Murder at the Mansion Read online

  The other escape route was the bedroom door, and though there had been a few seconds between the scream and Annabelle reaching the staircase, enough time for the person to enter one of the other rooms, the door itself had been locked. Annabelle studied the locking mechanism of the door closely. It was old and well-worn. She remembered how it had given way when she had applied pressure to it. Stranger still, she discovered that when the door was slammed shut, it would lock itself – such was the weakness in the ancient mechanism.

  For a brief moment, Annabelle thought she had cracked it but then realized that should the screamer have slammed the door upon his hasty escape, she would have heard it. Even in her heightened state of fear and excitement rushing up the stairs, she wouldn’t have missed the sound of the slamming door. As exemplified by the scream itself, sound traveled very well in the large house. Annabelle felt frustrated and deflated. Perhaps she would never figure it out. Then she noticed the bathroom door.

  She opened the door expecting to find something impressive, and yet was still stunned by what she saw. The master bathroom was huge! Larger even than her living room! She stepped onto the marble flooring, marveling at the extravagance on display. Along one wall, there were two vast sinks with a framed mirror set into the wall above them. In one corner, a shower stall big enough for four people ascended from the marble flooring to the high ceiling. In the center of the bathroom, in the dappled light that poured in through the frosted window, was a porcelain and cast-iron bath set upon four elaborately engraved feet.

  Once Annabelle had regained her breath, she scanned the walls and discovered exactly what she had expected. Another entrance. She marched toward it, cast one last longing look at the opulent bathroom, opened the small, plain door, and went through it. Annabelle found herself in a slim, barren passage, far more rough and dirty than any other part of the house she had seen.

  “A servant’s entrance,” she said to herself. “This must have been how they transported household items to the masters of the house.”

  Annabelle imagined how many people must have scurried up and down this bare-walled passage, loaded with buckets of hot water for the bath or coal for the parlor’s fireplace. She explored it carefully, opening doors that poked into various rooms of the house, many of which she hadn’t even noticed when exploring the house from the other side. Eventually, Annabelle found herself descending rugged stone steps that seemed to delve even deeper than the house itself. Sure enough, the cold, blank walls of the house’s secret passage gave way to the textured stone of a vast coal cellar. Though there was barely any light, the Vicar continued onwards through the thick, dusty air and long forgotten cobwebs. Somewhere to her right, she could see a vague glow, and she let it guide her out of the coal cellar and down a long tunnel where wooden rafters held up the stone.

  The glow grew larger and larger with each of the Vicar’s careful steps, until she recognized it as a large entrance. She put some haste into her gait and was astonished to find that the entrance emerged all the way out in the woods!

  “This must be where coal and firewood deliveries were made,” she said. “The perfect getaway for the mysterious screamer. I’m sure to find a road nearby.”

  She left the stone tunnel behind, breathed in the cool, clean air, and was struck by a strangely familiar smell. Once again, Annabelle focused her senses and walked slowly forward in search of information – only this time it was her nose guiding her, not her curiosity.

  The smell intensified, and Annabelle could not shake the sensation that this was something she knew well. Something that she liked. It reminded her of her kitchen. Of tea. Of…cupcakes! Annabelle looked down at the ground and saw, barely a few yards away, a stash of stale, nibbled-upon cupcakes, in precisely the same shape as the walnut delights Philippa had made earlier. The Vicar picked the freshest one up and sniffed it. There was no mistake. The cake was one that the church secretary herself had made.

  “Surely not! This is from the very batch she made today!” She prodded at the remainder of the pile. “And these at the bottom must have been made weeks ago – on the day of the murder!” Annabelle said, finding the words she was saying too incredible to understand. “I don’t believe it! Philippa is involved in this!”

  * * *

  As her blue Mini rolled into the driveway of the church, Annabelle noticed a light on in her house and wasn’t sure if she was pleased or afraid of confronting Philippa just then. She parked the car, breathed deeply, and stepped inside.

