. In the past couple of days, she’d confided in Thomas when she’d felt particularly troubled. Having gone for hours without seeing him, she missed Thomas’ undemanding, comforting presence.

  “He’s probably in his darkroom,” Suki had said to her. “Isn’t that where he goes to be alone?”

  “Yes, but he wouldn’t have been in there for twenty-four hours straight, surely? He has to eat! Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps I shouldn’t bother him if he’s in there. He doesn’t like people disturbing him. The light ruins his photos.”

  “But still, if you’re worried about him. You could just knock. If he replies, all’s well.”

  “I don’t know what you’re so concerned about? Antisocial misfit,” Margaret said nastily. “Maybe he was Theo’s killer? Perhaps he’s done a runner!”

  “Don’t be silly, Margaret. Thomas? No, never. He’s much too sweet, much too docile,” Sally said.

  “Well, it had to be someone. Who do you think it was, if it wasn’t your father?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know! I can’t imagine any of us here killing anyone, least of all Theo.” Sally looked at the two women, anguish written across her face. They looked back at her, skeptically.

  Sally pushed aside the curtain Thomas had rigged outside the door to his darkroom. She knocked quietly on the door three times. Thomas was a quiet, observant man. It wasn’t necessary to make a lot of noise to get his attention.

  There was no response. She knocked again and called his name quietly. When no one came to the door, she turned the handle slowly.

  “Thomas? Thomas? Are you in there?” She cracked open the door gingerly, unsure whether to go in. She put her eye to the crack and swiveled it around taking in as much of the room as she could. She couldn’t see much, except…There! There was a puddle on the floor, the surface rippling every time a drop fell from the table above. Sally opened the door sharply and slipped in, shutting the door quickly. She turned to see what was causing the fluid to seep onto the floor.

  Downstairs, Margaret had stirred herself enough to help Suki in the kitchen with the dinner.

  They heard a noise. Both paused in their preparations.

  “What was that?” Suki asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Margaret said uncertainly. They heard the noise again.

  “Someone’s screaming,” Margaret said.

  “It’s Sally. Something’s happened to Sally!” Suki replied.

  Suki pushed away from the kitchen table and began to run. Margaret waited for a moment before pulling off her apron and throwing it on the table. She chased after her daughter, the sounds of Sally’s screams echoing down the hallway, getting louder with every stride.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The emergency call came through to the Upton St. Mary police station just fifteen minutes before the end of Constable Raven’s shift. Under normal circumstances this would have been cause for a stream of uncharitable verbiage from the constable but deaths, certainly possible murders, were serious enough for him to put the inconvenience aside. He dialed Ainslie’s number.

  “Ah, Chief Inspector?”

  “What is it, Raven? I’m just about to turn into my driveway.”

  “Um, sir, there’s been another suspicious death. At the big house in Upton St. Mary.”

  Raven held the phone away from his ear when Ainslie realized he would need to turn right around and get back to the village without so much as a cup of tea.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll get there right away. See you shortly.”

  Raven rammed on his cap and jogged to the police car. As he reversed out of the car park, he plugged another number into his phone and put it on speaker.

  Annabelle was pruning her roses when the call from Raven came through.

  “Constable, what can I do you for?”

  “Reverend, there’s been another death at the big house.”

  Annabelle chopped the head off a perfectly beautiful red rose. She cringed. “Fiddlesticks!”

  “I know, it’s
a terrible thing,” Raven said. “Ainslie won’t be there for another forty-five minutes. Shall I pick you up on the way?”

  “Thank you, Jim, but it’ll be quicker if I make my own way there. See you in a bit.”

  Annabelle pulled off her gardening gloves and ran inside. She poured some water into a glass and popped the rose into it. She stared at the bloom for a moment, sighing, before shaking herself. She trotted upstairs to change out of her gardening clothes but stopped halfway. She wanted to get to the house before Chief Inspector Ainslie. No doubt he would throw her out as soon as he saw her. Gardening clothes would have to do.

