Chapter 16: Murder at The Vicarage
V
The sound of bone bouncing off stone brought some of me back to my senses, unfortunately I wasn’t the only one to hear it.
“Coming,” a reedy voice announced, followed by slapping foot steps, not feet inside. Slightly panicking, I hid my shortened finger behind my back, just in time as seconds later a tall and sallow man rounded a pew and smiled weakly at me.
“Mr. Hills I presume?” I asked, my hands clasped behind my back and my posture overly straight, I kept the corner of my eye on the tiny bone.
“Yes. Mr. Pools, what a pleasant surprise. I’m sorry I can’t chat, there is still lots of work to do. We have a wedding tomorrow you see,” Mr. Hills answered unprovoked, unconsciously retreating.
“I’m afraid we need to talk Mr. Hills,” I insisted, remaining at the threshold. Unfortunately my eyes must have glanced one too many times at my severed finger as Mr. Hills’ sunken eyes lingered on the unfamiliar yellowed object with intricately carved black runes.
“What's that?” he asked. My bones creaked as I clenched my hands together. Mr. Hills’ gangly form scurried across the church floor, all uncoordinated elbows and knees. Before he could pick it up, a misplaced foot sent the digit flying back through the doorway. Without my conscious will it proceeded to fly up beside my legs, gaining speed until it reconnected with my finger.
“What was that?” Mr Hills asked once he’d got his unwieldy body under control.
“What was what?” I asked, feigning ignorance.
“That thing, it was a bug or something I think.” Mr. Hills replied, with an ailing contenance.
“Are you quite alright? Perhaps you need some fresh air?” I asked, appearing concerned as I moved so he might pass. After a moment of consideration he signed, shook his head, and followed me out into the late afternoon light. We strolled for a while in an amicable silence around the graveyard, smelling the flowers. Before long Mr. Hills regained a healthy complexion, I was content to wait and see what he might say.
“There’s only one reason you might come looking for me. Mr. Sanguis said something, didn't he?” Mr. Hills asked. I simply raised an eyebrow as I deadheaded a daffodil. I hoped my resistance would provoke further explanation but it seemed to do the opposite. He must have noticed something in my expression for he immediately clammed up. Our walk continued in awkward aplomb for a few more moments.
“Mr. Sanguis is dead,” I finally revealed when a bench was in range. It turned out to be a wise choice as Mr. Hill's expression went through an uncomprehending smile, confusion and finally shock. When the last emotion landed upon him, he ,in turn, landed heavily on the seat. The colour once again fled his features as he mumbled something to himself.
“What was that?” I asked, sitting next to the man.
“How?” was all he whispered out, staring off into nothing.
“Murder,” I replied simply.
Mr. Hills nodded, “They wouldn’t have called you if not.”
It took some time before the man was recovered enough to engage in conversation, eventually he stood and I led him in the direction of the Vicarage. As we walked we talked.
“Where were you at, or around, first bell?” I asked, gently.
“I was cleaning and preparing the church, have been all day,” he replied.
“Alone?” I inquired.
“Yes, why?” he asked after some thought.
“So there is no one to corroborate your story?” I pressed.
“No… wait, perhaps. Eric might have seen me when he came in to ring the hourbell,” he answered after a moment.
“I see, I’ll have to get someone to check that,” I replied.
Further questioning proved fruitless as he was hardly in a fit state of mind, claiming he would be of more use once he took some of his anxiety medication. So we walk, him leaning heavily on my arm, back to the vicarage. When we reached the front gate, Inspector David was outside; pacing back and forth, an annoyed look shadowing his features. By this time Mr. Hills had regained enough of his faculties to walk himself down the garden path, so I left him to his own devices and came to talk with David.
“What was the ruckus at the Sanguis residence?” I asked.
His face brightened slightly upon seeing me and he replied, “Nothing much, certainly not worth the runner. A painting was discovered, a portrait that had been so badly torn up that all that could be made out was fair hair.” Upon seeing my confusion he continued, “In fairness to my men, one of the constables claims that the painting was intact and hanging in the study when they first arrived but had been destroyed right under their noses. Although he doesn't remember what it looked like, having only seen it in passing.”
After a moment’s hesitation I asked, “What of the other Sanguis, Cabbage, the daughter?”
“Still no sign of her,” David replied glumly. “You think she might have had a hand in this.” I only shrugged as we returned to canvassing the neighbourhood. Unfortunately none of the other neighbours were quite as helpful as Miss Gardener. Most had seen or heard nothing of note and those that had weren’t consistent in their descriptions. The sun was a thumbs width from setting when we came to the last house in the area, the residence of Mrs. Estrange. A house on the opposite side of the Vicarage to Miss Gardener. Knocking on the door received a swift response although I suspect we were not who the woman dressed in black expected. Blonde curls framed a pale face, studded with two sapphire eyes.
