Killer at the Cult Read online

  “You’re tormenting me, Philippa,” she said as she took the tea tray outside to her garden. Two young dogs, Molly and Magic, ran up to her, their brown tails wagging at one end, their pink tongues hanging out at the other.

  “Whoa, doggies, you’ll make me spill my tea.” Annabelle set the tray down on the bench and made a fuss of the two dogs, who, once they realized she had nothing for them, returned to playing with one another in a shady corner populated by purple foxgloves, pink hydrangea, and two crabapple trees.

  “What’s that?” Philippa said, as she moved some planters back into position. She walked over to where Annabelle was now sitting.

  “The cupcakes you’ve made. The ones currently sitting in the oven. You know I’m trying to be good.”

  “You’re always good, Reverend, you’re a vicar,” Philippa laughed. “Anyhow, those aren’t for you. They’re a rehearsal snack for the children. We need to keep their strength up. You’re putting them through their paces with all that singing. Audrey Beamish says her daughter sings from the moment she gets up to the moment she goes to bed at night. That takes a lot of energy, that does.”

  “And demands a lot of patience from the rest of her family, I shouldn’t wonder,” Annabelle replied.

  “There are some very high notes, to be sure. I can hear her from two streets away.”

  Annabelle’s idea to stage the story of Joseph and his coat of many colors had initially been a modest one. She’d envisaged a few songs and an equal number of children, but with the unbridled enthusiasm and imagination of the villagers, the project had developed into a major production. It now encompassed the entire songbook, virtually the whole village population of under-fifteens, and an army of parents who were managing everything from building sets to making costumes, from printing programs to plastering on makeup. Everyone was talking about it, and their expectations were causing Annabelle, who’d taken on the role of producer, director, and occasional cast member, a myriad of sleepless nights. She was taking to her knees a lot.

  “I must say that the last time I dropped by, it looked like primary school playtime with all that running and shouting, but I’m sure you know what you’re doing. Organized chaos, wouldn’t you say?” Philippa said, optimistically.

  In Annabelle’s experience, rehearsals erred far more on the side of chaos than organized. She had had to break up a fight during the last one. The thought of adding Philippa’s sugary treats to the mix was one that didn’t bear thinking about. The children didn’t need more energy. However, Annabelle decided to keep her own counsel for the moment.

  “Listen Philippa, I saw some people today, in the market square. Two women. They were handing out flowers to passersby. Do you know anything about them?”

  Philippa sniffed.

  “Would these be the people hanging around the market square bothering folk? Enticing them with flowers and animals, using the children to trick the parents into conversation about their blasphemous views?”

  “Well, yes. Although—”

  “The men who wear funny trousers?”

  “Um, yes, but—“

  “No one wearing trousers like that can be up to any good, Vicar. And who knows what those women hide up in those flowing skirts.”

  “Well, no perhaps not, Philippa. But what do you know about them?”

  “They’re heathens, Reverend. They have strange ways. They live at the big house at the end of Lolly Lane. I’ve heard all kinds of stories of funny goings on. Mr. and Mrs. Cuddy who live at the end of the lane say they’ve heard yelling and hollering at all times of the day and night. And the food they eat! All plants, you know?”

  “I see, well—“

  “Vegans, I think they call themselves. But it can’t be good for you, can it? We’re not cows, are we?”

  “That’s certainly unusual, however—”

  “But see, they’re clever. They worm their way under people’s skin. Start out all nice, chatty, and that, and before you know it, you’re imprisoned by some kind of cult you can’t escape from!”

  “I’m sure it’s not as bad as that, Philippa. You’re exaggerating, surely?”

  “I don’t think so, Vicar. Charlie Bishop went to the house for a cup of tea and barely came away with his life! They wanted him to stay for dinner, but you know how he likes his meat.”

  Annabelle fought back painful memories of the hot dog eating competition they’d held at the last church fête at which Charlie had been the undisputed winner and also the first in line at the doctor’s surgery the next morning.

