02 Murder at the Mansion Read Free Page B

nobleman, the source of so much conjecture in Upton St. Mary.
    She spun the Mini around the fountain, bringing it to a stop with a confident flourish of the brakes. She climbed out and marched up the steps to the intimidating doors. They were so tall that even Annabelle, with her five foot eleven inch frame, felt tiny in their presence. She thumped the knocker again and stepped back.
    The youthful face of the blonde girl appeared as she opened the door and smiled as she recognized the Vicar. She was just about to speak when she was interrupted by a wild, bloodcurdling scream, echoing down through the mansion from somewhere above. The gentle smiles of both women froze and then disappeared. Their expressions turned to horror as their eyes locked, and they found themselves stunned, shaken, and shocked by this absolutely beastly sound.
     

 
     
    CHAPTER 2

     
    THE GIRL BROUGHT her hand to her mouth in horror, gazing at the Vicar with eyes that were wide with fear. Annabelle, on the other hand, sprang into action. She pushed past the young woman and ran into the foyer with a speed and agility she had retained from a youth spent on hockey fields. She scanned the large entrance hall, looking for anything suspicious, then leaped up the stairs, two at a time, into the passageway of the second floor.
    In times of emergency, Annabelle’s clumsy charm and humble self-deprecation would give way to a keen wit and sharp reflexes. Within seconds of reaching the ornate surroundings of the second floor, a door at the end of the passage caught her attention. Its handle was slightly more elegant than those of the other doors, and it was framed by two perfectly preserved Ming vases on intricately carved pedestals. She assumed this was the master bedroom – and home to the source of that terrifying scream. She rushed toward it. The blonde girl scampered close behind her, as if the Vicar were a shield that would protect her from whatever lurked behind the door.
    “Fiddlesticks!” Annabelle said, as she grabbed the door handle and discovered it was locked.
    “I’ll go get the keys from the cloak room,” the blonde girl said, her voice no less musical for the shaky fear that permeated it.
    Annabelle turned to her and nodded her approval, at which the girl ran down the passage and spun so quickly onto the stairs that a last-minute grab at the bannister was the only thing that stopped her from tumbling head over heels. Loathe to wait, Annabelle grabbed the door handle once more and leaned into the door, expecting nothing but resistance. Much to her surprise, the door moved, slightly at first, before the antique door handle’s weak mechanism gave way, allowing the door to swing wide open under the force of Annabelle’s weight.
    The scene that confronted Annabelle was nothing short of astonishing. The room, much as she had expected, was large and elegant. A wide, antique bed sat against the far wall, and to one side there was an oak desk. On the other side of the room, three large windows that reached up toward the high ceiling, and down to within a foot of the floor, allowed a pale light to fill the room.
    The middle window was wide open, and beneath it lay the spread-eagled body of a man Annabelle assumed to be Sir John Cartwright. A single arrow was stuck deep within his chest, cleanly piercing his loose shirt and protruding from his heart like a macabre signpost. Annabelle rushed toward the prone figure, and quickly placed her fingers to the man’s neck. She waited for a few moments, just for confirmation, but Annabelle knew she wouldn’t discover a pulse. In her short time as Upton St. Mary’s vicar, she had seen the passing of many, almost as many as had been born, and she had developed what she considered a spiritual instinct about such things. She had known the moment she had opened the door that Sir John Cartwright was no more.
    She knelt solemnly beside the old man’s body, crossed herself, and clasped her hands in a