“Oh, who are you?” the woman asked, hiding her startlement.
“Inspector Wainwright and Mr. Pools, we need to speak to you regarding a recent incident,” David repeated for the innumerable time.
“Then by all means come in,” she said neutrally, opening the door wider and stepping aside. As she led us through a corridor I could hear faint noises in the room we approached, however when arriving in the living room, there was no one in sight. That said, something about the room granted against my Detection skill.
“I’ll be right back with some tea.” Mrs. Estrange explained before departing.
Raising a finger to my lips I began searching the room. On the bureau I found some half finished correspondence that indicated Mrs. Estrange's willingness to get to know an unspecified someone. I also found biscuit crumbs beneath two chairs and an ajar closet door. The last wasn’t really necessary since I had Life Sense but I would leave that mess for later. On the bureau I also found a jewellery box and when David was looking the other way I swiped a pendant with a rather large ruby inside. Part of me railed against the idea of theft but that part had never grown up cold and alone on the streets, and besides that part of me had proved itself a liability, so I quashed it ruthlessly.
Mrs. Estrange returned with a tray of tea as was custom. It was considered rude to decline, however following the fifth such offering, David had taken after me in refusing. She sat in a seat opposite the two of us. Her answers to the regular questions were unextraordinary. Finally we broke new ground.
“So you don’t have any skeletons in your closet?” I asked, knocking on the closet in question.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
She sighed, slight annoyance tingeing her features, “everyone does inspector, but if you are referring to Cabbage I think it is high time she stops hiding,” Mrs. Estrange replied, the last in a loader tone. Only David and Miss Cabbage were surprised when the young woman exited her bolthole.
With a timid expression she left hiding, eyes fixed on the floor, red face covered by straight blond hair.
“Young lady, we have been searching all over for you!” David exclaimed when his wits returned.
“I know,” she replied meekly.
Not waiting for David’s emotions to ruin this opportunity I chose to butt in, “Why were you hiding?” I asked in a cold tone. After she explained, I was almost certain I had cracked this case.
Before my summations could solidify a knock came at the door, followed by another. Mrs. Estrange excused herself and moments later returned with two people in tow. First was Dr. Winwick carrying a medical bag, he was unable to divulge the reason for his visit as the second man to enter was one of David's officers with a desperate look upon his face.
“Sir, urgent news,” the man blurted out. “Mr. Hills was found unconscious in his room at the vicarage, collapsed on the floor.”
David Wainwright stood, a serious expression on his face. “Dr. Winwick, would you be so kind as to follow me?” he ordered. Before the man could protest Mrs. Estrange urged him on.
“Actually, I think we should bring Mrs. Estrange and Miss Cabbage as well,” I insisted.
Before long, I found myself back at the Vicarage. Indeed, we found, lying in a heap on the ground, Mr. Hills. An inspection of his room revealed two key pieces of evidence. Thanks to Dr. Winwick’s timely arrival we were assured that the victim would live, although it was a near thing.
“David, I think it is time we assemble all the suspects in the sitting room,” I declared. He seemed relieved at the news and some of the stress left him.
Taking the Vicar aside I asked him to prepare two pints of holy water. Although he was confused, he complied; I only needed half a pint but one could never be too careful. All took their place in the sitting room, I went to Mr. Cain's studio, the shed in the back of the garden and found what I was expecting. Now it was time to solve this mystery, I had the ingredients needed for the spell but something felt wrong about leaving without finishing the job.
☠
“Greetings everybody.” I began, indicating; Mrs. Sanguis, Mr. Cain, Joseph, Sam, Mrs. Inclement, Mr. Inclement, Mrs. Estrange, Miss Cabbage, and Dr. Winwick in turn. The only one absent, Mr. Hills, as he was still unconscious. Their eyes followed me as I paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, a raging fire behind me.
I began to monologue, “When I first arrived here I wondered why an upstanding member of the community, a magister and church warden, would be murdered. Through the course of my investigation, I discovered any number of reasons. Perhaps his disagreements with Sam Hunter got out of hand?” I asked rhetorically, receiving a glare from the named party.
“Perhaps his quarrel with Mr. Cain, regarding the sculpting of his daughter, escalated beyond reason? Perhaps the motive was the oldest one of them all?” I said wistfully.
