Death at the Cafe Read online

  “Hello,” he said in an Irish brogue as warm and as satisfying as good malt whiskey. He stepped toward the visitors keenly, his hand already outstretched.

  “Hello, your Excellency,” Mary said, shyly, wondering how such terrible events could result in something as honorable as a meeting with the Bishop.

  “Good to see you, Sister Mary,” the Bishop replied. “And yourself, Reverend. It’s always nice to meet someone from a different church – especially someone as well-respected as you.”

  “Oh,” Annabelle blushed, shaking her head at the compliment.

  “Really,” insisted the Bishop. “I’ve heard a lot about how much wonderful work you’ve done already in East London. And still so young! You’ve certainly got a lot of promise, Reverend.”

  Annabelle sought and failed to find appropriate words to respond to the handsome Bishop’s compliment. Instead, she looked downward bashfully and mumbled a mild “thank you.”

  “Shall we go to my office?” the Bishop asked, turning toward a door on the balls of his feet, much like a ballroom dancer.

  Annabelle and Mary followed closely behind, stepping through the door that the Bishop held open for them.

  If the entrance hall felt like that of a palace with its marble floors, plinths, and red carpets, then the Bishop’s office felt like that of a grand library. Everything inside seemed to be carved from the richest and sturdiest woods, from the bookshelves that covered almost every wall to the heavy desk and seats upholstered in green leather.

  “You must be tired,” he said, nodding toward the chairs in front of his impressive desk. “Take a seat, and we can have a little chat.”

  Mary and Annabelle sat down, while the Bishop took his own seat in a slightly more modern, but no less luxurious, office chair.

  “Sorry, I completely forgot – I’m so eager to talk with you! – would you like something to drink? Water? Tea? Juice?”

  “No, thank you,” Mary replied.

  “Water would be lovely,” Annabelle said.

  Bishop Murphy nodded, held down a button on his intercom, and uttered a brief but polite request of Sara. Then he sat back, touched the pads of his fingers together forming an arch, and smiled sympathetically.

  “So… It seems like both of you have had a lot of adventures this past day or two.”

  “Indeed,” Annabelle said, after glancing at Mary. Though it ought to have been her – Mary being a nun and all – who spoke to the Bishop, Annabelle knew her friend would be feeling rather nervous and decided to take the lead until Mary herself was comfortable enough to talk.

  “So what’s been going on?” the Bishop inquired.

  There was a knock at the door, after which Sara entered carrying two bottles of water and two glasses. She laid them out in front of Annabelle and the Bishop, then left quickly. Annabelle looked at Mary, whose face still wore an expression of mild astonishment at the Bishop’s presence, and then began talking.

  Though Annabelle gave a detailed summary of the events which had occurred the previous day, she refrained from inserting any of her own conjectures, as well as Mary’s own concerns, preferring to wait until the Bishop had offered his own objective judgment. Once she was done, she took her glass again and sipped.

  “Hmm, that’s quite a dramatic turn of events,” the Bishop said, scratching his grey hair in puzzlement. He switched his glance between the women a few times. “What do you make of it all?”

  “I have some ideas,” Annabelle said, “but I was rather hoping to hear yours.”

  “Well,” the Bishop began, “I wanted to see both of you for two reasons.”

  Annabelle and Mary leaned forward slightly.

  “First, I’d like to apologize.”

  “Whatever for!?” Mary exclaimed, suddenly bursting into life.

  “You know very well, Sister Mary,” the Bishop replied. He looked at Annabelle. “I’m not sure if Sister Mary told you, Reverend, but I was the one who put her in touch with Teresa.”

  “Yes,” Annabelle replied, “I was aware.”

  “I knew Teresa personally. She was a wonderful member of the church. She was also fabulously wealthy, as you saw for yourselves. Her ex-husband dealt in some of the rarest artifacts and relics the world has ever seen. Since she had provided funding for the church in the past, and being particularly fond of nuns – Teresa persistently tried to get her niece, the young woman who died at the café, to join the sisterhood – I thought it would be a simple matter for Mary to approach her with respect to her need for funding.”

