“And you look fine in your gardening clothes. Come on, the dogs are bursting, and they don’t care what you’re wearing.”
Molly had gone to the coat rack in the hall where the leads were kept as soon as Annabelle had arrived home. She was now patiently sitting by Mike’s feet, the leash in her mouth, her brown eyes looking at him in appeal. Magic, like his mistress, wasn’t quite so disciplined and was running around the kitchen, his tail banging against the kitchen cupboards, giving the occasional bark and odd little jump.
“Oh, alright.” Annabelle was secretly delighted to go as she was. She would have wasted ten precious minutes deciding what to wear and dressing to suit the occasion was all so much effort. Magic followed her into the hallway where she took his lead off the peg and attached it before tying herself into her hiking boots.
Mike joined her. “Let’s go to the moor. We haven’t been there for a long time. We can all have a good stretch. Lord knows I need it after being cooped up for days on end. It’ll be light until nine. We could stop off and have a drink at the pub before going home.”
“Sounds good to me,” Annabelle agreed.
“I’ve got a map in the car.”
“Oh, er, can’t we use the GPS?”
“Nah, let’s do it the old-fashioned way. There’s nothing like using a proper Ordnance Survey map to navigate your way around a Cornish moor.”
“Well, if you’re sure…” Annabelle, for whom all the squiggles and symbols on a paper map were guaranteed to amount to a lost couple of hours, surreptitiously checked the amount of battery on her phone and slipped it into her back pocket. She hadn’t forgotten the time she went on an orienteering field trip with her high school class. As leader of her group, she had managed to get them lost on a cliff’s edge. All six teens had to be rescued by the local air/sea rescue. She hadn’t trusted maps since.
She got into the passenger seat of the car, and off they set. They were headed for the rugged expanse of granite and grass moorland that stretched for miles, famous for the wild ponies that grazed there and its collection of stone formations dating back to the Bronze Age. The dogs whined in the back, their tongues hanging. They were looking forward to a long workout.
“Shouldn’t we follow the public footpath?” Annabelle said sometime later as she pointed at the green sign to their left.
“No, I’m sure the map says this way. And the worn track, it goes this way too.” Mike was holding out his map, peering at it and then at the landscape around him, squinting.
“Alright,” Annabelle said. “If you’re sure.”
Mike wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t about to say so. They’d been walking for two hours and the car was nowhere in sight.
They walked on. The dogs were slower now. Having bounded and frolicked for a good while at first, they were tired but good-naturedly pressed on alongside their owners. All around them was gently undulating moss and heather punctuated by the occasional bush, tree, and rocky outcrop. Large granite stones piled on top of one another in gravity-defying configurations cast long shadows and appeared ominous in the fading sunlight. Above, the sky was turning dark blue, the clouds long and wispy as though God himself had breathed them into being.
They hiked for another hour during which their stroll became a trudge, their conversation intermittent.
“Look, there’s some trees over there. We parked by some trees.” Mike was going by sight, his confidence in his map-reading skills undermined, and his sense of direction guided by hope more than evidence or even intuition. They changed direction once more and headed for the trees, hoping that this time they were the trees. They plunged into the woodland, the treetops casting low shadows on the ground making it difficult for them to see their way.
Annabelle looked up. The moon was full, the stars were out.
“Isn’t this romantic?” she sighed.
“Romantic? We’re lost in the middle of a bloody moor. At night. How can it possibly be romantic?” Mike shook out his map roughly. “Shine the light, would you? I’ll try once more to get our bearings.” Annabelle sighed and stomped over to him through the rough wild grasses at her feet. She shone her phone’s light at the map, the beam bouncing off it so brightly that she had to squint.
“We wouldn’t make very good spies, would we?
Mike looked at her. “Spies?”
“Anyone looking for us would find us in no time at all with a light this bright.”
“Well, let’s hope they do, because we are well and truly lost,” he mumbled as he looked at the map. He lifted his head as he tried to fix on a landmark, before peering down at the map again, seemingly none the wiser. ”Anyway, we’re not spies, and spies don’t use maps. They have gadgets and tech, and oh I get it, this is because I wouldn’t bring the GPS, is it?”