  “I’d stay well away, if I were you,” Philippa finished.

  “Hmm, it all seems rather mysterious, certainly.”

  “Cooee!” Barbara Simpson from the Dog and Duck clicked the gate shut and waved as she tottered up the garden path in her leopard print stilettos.

  “Hello Barbara. How are you?” Annabelle said.

  “Fine, Vicar, fine. Just popped by with some of my old makeup. I thought you might be needing it for the show.” She handed Annabelle a large bag of cosmetics. Pallettes of eye shadows and tubes of lipsticks with evocative names such as Blastin’ Blue and Opulent Orange assailed her eyeballs. Glitter and shimmer featured strongly among the selection.

  “Thank you, Barbara, that’s very generous of you.” Annabelle looked down at the bag again. “The false eyelashes in particular will come in very handy.”

  “We were just talking about the cult people from the house at the end of Lolly Lane,” Philippa said.

  “Ooh yes, Vicar. They’re a bad lot, they are. Been coming into my pub, handing out their flowers, they have. I shoo them out sharpish.”

  Philippa sat up straighter and wagged her forefinger at Annabelle, invigorated now she had an ally. “I think they’ve brought bad blood into the village. Ever since they’ve arrived, bad things have been happening.”

  “Like what, Philippa? Come on, tell me. I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that,” Annabelle said.

  “Well, there was that business between Demelza Trevern and her cousin, Angie,” Philippa said.

  “That was a fight waiting to happen.”

  “And then Billy Breville got thrown from his horse.”

  “Ah yes, I saw Billy earlier.”

  “And we had a man in the pub the other day picking fights with some of my locals. I had to throw him out on to the street and hose him down to cool off!” Barbara added.

  Annabelle looked doubtfully at the two women. She was extremely reluctant to pay attention to their gossip, but she had to admit she was intrigued by the group of strangers.

  “Hmm, well, I’m sure it’s all just a coincidence.”

  “There’s no such thing as coincidences, Reverend. No such thing. It’s all God’s work.” Philippa clasped her hands around her knee and leaned back, pursing her lips.

  “Speaking of God’s work, are you seeing the Inspector this week, Reverend?” Barbara asked, her eyes wide, her eyebrows high.

  Annabelle wasn’t sure what God had to do with the relationship between her and the Inspector, but she knew the villagers’ curiosity in it was intense. Since their return from Scotland some weeks earlier, they had taken to regularly walking their dogs together. They had been seen crisscrossing the fields surrounding Upton St. Mary in all weathers. The newsagent was keeping a running tab of their sightings. The barman at the Fox and Duck was taking bets on an engagement. Meanwhile, a group of twelve year olds had lain in wait one Sunday afternoon, vowing to follow the pair throughout their ramble. Possibly because the Inspector had been onto them before they’d even left the village, they had been left for dust at the one mile mark and gone home to report to their parents who pretended to tell them off while hanging on to every word. Annabelle knew all this because she would overhear snippets of gossip and find conversations swiftly concluded when she walked in a room. However, no one, not even Philippa, had dared breathe a word to her directly.

  Annabelle took it all in good humor, although she had developed an en
ormous sympathy for high profile celebrity couples who had the populations of entire countries hanging on their relationship’s every development. The truth in her case was, however, far more mundane.

  Although Mike came to the village with Molly every weekend, and their rambles across the countryside were the highlight of Annabelle’s week, even more so than Sunday communion, their relationship hadn’t progressed beyond the occasional hand holding. She was in quite a tizzy about it and desperately wanted things to move on, but the Inspector appeared to be taking his time. She didn’t know what to make of it and was determined to keep everyone in the dark until she did.

  She knew her being a vicar may be part of the slow moving nature of their relationship, and if it were, it wasn’t the first time Annabelle’s dog collar had stood in the way of her love life. She had long ago reconciled herself to the fact that her cassock wasn’t exactly an aphrodisiac, and this was in large part why her long country walks with Inspector Mike Nicholls and their passionate, far-reaching discussions about the state of the world, religion, and the goodness and badness of people from their different perspectives had warmed her heart toward him. He even worked on jigsaw puzzles with her!