  “Hello, Vicar,” Philippa said, as she wiped her hands on her apron. “I was just washing the church bowls. I’ll be done in a jiffy.”

  “Actually, Philippa,” Annabelle said, in a solemn tone, “I’d like to speak with you.”

  “Oh,” Philippa said, noticing the seriousness of the Vicar’s speech, a tone she reserved for bad news alone, “I see.”

  Annabelle took her coat and gloves off and put them away while Philippa took off her apron. They took their seats around the kitchen table, facing each other, and sat down with a sense of ritual and purpose.

  “It’s time, isn’t it, Vicar?”

  “I’m afraid it is,” Annabelle said.

  “I’ve been meaning to bring this up for a long time. I just didn’t want to cause a scene.”

  “I understand, Philippa. It’s difficult for me too.”

  “I just didn’t want to cause you any problems, Vicar.”

  “Philippa!” Annabelle gasped. “It’s you I’m worried about!”

  “That’s kind of you.”

  “Well?”

  Philippa sighed, readjusted herself in her seat, and spoke slowly. “I know about the cakes.”

  “You know how they got there?”

  “I don’t know where they are. But I know what happened to them, yes.”

  “Wait a moment,” Annabelle said, growing slightly confused. “You don’t know where they are?”

  “Well, I imagine you ate them, Vicar.”

  “Philippa! Why would I eat old cupcakes that have been left outside in the rain?!”

  “Why would you leave them outside in the rain?!” Philippa exclaimed, in the exasperated voice she usually only used when the church accounts failed to add up. “Oh, Vicar, you don’t even know when you’re doing it!”

  Annabelle tried to speak but found herself so confused she didn’t know what to say.

  “What are you talking about exactly, Philippa?”

  “About the cupcakes, Vicar!”

  “What about them?”

  “You steal them!”

  Annabelle slumped back in her chair. She had never been accused of theft in her life and certainly not in as strange a manner as this.

  “Why on earth would I steal cupcakes, Philippa?”

  “The thrill of it. The excitement of the chase. The feeling of getting away with it. It’s that kleptomania I told you about! Oh, I know it’s not your fault, Vicar. You can’t help it. I see you eat one or two, but then three are gone! You probably stash it in your pocket when I’m not looking. Maybe you feel guilty about eating so many. I don’t know. I’m just glad it’s out in the open now!”

  Annabelle could not help but smile at the insanity of the accusation. Partly because Philippa’s conviction removed any doubt that she was involved with the mystery screamer’s escape into the woods.

  “I can assure you, Philippa, I do not steal cupcakes.”

  Philippa sighed deeply again, as if in the presence of a child caught red-handed but too stubborn to admit guilt.

  “If not you, then who?”

  With the perfect timing of a grand entrance of which only cats are capable, Biscuit sidled through the cat door, slinked her way toward her bowl, and began lapping up water noisily.

  “I believe we won’t need to find a suspect. The suspect just found us.”

  “Biscuit?” Philippa said, incredulous. “That’s impossible!”

  Annabelle waved her finger as if pointing at her thoughts. “Actually, it make
s perfect sense, the more I think about it. I did find her out in the woods a few days ago, where the stash of cupcakes was. You said yourself that she had stopped eating, and whenever you bring those cupcakes out, Biscuit seems to make a timely entrance.”

  “That’s incredible!”

  “What’s incredible is the fact that this is the second mystery I’ve solved today!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  ANNABELLE SLEPT UNEASILY and woke up in a huff. She washed, dressed, and made herself a small breakfast that she ate pensively at the kitchen table, muttering things to herself and scaring Biscuit with her self-engrossed gestures. Much had happened. There was no doubt that the case was progressing. However, the one element that had bothered Annabelle the most since the very start was still a complete mystery. Who was the secret screamer? She suspected that the Inspector had perhaps assumed there wasn’t one, thinking instead that Annabelle had been caught up in the moment. While it was understandable – Sir John had already been murdered, and the arrow’s trajectory placed the killer outside the building – it was also frustrating. Annabelle knew what she heard.