“No, no. I was thinking more about wartime, World War II and all that.
“Well, you were right. About the GPS, I mean. I shouldn’t have been so pig-headed.”
“We’ll get out of here, even if we have to walk all night. If worst comes to worst, Philippa’s sure to send out a search party in the morning. Say, I’m sure I’ve seen this tree before.”
“We should be getting to a crossroads soo— Arrgh!!” Mike leapt three inches into the air. There was a rustle in the trees next to them, followed by the sound of munching. Mike backed up, pushing Annabelle behind him until they reached a tree trunk some yards away. As they rounded it, Annabelle gasped and jumped as she bumped into a soft, velvety, hairy snout. A pair of big dark brown eyes, framed by long, black eyelashes, and covered in part by straggly pale brown hair regarded Mike and Annabelle mournfully. The sound of chewing continued, before the eyes closed and dipped to the ground once more. It was a chestnut brown pony, unconcerned by its company. Even the dogs were too tired to offer more than a quick sniff.
The pony’s fair, long mane lay over its eyes and hung down low over the sides of its neck, its frame stout and sturdy. The pony stood alone, but Annabelle noticed two more, one a piebald, the other a gray. They all had shaggy long manes and rough coats.
“Wild ponies!” Annabelle whispered to Mike.
“Great, just what we need to add to our evening. Wild animals.” Mike looked back at the pony warily. “Are they really wild? Like they could attack us?” The pony lowered its head to the floor to pull up more grass. It didn’t look very wild.
“We’ll be fine. Let’s just not startle it.”
Annabelle made to step out from behind the tree. “Stop!” Mike looked in the distance. Through the trees they could see two beams of light bobbing up and down. “Someone’s coming!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“But that’s good, isn’t it?” Annabelle said. “They can rescue us.”
“No one coming out to these parts of the moor this late at night is up to any good, Annabelle. Trust me on that.”
A car pulled up and the engine turned off. The lights stayed on. A door opened and another, smaller, beam of light appeared. They heard swishing noises as someone moved through the bracken, the light swaying from side to side. Mike, with Annabelle still behind him, retreated as the light came toward them. The ponies were alert now and had lifted their heads, watching. A woman emerged into the clearing. The piebald pony steadied itself and the woman walked toward it, talking softly, one hand out, the other behind her back. The pony allowed her to get close, and she quickly slipped a halter over its neck, rubbing it between the ears and feeding it from her hand. When she turned and walked away, a length of rope in her clenched fist, the pony obediently followed.
“But I thought they were wild!” Mike whispered to Annabelle. She shrugged.
“Let’s follow them,” she whispered.
They tracked the woman at a distance to a path that crisscrossed the moor. Parked next to a signpost was a battered Land Rover, a horse trailer coupled to it. The interior light came on to reveal another woman. Together the pair coaxed the pony into the horse trailer, all the while talking in a foreign language,
their voices low.
“They’re stealing the pony!” Annabelle exclaimed, her whisper feverish. She got out her phone. “I’ll write down the number plate.”
“K-B-D-1-2-Y” Mike relayed to her. The two women clambered into the front seats, and the interior light flashed on once more. The women were young, slim, and in their early twenties. They both had long hair, one was blond, the other brunette. They were focused and grim-faced as they sat looking out through the windscreen, before the driver turned to look behind her. The car swayed as it reversed away down the bumpy track.
Mike and Annabelle moved out from behind the trees.
“What do you think they are playing at?” Annabelle asked.
“I don’t know, but text me that number, and I’ll forward it to the guys at the station.”
“Let’s get back to the car. It’s over here,” Annabelle said looking at her phone.
Mike looked at her, astonished. “The car’s over there?” He narrowed his eyes.
“Modern technology isn’t such a bad thing, you know.”
“Well, why didn’t you say something?”