  She was sure he enjoyed their time together as much as she did, but she also knew, of course, that in many people’s eyes being a vicar put her in a class of women quite different from the norm. What many overlooked, however, was that underneath her clerical robes she was just like any other. She was a girl who wanted love, companionship, and someone she could rely on.

  “No, he’s gone to a conference,” she replied to Barbara, ignoring the older woman’s rapt expression. “’Innovation and Learning in 21st century policing.’ He couldn’t wait.” Annabelle rolled her eyes. Mike hadn’t been exactly enthusiastic. She remembered the words “poncy” and “pointless” being used in relation to it. “But I am looking after Molly while he’s away.”

  Despite herself, Annabelle let out a small sigh, and Barbara leaned over to pat her hand. “Don’t worry, the time will fly by, dear,” she said, her eyes conveying the fact that she knew full well that it wouldn’t.

  Annabelle sat up straight on the bench. “Oh! It’s nothing. I have much too much to be doing. There’s a show to put on for starters and many children to corral.”

  In an instant, she made a resolution. She would find out more about the strange group living in the house at the end of Lolly Lane. It would distract her from the Inspector’s absence. She drained her cup. She would keep her plans to herself for the time being. “I’d better get going. We have a rehearsal at two, and those children won’t direct themselves. Thank you for the cupcakes, Philippa.” Annabelle leaned over, “And the makeup, Barbara.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  After a busy week, the Saturday morning market was once more in full swing. Annabelle wandered from stall to stall, greeting market sellers and customers alike. It made her heart sing to see this centuries-old tradition still running. For many of the locals, their Saturday morning visits to the market were an important part of their week, the trips carefully planned and keenly anticipated by the villagers. The goals to buy fresh produce and meet up with friends were an indelible mark in their weekly routine and forced them to rise early rather than idle their time away with a lie-in.

  It was barely ten o’clock, but it was already sweltering. The weather had been unseasonably warm over the past few days, and as much as they longed for sunshine when they didn’t have it, the villagers were ready for this hot, humid heatwave to be over.

  “I’ll be in church tomorrow, Reverend. It’ll be the coolest place in town,” a stout woman of around fifty said to Annabelle, holding out the neck of her low cut shirt and flapping it vigorously back and forth.

  “It’s always the coolest place in town, Mrs. Beamish,” Annabelle smiled.

  She waved to the ladies on the WI stall, but skirted it, mindful of the danger it posed to her waistline. She’d been “good” all week, and she didn’t want to mess things up now.

  Today she’d eschewed her cassock and was wearing a loose cotton shirt and pants along with her dog collar. While her working robes were inordinately forgiving, Annabelle’s “civvies” had been getting tighter in recent months. Now though, she could tell her hard work was paying off. Her clothes were feeling a little looser. She reminded herself of the promise she’d made. A shop in London sold “clergy couture,” and she’d vowed to treat herself when she’d lost a few pounds.

  “Whoops! Sorry!” Annabelle yelped as she stepped back into the path of old Mrs. Penhaligon.

  Mrs. Penhaligon was an elderly lady of, rumor had it, around 95. She was a little stooped as she pushed along her wheeled shopping basket, a prized possession that had been donated to her by the church. Annabelle, keen to help keep the elderly independent and connected to the life of the village, had instigated a fundraising drive to deliver these rolling carts to every villager over the age of seventy. The parish council, urged on by her, had organized bake sales and bingo nights to pay for the carts that were made in Mr. Carrick’s workshop on Poldark Street. Mr. Carrick, an enthusiastic, amateur metalworker had volunteered to build the carts. He was a perfectionist, and it hadn’t been an easy or inexpensive job, the aging population of the village being the size it was. However, the carts had proven to be indestructible. Annabelle was confident they would easily outlive their owners and secretly, she hoped they would be passed down from generation to generation, making them bargains at their price.