  Annabelle’s royal blue Mini Cooper sped along the road out of the village and along the lane to the big house. She spun the wheel to turn right up the pitted gravel driveway, her back wheels spinning out and kicking up dust in her haste. Righting the car, she kept her foot down on the accelerator, bumping along the track and skidding to a halt outside the door.

  Her arrival coincided with that of Constable Raven who had motored there at a much more leisurely pace.

  “What do you know, Constable?” she whispered as they walked in together. She was relieved to see there was no policeman on duty at the door this time.

  “Not much, body’s a male, that’s about it. Woman was a bit, er, hysterical.”

  “Then it can be one of only two people.”

  “Oh?”

  “There’s only two men left here. Scott and Thomas.”

  Annabelle showed Constable Raven to the kitchen. They looked through the glass door to where four women were assembled. Sally was sitting at the table, a crumpled tissue once again at her mouth. Julia sat next to her, holding her hand. Suki stood behind, patting Sally’s shoulder. Margaret stood aloof from the crowd. She leaned back against the sink, a glass of clear liquid cradled against her chest. She looked pale.

  “Did you know they call themselves the ‘Brotherhood of St. Petrie?’” Raven looked at the four women dubiously. “They don’t look very brotherly,” he whispered.

  Annabelle shook her head, “It’s just a name. It means they’re a group, they’re all in this together.”

  “They’re in what together, Reverend?”

  “You know, life.”

  Annabelle pushed the door to the kitchen open.

  “Hello Annabelle,” Suki said. There was a tremor in her voice.

  “I’m sorry—” Annabelle began. There were heavy footsteps outside and the kitchen door opened with a bang. Scott’s large form entered the room.

  “What’s going on? There’s a police car in the driveway and more in the distance. They’re coming this way.”

  “It’s Thomas,” Margaret said. “He’s dead.”

  Scott looked around the room at everyone. “What? How?”

  “Sally found him.”

  “He was in his darkroom. Drowned,” Julia said.

  Scott looked at her darkly. “No way.” He stomped out of the kitchen and down the hallway to the flight of stairs that led to the upper rooms.

  “Stop, sir,” Raven called after him. “You can’t go in there. I have to seal the crime scene.” Raven chased after Scott who was running now. Annabelle followed. Scott was fast, and Raven lumbered in his wake, but Annabelle had several inches on the constable and soon left him behind. Scott conveniently led them to Thomas’ room, running down corridors, and skidding around corners. Just before he reached the room, Annabelle caught up to him and rather bravely put herself between the larger man and the doorway, their faces inches apart.

  “Best if you join the ladies in the kitchen, sir,” Raven called out, panting from behind and leaning on a bannister rail. Scott glared at Annabelle mutinously. “It’s for the best. There’s nothing you can do for the victim,” the policeman added.

  “For Thomas,” Annabelle said gently.

  Scott, on hearing Thomas’ name, relaxed his features in defeat. He quietly acquiesced and moved away from Annabelle. He went back the way he had come, flicking one last mulish look at Raven as he passed.

  Raven walked up to Annabelle. “Quick, the others will be here soon. Don’t touch anything and take as few steps as possible, okay?”

  Annabelle nodded. Her heart was beating hard in her chest, and her fingertips tingled.

  “So it’s Thomas?” Raven asked.

  “Yes, it’s Thomas. Thomas Reisman. He’s been a member of the Brotherhood for a couple of years.”

  Raven took a handkerchief and turned the doorknob carefully. Immediately, they smelled the metallic, acrid fumes of the darkroom chemicals. Raven reached for the light switch but Annabelle held out her hand. She pointed to the safelight and to the pictures hanging from pegs on the lines strung across the room. They peered through the gloom. A creak made Annabelle start, and she felt a cold sensation curl around her toes. She looked down. Fluid had seeped through the weakened seam of her old gardening shoes. Next to her foot was an upturned tray. Photographs were strewn on the floor. Lying face down was Thomas, his cheek lying on one of the prints. His glasses were on the floor next to him, smashed. His face was white, his lips were blue.