“Because you were so determined to do it your way. And I was quite enjoying myself. And now it looks like we may be on the hunt of some pony rustlers, so it’s all good. Come on. You promised me a drink. If we leave now, we’ll get one in just before closing time.
When they got to the Dog and Duck, a barman Annabelle hadn’t seen before served them; a pint of real ale for Mike, an orange juice for Annabelle.
“Here you are, Vicar. I’m just leavin’,” said Miles Chadwick who was vacating the table by the fireplace. It was the one that Annabelle had sat at when she’d spoken to Richard Venables. Mike and Annabelle sat down, the dogs curling up under the table by their feet. They continued the conversation they’d had in the car on the way back from the moor. Annabelle had brought Mike up to speed on the two murders and the characters who lived in the big house, as well as the angry confrontation between Theo and Venables and the fact that Venables had been released from custody just prior to Thomas being killed.
“So who has a motive?” Mike asked.
Annabelle threw up her hands and rolled her eyes. “They all do!” She leaned over the table and spoke so quietly, that Mike had to do the same. “Suki is in line to inherit her uncle’s estate, Margaret was ashamed of her son,” Mike raised his eyebrow skeptically. “He was a Nazi sympathizer and all round bad egg. It’s not out of the question she might have murdered him, if unlikely.
“Okay, who else is in the frame?”
“Thomas’ mother was a Holocaust survivor. He said he didn’t find out about Theo’s Nazi beliefs until after his death, but Thomas knew about the swastika tattoo Theo had on his hand, so he could have been lying. He might have murdered him in a fit of rage or due to some misplaced justice. He admitted to roughing up his room.”
“But then he was murdered.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, who else?”
“There’s Sally.”
“She’s the daughter of the guy arrested, is that right?”
“Yes, Sally was in love with Theo, but it wasn’t requited.”
Mike pushed his glass around and smiled at Annabelle’s use of the old-fashioned term.
“It could have been a crime of passion, Mike!”
“Okay, okay,” Mike put up his palms. “It’s possible.”
“Scott is in love with Sally, so Theo was his love rival. Perhaps he bumped Theo off to get him out of the way. They’d also had a falling out about money. Richard Venables, Sally’s father, hated Theo for luring her to the Brotherhood. Julia hated him because he turned down her idea of setting up an animal sanctuary. I bet even Barnaby the rabbit wasn’t too keen on him. Perhaps Theo threw his carrot tops away or something.”
“Alibis?”
“None of them have one. They were all either in costume, hiding from one another in the woods, or in Margaret’s case, alone in the house.
“And what about the weapon?”
“So that’s the other curious thing. Theo was killed with a bolt through the heart. They use bolt guns in slaughterhouses to stun the cattle. Venables admitted to me he had worked in one.”
“Well, there you are then.”
“But why would he admit it so freely if he had something to hide?
“Annabelle, criminals aren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve heard in an interview room. One told me he didn’t have a mother once. He had ‘M-U-M’ tattooed across his knuckles!”
“But you see, Scott also makes bolts at his forge. They are on the table in the corner. Anyone could have taken one.” Annabelle was still leaning forward, pressing her forefinger repeatedly into the small oak table.
“And Thomas’ death? What’s your theory?”
Annabelle threw herself back in her chair. She raised her hands, her palms upward. “He drowned in a inch or so of fluid, some kind of chemical used in the process of developing photographs.”
“That would have taken a man, surely.”
“Maybe, but with the element of surprise, I reckon a woman could have done it.”
“Hmm. Well, I’d follow the money. Seems like Theo had a lot of enemies. Greed is nearly always behind a case like this. Jealousy and hate tend to be secondary motivators. Very possible, but not as likely. As for Thomas’ death, it might be related, or it could have to do with something completely different. Perhaps Thomas killed Theo, and someone else killed Thomas for revenge?”
“I can’t imagine Thomas killing anyone. He was a loving, sensitive soul. He loved nature, wildlife.”
“Perhaps Venables killed them both. Ainslie obviously thinks so.”
“Why would Venables kill Thomas? Why would anyone kill Thomas?