  Annabelle glanced at the clock and realized that she had been lost in her breakfast reverie for a little over an hour. She tidied up the plates and decided to get out of the house. Her preoccupation with the case had left her with many calls to make, and she was determined not to let them wait any longer. Unfortunately for her plans, however, the phone rang just as she was about to leave the house.

  “Hello, Annabelle speaking.”

  “Hello, Vicar. We’ve found Poppy Franklin,” came the Inspector’s commanding voice.

  Annabelle was not only delighted to hear news about the case, but also mildly irritated that once again, her more mundane routine was going awry.

  “Good! What did she say?”

  “We interviewed her this morning. She seems to fit the description of the blond girl who met you at Woodlands Manor.”

  “Oh, I assumed that already,” Annabelle said. “But why did she run?”

  “Well,” the Inspector began, “she said she didn’t want to be accused of Sir John Cartwright’s murder. Says she came back up the stairs when she heard you had opened the door, caught a glimpse of the dead body, and just ran for it.”

  “It is possible…”

  “Possible and likely. Turns out she knows how to use a crossbow.”

  “Inspector!” Annabelle said, as his insinuation became clear. “I didn’t mean that. You don’t really think she committed the murder, do you?”

  “She knew Sir John very well. Claims that she was just a ‘friend,’ but it’s obvious there was more going on between them. She knew how much he was worth, and I’m willing to bet that such a close ‘friend’ would be well taken care of in the will.”

  Annabelle mused for a second, recalling the sweet young face of the blond girl at the door. She knew that she should never judge a book by its cover, but Annabelle trusted her instincts when it came to people, and Poppy’s innocence seemed as clear as day to her.

  “I just don’t believe it, Inspector.”

  “Look, Vicar. She confirmed that Sir John Cartwright was building a health spa, even mentioned some of the other investors by name—”

  “Investors?” interrupted Annabelle. “What were their names?”

  “Oh… Ah… Let me see… A Sophie and Gabriella. Couldn’t give us last names, but apparently they put quite a lot of money into the property. Why do you ask, Vicar? Do you happen to know them?”

  “I may have heard some rumors,” Annabelle said, wanting a little more time to investigate the mysterious “tourists” and still unsure of their names herself.

  “Anyway, we’ll be holding Poppy for twenty-four hours. If nothing happens by then, we’ll let her go but keep a close eye on her. Between her and Harry Cooper, though, I think we have enough to make a case.”

  There was a long pause. So long, in fact, that the Inspector followed up by saying, “Are you alright, Vicar?”

  “Yes, yes,” replied Annabelle, instinctively. “Bye, Inspector.”

  “Bye, Vicar. And take care. Stop worrying about the case. Now it’s up to us to take it from here.”

  Annabelle placed the handset down and held her hand there for a long time, biting her lip. She left the house, got into her car, and began driving. She was not happy. At the time when the whole, horrid affair had occurred, Annabelle would have been satisfied with offering whatever help she could. Now, she felt responsible for many aspects of this case. It was she who had discovered the name of Sir John Cartwright’s companion, Poppy Franklin, and it was she (with the help of Biscuit) who had found the cigarette that implicated Harry Cooper. Now, either one of them – maybe even both – would feel the force of the law upon them.

  Something within Annabelle stirred when she considered this. It wasn’t quite right. In fact, it felt entirely wrong. In a rare, sudden example of reckless driving, Annabelle slid her Mini into a sharp U-turn – nearly knocking Mr. Hawthorne off his bike.

  “Sorry, Mr. Hawthorne!” Annabelle shouted out of the window behind her, as he watched, with jaw open, the ever-unpredictable Vicar take the road that led to Truro.

  * * *

  Annabelle marched into the Truro police station with all the enthusiastic vigor of someone who had a job to do and who was jolly well going to do it.

  “Hello, Vicar!” Constable Rose, the desk officer said, cheerfully.