  Sighing, Annabelle crouched down, placing her hand on Thomas’ shoulder. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. She looked at the prints upon which Thomas lay. The bonfire, sparks fizzing into the smoke, flames curling around wood featured in one. Another was of the stormy sky, two crows flying across it. But it was the one by Thomas’ shoulder that interested Annabelle the most. Thomas had taken a wide angle photo of a barn owl in a tree next to a clearing, a fallen tree trunk to one side of it. The bird appeared to be looking at something, but before she could take a closer look, “What have we got, Raven?” Chief Inspector Brian Ainslie appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” He glared at Annabelle.

  “Man, about thirty, sir. He’s been identified as Thomas Reisman. Been a member of the Brotherhood for about two years. This was his darkroom. Looks like he was drowned.” Raven spoke in a rush. Annabelle sidled past Ainslie and onto the landing. “Chief Inspector,” she mumbled as she passed him. He paid her no attention although she thought she heard a tutting sound. She hurried along down the staircase and back to the kitchen where the four women and Scott still congregated.

  Annabelle sat down at the table a little out of breath. “What happened?”

  Sally stuttered in between her tears.

  “I found him. He hadn’t come down to breakfast or been seen all day so I went looking for him. Oh, Annabelle, it was awful. Poor Thomas, he didn’t deserve that. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “And do you think it was definitely murder?”

  “How could it not be? You can’t drown yourself in an inch of liquid, surely,” Margaret intoned.

  “Where were you these past twenty-four hours?”

  “We were all here, except for Scott.”

  “I was at the forge.”

  “You mean, do you mean, could it be…” Suki stammered, “…one of us?”

  They all looked at one another. There was a bump and a shout from upstairs. They looked up at the ceiling.

  Margaret, who’d moved closer to the table, moved back to the sink again. Julia let go of Sally’s hand and folded her arms. The atmosphere in the room got a little cooler.

  “But surely not. It couldn’t be any of us. I mean, why would we?” Suki said.

  “Why would anyone? I mean, Thomas?” Sally said.

  “Wait a minute. Your father’s out of police custody. It could have been him. He could have come back to finish the job he started,” Margaret said. Julia nodded.

  Sally looked affronted, but she said nothing.

  “Perhaps it’s a random person from outside coming in,” Suki offered. “It wouldn’t be hard in this rambling old place. Especially at night.”

  “But why?” Julia interjected. “A serial killer picking off his victims at random? In Upton St. Mary? Really?”

  Annabelle opened her mouth to speak but closed it again. After the strange goings-on she’d
encountered since she’d lived in the village, nothing would surprise her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Annabelle banged the garden gate shut and walked up the path as she shrugged off her jacket. “Philippa! Are you here?”

  She sat on the back doorstep and leaned over to unlace her gardening shoes before she went inside. When she’d first moved to Upton St. Mary, she hadn’t fussed too much about wearing footwear in the house, but a few of Philippa’s disapproving looks and barely disguised tutting had cured her of the habit. She tossed the shoes to the side where they would lie protected from the elements by the porch overhang until the next time she pottered in the garden.

  “Philippa!” She opened the back door. “Oh!”

  Sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of tea, was Mike.

  “Hello, Annabelle,” he smiled.

  “Mike!” Annabelle beamed. “You’re back! I wasn’t expecting you until next weekend.”

  “I’m taking a break. Tomorrow’s session’s on ‘Social media and the police: Tweeting best practices,’ whatever that means. They’re expecting me back in the evening. I thought I’d stop by and see the dogs. And you, of course.”

  Annabelle was still grinning. Mike was in his civvies, jeans and a light jumper, his brown hair tousled in what Annabelle thought was a rather attractive manner. He scratched his light stubble. “I thought we could take the dogs for a walk.”

  “Yes! I think that’s a splendid idea! I’ve got tons to tell you,” Annabelle said. “Let me go and change.”

  “You’re fine as you are.”

  “I’m in my gardening clothes.” She looked down at herself. She was wearing a pair of old dungarees that were muddy and ripped over a shapeless t-shirt that had once been emblazoned with the words, “More Tea, Vicar?” but which were now so faded they were barely noticeable. Her socks had a hole in them. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she saw that her hair needed a good brush after a day of weeding and crime scene investigation.