  “It was a wonderful idea, Bishop, and I’m grateful for your help,” Mary assured him, as if the Bishop himself had suffered the consequences.

  “No, don’t thank me. I misjudged the situation entirely. I should have known something like this could happen.”

  “How!?” exclaimed Mary, almost leaping out of her seat. “Who could have killed Teresa? Why would anyone do such a thing?”

  The Bishop paused for a long moment, staring intently at Mary.

  “That’s the second thing I brought you here for,” he said, slowly. “I think I may know the ‘why’, though I’m still trying to figure out the ‘how’.”

  Annabelle gasped, Mary’s hand covered her mouth.

  Slowly, the Bishop filled his glass with water, picked it up, and placed it on the other side of the desk, in front of Mary. As if in a trance, she took it and sipped. The air felt thick with anticipation, so much so, that when the Bishop began to speak again, his words seemed to reverberate around the room, sending chills down the spines of the two women.

  “Teresa recently came into the possession of something extremely valuable, sought after by every collector and appreciator of fine things the world over.”

  Annabelle and Mary leaned forward, mouths open, just as they had done as young girls when an adult would read them a captivating story for the first time.

  “What?” Mary said.

  The Bishop eyed her so keenly, Annabelle suspected that he was trying to read her thoughts.

  “The ‘Cats-Eye Emeralds’.”

  In the pause that followed, Annabelle and Mary glanced at each other. They had no need to speak. They could read each other’s stunned, confused, and fascinated thoughts intuitively.

  “They are called this,” the Bishop continued, “because they are of such high purity and cut with such expertise and precision, that when it is dark, they seem to sparkle even more brightly – such is their ability to catch even the dimmest of light. Their history is shrouded in mystery. There are suppositions that they were cut by one of the greatest lapidarists of the sixteenth century, but nobody is sure. In fact, for the past century or so, nobody has had any idea where these emeralds even were, or if they even really existed. Until last week.

  “Teresa’s ex-husband held an exhibition of his rarest objects here, in London, merely six days ago, among which were the emeralds. Though it was a private and extremely exclusive exhibition, there is not a collector worth his salt who hasn’t been voraciously inquiring about the emeralds. Eventually, their inquisitions were answered. They were to be given to Teresa, who could do with them what she willed. Nobody knows why.”

  “But,” Mary interjected, “no matter how nice they are, they’re not worth more than the lives of two women!”

  The Bishop leaned back into his chair, an agreeably disappointed look upon his face.

  “Of course,” he said, “but don’t underestimate the desire attached to these things. People commit greater sins for mere wealth daily, and the Cats-Eye Emeralds are something almost entirely beyond wealth. They’re the definition of priceless.”

  “So you think somebody committed the murder in order to steal the emeralds?” Annabelle asked.

  “I don’t think it,” the Bishop said, “I know it.”

  He shifted his eyes once again between the women.

  “I spoke with DI Cutcliffe, as soon as I heard of Teresa’s death. I informed him of the situation regarding the emeralds, afte
r which he searched her apartment. They were gone.”

  “Oh dear!” Mary cried, breaking the tense quiet that surrounded the sobriety of the Bishop’s information with her high-pitched squeal. “This is terrible!”

  The Bishop looked toward her, then toward Annabelle, for explanation.

  “Bishop Murphy,” Annabelle said, inching slightly out of her seat to offer a comforting hand on Mary’s knee, “we are in need of your help.”

  The Bishop raised his thick eyebrows.

  “Mary was to return to Africa within a few days,” Annabelle pleaded, “along with the funding she had hoped to acquire. This awful mess has scuppered all of her plans, however. Inspector Cutcliffe wishes her to stay, and possibly even suspects her, as preposterous as that is.”

  “Of course,” Bishop Murphy mused.

  “Surely you can help her, if not with the investigation, then at least within the Church.” Annabelle looked to her friend, who was staring into her lap, trying her hardest to suppress sobs. “She’s concerned that her reputation will be in tatters, not least because she’ll have to return without the funding she came for.”