  “Hello, Officer. I’m here to see the Inspector.”

  “He’s just this way. Follow me.”

  When Inspector Nicholls saw the Vicar approach his desk, he rubbed his eyes and took another sip of coffee, assuming the late nights and stress of a perplexing murder case were causing him to hallucinate.

  “Hello, Inspector,” Annabelle said, affirming that she was not, in fact, a mirage.

  “Vicar, is something the matter? We only just spoke.”

  “Yes, Inspector. I must speak with Poppy.”

  The Inspector studied Annabelle’s face for a sign that this was a joke.

  “Are you serious? With all due respect, Vicar. I can’t allow just anyone to speak to her.”

  “I understand that, Inspector. But I sincerely believe she is innocent, and I’d like to prove it.”

  “What makes you think she’s innocent?”

  “Faith, Inspector.”

  The Inspector sighed deeply.

  “I’m going to need more than that, Vicar. However much I’d like to use faith in my police work, it doesn’t work like that.”

  “Inspector,” Annabelle said, putting some steel into her voice and placing a firm hand on his desk, “I have helped you at every stage of this investigation. It is not arrogant of me to say that I have discovered and provided you with some of the most crucial pieces of evidence in this case. I’m asking you to sincerely consider my trustworthiness, diligence, and abilities before you dismiss my request.”

  The Inspector sighed again and looked over at the Constable beside him, who raised his eyebrows in support of the Vicar’s statement.

  “I do appreciate everything you’ve done, Vicar. But I’ve interviewed her already. I don’t want to put more pressure on her unnecessarily. She’s already shaken up. I don’t see what you could ask her at this stage that would help.”

  “You asked her whether she knew how to use a crossbow.”

  “Yes, I did. And she said she knew.”

  “Did you ask her where she learned how to use a crossbow?”

  The Inspector rubbed a finger across his pursed lips, then stood up, and grabbed a key chain from his desk.

  “Okay. I’ll give you five minutes,” he said, then turned to the Constable who was listening intently, “and don’t you tell anyone I did this.”

  Inspector Nicholls led Annabelle to the cell, opened the door, and allowed Annabelle to step inside.

  Poppy looked vastly different from the perky, pleasant girl who had breezily chatted with the Vicar on her arrival at Woodlands Mano
r. She sat on the hard bed, hunched over and clutching her sides, as if protecting herself from harm. Her cheeks were flushed, and her brown mascara streaked lightly on her cheeks. She had been crying and still wore an expression of utter turmoil.

  “Vicar?” she whispered, squinting through the reddish puffs of her eyes as if she couldn’t believe it.

  “Poppy? Oh dear,” Annabelle said, sitting beside the girl and putting an arm around her.

  She allowed Annabelle to clutch her to her chest, welcoming the warmth of someone caring. She struggled not to break into tears again.

  “Why… What are you doing here?” she muttered, as she pulled away from her embrace to see the Vicar’s sympathetic face.

  “I’m here to help you. But I need you to answer something for me.”

  “What? Anything, if you can get me out of here.”

  “I need you to tell me who taught you how to use a crossbow.”

  Poppy looked away from the Vicar, as if the question had slapped her across the face.

  “I can’t.”

  “Poppy…”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  This was it, Annabelle thought, this was the key. It had been merely an incidental thought before, but Poppy’s reaction confirmed it was the answer.

  “Poppy, they won’t be able to accuse you of the murder, but they will almost certainly accuse you of being an accessory to murder. You’re the only person who’s admitted to knowing how to use a crossbow. You were in the house when the murder occurred. You ran from the scene of the crime. Whomever you’re protecting, you’ll pay a big price for doing so.”

  “No,” Poppy stuttered, through sobs. The Vicar pulled a pack of tissues from her pocket and handed them to the shuddering girl.

  “You’re innocent, Poppy. I know you are. You did nothing wrong. That’s why this is difficult for you to take. Tell the truth, and set things right.”