02 Murder at the Mansion (12 page)

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 blonde 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 blonde 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 Manor. 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.”

Poppy looked up from the scrunched up tissues she held to her nose and into Annabelle’s compassionate eyes.

“Go on,” Annabelle urged.

“William…Will,” Poppy said suddenly, as if it were an uncontrollable reaction. “Will Conran. He’s a friend of mine – an ex-boyfriend. We grew up together. We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

Annabelle rubbed Poppy’s back. She could see the relief flooding through the younger woman’s slim body, as if purging a poison she had held inside for a very long time.

“He’s always been an archer. He’s always used crossbows, since he was a teenager. Goes hunting regularly. Sometimes he’d go on several trips a week.”

“You think Will might have shot Sir John?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I think so.”

“Why?”

Poppy’s sobs grew a little louder, and it took a while for Annabelle to calm her down enough to speak again. When she had, Poppy turned to the Vicar, and gathering all the strength she had, said,

“Because I left Will for Sir John.”

The next few hours were a flurry of activity and noise. Once Annabelle had given the Inspector the name, he put all of his men on the tail of William Conran. With the call sent across police stations nationwide, it took barely an hour before they tracked Conran to Reading, just south of London. The Reading police were sure to secure the suspect and bring him to the local station, so it was just a matter of Inspector Nicholls driving there to question him. He threw on his distinctive trench coat and made for the police station exit.

“You coming, Vicar?” he asked.

Annabelle, who had been milling around the station, caught up in the excitement while swapping questions with Inspector, found herself utterly befuddled.

“Me?”

“Do you see any other vicars around here?”

“You want
me
to come with you to Reading to interrogate the suspect?”

“Why not? As you said, Vicar, you’ve been involved each time we’ve made a breakthrough. Either you’re very good at this or extremely lucky. Either way, I’d rather have you with me than not.”

Annabelle grinned at the Inspector’s words. She would have hoped for nothing more just a couple of weeks ago.

“Of course, Inspector. Lead the way.”

Annabelle found herself carried off toward Reading police station along with various members of the police force. As the convoy of police cars set off into the dark night among a flurry of squealing sirens and flashing lights, Annabelle found herself giddy with childish excitement. This was a change of pace from the county fair! They arrived as it was getting dark. Though the larger, busier atmosphere of the station made Annabelle feel slightly intimidated and a little over her head, she prepared herself to accomplish what she had set out to do since the beginning – discover the truth.

With assurance and professionalism, the Inspector exchanged a few words with the Reading officers and was soon led toward the interview room that held Will Conran. Annabelle followed close behind, her self-confidence quickly being sapped as she realized the immense seriousness of what was happening.