  “Yes, I see,” the Bishop said, deep in thought.

  “And… Well…” Annabelle stammered, finding it difficult to say what she was thinking. The Bishop raised his eyebrows once again in a gesture of open, fair curiosity. “Well, you were the one who gave her Teresa’s number…”

  “Meaning it was my fault?” Bishop Murphy replied with wry humor.

  “Gosh, no!” Annabelle protested. “I simply meant that you know more than anybody else how unlikely it is that Mary stole the emeralds. Perhaps you could also put in a word with the police?” Mary shot Annabelle a surprised glare, begging her not to be so forthright. “I mean, of course, if it’s not terribly bothersome for you. I understand this is a big request and— ”

  Bishop Murphy chuckled and raised his hand for Annabelle to stop.

  “Yes, of course. I did bring you here to apologize anyway, and it is, in a way, entirely my fault. This is not the first time somebody has gone after Teresa’s riches and gotten away with it. I’ll make some calls and ensure that you get back to Africa in time, safely, and that no mention will be made of this unfortunate affair.”

  Mary’s stifled sobs disappeared with the quickness of a rainy day turning bright.

  “Really?” she exclaimed, her eyes as astounded and as brilliant as a child’s on fireworks night.

  “You’re a nun in the Catholic Church. It’s remarkable that the thought would even occur that you’d be involved – let alone a suspicion. I take that as a personal affront. I’m just sorry that this has wrecked your plans for funding, but I’ll make some calls regarding that too at the first opportunity.”

  “Oh, Your Excellency! That’s so… benevolent of you! I’m… speechless!” Mary said, looking toward her friend. Annabelle smiled warmly at the disappearance of the frown lines and clouded eyes that had plagued Mary’s expression. “I wish there were some way in which I could repay you.”

  The Bishop brushed the request aside. “You repay the Catholic Church greatly with the work you do in Africa. It is something of which we are all immensely proud.”

  Mary smiled, her hands in her lap, but her knees jogging with excitement.

  “I feel as if the world’s weight has been lifted from my shoulders!” she said to Annabelle.

  Annabelle beamed Mary’s smile back to her as neatly as a reflection, before a slight pause for thought.

  “It does make one wonder,” she said, thoughtfully, “as to who actually stole the emeralds and killed Teresa, as well as the other woman, her niece.”

  Bishop Murphy nodded. “Lauren Trujillo was her name, a wonderful young woman. She had taken good care of Teresa in her later years. As for who could have done it, I’ve been thinking very hard about it myself.”

  “It’s almost as if the entire thing was constructed to place Mary at the center of events. As if someone were framing her,” Annabelle said.

  “It has certainly placed an incredible amount of suspicion upon her. I’m rather surprised Cutcliffe allowed her to roam London without further questioning,” the Bishop agreed.

  “Yes,” agreed Annabelle. “I’ve been racking my brain about it since the moment it happened. Who would frame someone for a murder? Particularly when it would have been easier to murder Teresa and steal the emeralds before we had even arrived.”

  “Somebody close enough to Teresa to have suspicion immediately cast upon them,” Bishop Murphy added.

  “Precisely!”

  “That’s a keen mind you have there, Annabelle. I’ve not been disappointed in the high praise I’ve heard about you. I will make some phone calls and see what I can find out. In the meantime, you should probably try to protect Mary from any further plans this person may have. Keep her safe and sound. Out of harm’s way.”

  “I most certainly will,” asserted Annabelle.

  “Thank you once again, Your Excellency. I am extremely indebted to you.”

  The Bishop waved Mary’s compliment away shyly. “The least I can do. For now, let me see what I can dig up about this business – as well as your funding.”

  Annabelle and Mary stood up, said their goodbyes, and left the Bishop, who was already picking up the phone and dialing fervently.

  Sara flashed one more headlight-bright smile as they left, and they made their way down the sunny streets of Kensington. Mary was almost skipping with joy, while Annabelle smiled and laughed at her friend’s overflowing delight.

  “Oh Annabelle, finally, we can relax! Let’s go to Kensington High Street, it’s been so long since I’ve seen it.”