  “That’s okay, dear. No harm done.”

  Annabelle waited as Cynthia Turnbull gave her daughter an arithmetic lesson at Mr. Plumber’s stall. “The strawberries are two pounds fifty. If we give him a five pound note, how much change does Mr. Plumber give us back, Jessica?”

  Subtraction was obviously not Jessica’s strong point, because by the time she’d worked out the right answer, Annabelle was sweating and doing her best to squeeze under the awning of the stall so she wouldn’t melt in the sun.

  Finally, Annabelle’s turn came around. She chose her vegetables carefully. Mr. Plumber, who was something of a showman, held the brown bag of carrots high and twirled it over on itself. He popped it into Annabelle’s bag.

  “That’ll be seven pounds, eighty, Reverend!”

  “Thanks, Mr. Plumber,” She handed him eight pounds, a five pound note that always reminded her of the toy money she had as a child in her play cash register, and three one pound coins.

  As she turned, organizing her carrots and potatoes and apples and raspberries so that nothing got squashed, she caught sight of the two women she’d seen the previous Saturday. They were dressed as before, the younger one wearing a long, flowing dress, the other wearing clothes suitable for gardening. Cradled against the second woman’s chest was the tiny rabbit, its big ears flopping over the back of her hand. They were alone, wandering around the market, chatting quietly.

  Annabelle watched them as they stopped to browse a bric-a-brac stall, the younger, taller woman picking up a pot and turning it over to check underneath. She said something to the stall owner and pulled out a coin purse, handing over money and pushing the pot into the fabric bag she carried over her arm. The older woman stood back, stroking the rabbit on her chest, but she leaned down when a young girl with blond braids excitedly ran up and reached out her arm to pet it before rushing away again.

  Annabelle strode up to the two women. “Busy this morning, isn’t it? Surprising in this heat,” she said cheerily.

  The older woman looked at her. She was middle-aged, about fifty, Annabelle guessed. Lines were beginning to crease her face around her eyes and mouth. She had short, cropped hair like a boy, and while she stood a good six inches shorter than five-foot-eleven Annabelle, there was a steeliness about her. Veins tracked her forearms where she had rolled back the sleeves of her plaid shirt.

  “It is,” the woman said. She looked away from Annabelle and back to her companion who was completing her transaction.

  Annabelle tr
ied again. “I’m Annabelle Dixon, the local vicar, the Reverend at St. Mary’s.” She pointed at the spire of the five-hundred-year-old church that stood to their left, a beacon that could be seen from anywhere in the village.

  “Cool,” the woman said, her eyes still focused on her friend.

  “You’re new here, I believe. You live in the big house at the end of Lolly Lane?”

  “Yes, that’s right. We moved in about three weeks ago.” The woman glanced at Annabelle but looked away when her friend turned to join them.

  Annabelle smiled at the younger woman and stuck out her hand. “Hello, I’m Reverend Annabelle Dixon, local vicar. I’d like to welcome you to Upton St. Mary. You are…?”

  The woman took her hand lightly. “Sally. Sally Venables. This is my friend, Julia Snow. Yes, we moved in recently. We’re loving it here so far. Such a friendly community, and the countryside’s just beautiful.”

  “Can I stand you for a cup of tea? Best thing to cool you down on a hot day, don’t you think? And perhaps a drink for your, um, little friend there?” Annabelle nodded at the rabbit whose nose was twitching, its intense, dark eyes blinking in the sun. “I always like to get to know newcomers to the village, and all this shopping is thirsty work.”

  “We’d love that, wouldn’t we, Julia?”

  Julia shrugged but followed her friend. Together, they crossed the road to Flynn’s and found an empty table at the back. The tea shop was quieter this week.

  As they waited for their tea to arrive, Annabelle reached out a hand and ran a finger between the rabbit’s ears. Its fur was silky, velvety, and smooth.

  “I used to have rabbits when I was a girl,” Annabelle told Julia. “I loved my dwarf lops. Such soft fur and those ears are so cute.”