“Perhaps Thomas knew something. Something we don’t know about. Annabelle, look, I know you want to help, but you don’t have to go around solving all the world’s problems, you know. Ainslie’s on it. It is his job.”
“Do you know his sergeant?” Annabelle asked, pushing her brown hair behind her ear.
“Scarlett? Yeah, she’s alright, good at her job.” Annabelle held her breath. “A bit prickly, though. And she’s always asking me for coffee. I have to keep turning her down, or I’d never get any work done.”
“Really?” Annabelle lifted her glass of orange juice to hide the smirk that crept across her lips.
They heard a shout for last orders.
“Would you like another drink?” Mike asked.
Annabelle hesitated, “No, thank you. Best be getting home. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow, and you’ve got to trek back to Truro yet.”
Mike picked up their empty glasses and deposited them on the bar.
“Thanks, Barbara,” he said. Barbara was polishing glasses behind the counter.
“Oh, hello Inspector, didn’t see you there.” Barbara fluttered her false eyelashes in mock astonishment. She would have to have been blind not to see the couple sitting at the fireplace.
“’Night, Barbara,” Annabelle said.
“’Night, you two,” Barbara winked at her. Annabelle pretended not to notice.
Five minutes later, they rolled up to Annabelle’s cottage. Mike kept the car engine running,
“By the way,” he said gently. “I forgot to mention, I liked that picture of you in the mask.”
“Oh!” Annabelle’s eyes widened. “Oh!” She blushed, grateful for the low light.
“I thought you looked very mysterious and exotic. Rather beautiful, in fact.”
“Did you?” Annabelle’s blush was furious now. She’d wondered why she hadn’t heard back from her brother. She looked out of the window and took a strand of hair, twirling it around her finger. She looked down at her lap.
Mike draped an arm over his steering wheel and looked at her. The light from the street lamp highlighted his profile. Silence filled the car like a heavy blanket, pinning them to their seats, freezing them in the mom
ent. Neither of them moved nor spoke until Magic yawned and whined in the back.
“Well, I—I must be going,” Annabelle said. Her hand darted around looking for the door handle.
“Will I see you tomorrow? Before I go back to the conference?”
“Yes, no, maybe, I don’t know.” Annabelle was now in full panic mode. She was yanking on the door handle. “Like I said, I have a busy day.”
Seeing her struggle, Mike reached across her slowly and carefully pulled the lever. He pushed the door open for her. “I’ll get the dogs,” he said.
“No, it’s alright, I can do it.”
“Okay, good night then, Annabelle. Sorry about getting us lost.” he said.
“Er, um, good night, Mike.” Annabelle stumbled out of the car. As she straightened up, she paused. “Actually—”
“Yes?”
She turned around and bent over looking at Mike across the passenger seat. “Tomorrow. Yes.”
“Ten thirty? Coffee, perhaps?”
“Yes, um, see you then. Goodnight.” Annabelle opened the back door of the car and the dogs jumped out. She hurried up to her front door as gracefully as she could, knowing that Mike was watching her. He waited until she was safely in the cottage, and with a flick of his eyebrows, he drove off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Annabelle opened her eyes. She immediately remembered what today was.
She clenched her fists and opened them again. She shut her eyes tight and held her breath. She exhaled slowly. Today was the day. The day she dreaded all year. The one that when it was all over, she would treat herself to a long soak in the bath and a big piece of cake, maybe two. Except this year, she was going to skip the cake.
It was the day for Biscuit’s annual check-up. And that meant wrangling her into her cat carrier. Annabelle supposed these trips to the vet were the cause more than any other for Biscuit’s mostly indifferent relationship with her owner. She knew it couldn’t be fun being trapped in one of those carriers, but she had hoped that Biscuit would get used to it in time. Yet, despite many experiments, Annabelle had not found a set of conditions that placated her ginger tabby. Instead, she had reconciled herself to the fact that it would be necessary to walk down the Upton St. Mary high street with a cat that was intent on the feline equivalent of screaming bloody murder at least once a year.
Killer at the Cult Page 15