  “Me too,” said Annabelle, before reluctantly frowning. “Shouldn’t we do as the Bishop says, however, and stay somewhere safe?”

  “But I’ve not been in London for over a year! And I’ll probably not return for a while either. With all this fuss, I’ve barely had a chance to enjoy it. This is the first time we’ve been able to spend some quality time together. Come on, I’ll buy you something.”

  Annabelle locked arms with Mary, and said: “You’ve convinced me!”

  Though like many areas of London, it had changed much over the years, Kensington High Street still played host to many of London’s most discerning – and richest – shoppers. Filled with one-off boutiques, antiques dealers, and some of the finest chocolate and bakery shops in the whole city, Annabelle and Mary found themselves easily occupied simply window shopping.

  Now it was Mary’s turn to lead Annabelle, as she flitted from shop to shop as randomly and as gleefully as a bumble bee in spring. As good as her word, she even bought Annabelle a bag of exquisite fudge, which Annabelle sneakily ate as she tried to keep up.

  “These ornaments are astonishing!” Mary said, leaning over and peering into an antique shop window.

  “Mmm,” Annabelle replied.

  Suddenly, Mary stood upright and turned toward Annabelle with a pale-faced look of chilling terror.

  “I know,” Annabelle said, nonchalantly, “these prices are shocking.”

  “No!” Mary said, grabbing Annabelle’s arm and shaking her. “I saw him!”

  “Who?”

  “The man in the tweed suit. The doctor. The one who ran across the street when Lauren collapsed in front of me.”

  Annabelle spun around, scanning the street.

  “Where is he?”

  Mary looked around herself slowly, frightened by the prospect.

  “I saw his reflection in that silver mirror.”

  Annabelle turned back toward her friend. “I’m sure it wasn’t him. How could you have seen him so clearly in a mirror so small? It’s just your mind playing tricks.” Mary drew close to Annabelle, clutching her tightly. “Ow! That hurts!” she said.

  “Let’s go, Annabelle. Please.”

  “Okay, okay. The tube station is nearby. Here, have some fudge to calm yourself down.”

  Though Mary scanned her surroundings as t
hey entered the station with all the intensity and thoroughness of a tourist, she could not find the man again. They boarded the tube, and she found herself relaxed in the safety of the carriage.

  “See?” Annabelle said. “We would have seen him if he was following us.”

  Mary didn’t reply. Annabelle noticed that she wasn’t looking back at her. She followed Mary’s eyes to the window at the back of the carriage. Standing in the carriage two behind theirs was a man in a tweed suit.

  “That’s him,” Mary said coldly, her face a mask of stilled fear.

  Annabelle jostled through the people to get to the window and take a closer look. It was difficult to see clearly through the crowd of the intervening carriage, not least because the curvature of the rail tracks brought him in and out of view. He was a slim, tall man, with dark skin but with features which didn’t seem entirely African – much as Mary had described him.

  Annabelle turned around.

  “Are you sure that’s him?”

  Mary simply nodded and grabbed Annabelle’s arm tightly once again.

  “We’re safe, he can’t do anything to us.”

  “What if he’s just waiting for the right moment?” Mary said in a shaky voice. “We have to call the detective.”

  “I agree, but you know there’s no phone reception on the tube. Let’s try something. I saw it in a film once. Just do as I say.”

  Mary nodded.

  As the train rolled to a stop at the next station, Annabelle ushered Mary toward the door, keeping her eyes on the carriage she had seen the man in. The doors opened with a sharp hiss, and Annabelle stepped out of the train clutching Mary’s arm. They stood in front of the doors of the train as people pushed and pressed past them, Annabelle’s eyes searching through the marching crowd of commuters for sight of the tweed-suited man. At the very last moment, with the expert timing of someone intimately familiar with London’s transport system, Annabelle shoved Mary back onto the train and jumped in behind her. The doors closed, and the train started pulling away.

  Mary glanced around her, checking for any sign of him.

  “Did he get off? Is he still here?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Annabelle, “but I don’t see him. Yes, I think he’s gone.”