“With such a nebulous motive, we must turn to what we know, the facts. With the doctors' own collaboration, we can be sure that the victim died within an hour of first bell. He was killed by a crossbow bolt through the heart. The notch on the bolt matches the width of the string on the Crossbow we discovered, discarded, in the bushes. Thanks to Inspector Wainwright we know that this weapon does not come from any of the northern wars, in which our victim served. In fact, when searching his house we discovered no trophies or artefacts from the southern sand tribes, from which this device hails.” I stopped, raising my finger.
“Mr. Sanguis is not the only veteran in this room however, but I digress. Opportunity, who here had the opportunity to kill the man. Miss Hunter, who had gained illegal entry to the property and done so without the knowledge of all but one of its occupants. This is suspicious, no? she certainly had the perfect opportunity, but not the means. Being an elven hunter she has only ever used traditional bows, not to mention the angle of attack precluded someone of Miss Hunter’s height. On top of this, she was subtle in her trespass, she is a Hunter and knew how to be stealthy, something I found at the crime scene pointed to someone far cruder. The note left beside the body, the one which read,
Dear Inclement, I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer…, it was clearly not written in Mr. Sanguis’ hand. I merely had to reach over to the bookcase and pick any of the church records to see that the man was neat and meticulous in his writings. This, this was crude. Almost as crude as trying to remove from our notice, the identity of someone, in an otherwise innocuous portrait, by destroying the offending item and leaving its remains strewn across the sitting room floor. Miss Cabbage.” I said, turning to the young lady, who couldn’t meet my eye.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but here is how I assume the events preceding this act of vandalism played out. Some days ago you received a letter from Mr. Sanguis’ first wife, your mother, who you had not seen since childhood. A woman with whom you identified as she had escaped your fathers oppression, isn’t that right Mrs. Estrange?” I waited for the gasps to die down before continuing.
“In it she expressed a desire to connect with you and a hatred for her former husband, your father. Then today, shortly after lunch, you hear men knock at your door, instead of answering you decide to listen to what they are saying. You learn that your father is dead, naturally you suspect your mother. She just arrived in town and soon after your father is dead. It has been too long since they knocked and having not answered you decide to remain hidden, whilst the officers investigate your house. You want to protect your newly returned mother. Understandably, you just lost your father and you never connected with his new wife.” The last only elicited an apathetic look from Mrs. Sanguis, who in the firelight seemed remarkably pale.
“You destroyed her painting so that she might not be connected to her former husband. Then you went to her residence to tell her what you had done whereupon you learned she did not in fact kill her former husband. I know this for a specific reason. The victim did not move here with his family until after he married his second wife. That being the case, how could she possibly know the day on which the Vicar’s horse was being shod and direct him out of the house on a wild goose chase. Speaking of, David’s men followed up with the messenger, who had delivered the message which caused the Vicars departure. According to him, the man who gave him this letter was completely unremarkable, so much so that he couldn’t even remember the colour of his hair. I suspect an enchantment or charm.” Just as my undead half was about to ramble on about the differences I curtailed his explanation.
“Crude. This crime was crude… or was it? Earlier today, as many of you know, Mr. Hills fell ill. What you may not know was that the man was poisoned. Luckily Dr. Winwick was able to attend to him within minutes. And thanks to him we learned that his usual tincture, prescribed by the good doctor for anxiety, was, in fact, exchanged for another. In the course of investigating Mr. Hills’ room, I found a note hidden in his diary, clearly written in Mr. Sanguis’ hand.
Dear Hills, I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer, the funds which have gone missing all lead back to you. I have warned you about this before and this time I must inform the Vicar. This was Mr. Sanguis’ last words. So how did it come to be in Mr. Hills room. Did he sneak out of the church, clamber through a hedge, without anyone seeing, and kill Mr. Sanguis only to retain his final words; as what, a keepsake? Then are we to infer that he chose to kill himself, since the guilt was too much. He did, after all, steal that money. How much of a leap is it to assume the rest? Crude, crude is not the right word… Brazen perhaps? Brazen, yes it seems apt. They lead a trail of bread crumbles so obvious even a blind duck might follow it, all whilst staring us in the face. Here is what happened. At twenty to one exactly, Mr. Cain left his studio, entered the rear of the vicarage, left ten minutes later then went in the front. He spent the rest of time sitting in the entrance hall and waiting for the Vicar to arrive. He did not kill Mr. Sanguis. He was waiting in the entryway at the time of the murder.
Next to enter the house was Mrs. Sanguis, again through the back entrance then the front. She made sure she was seen by a rather noisy neighbour. She was not carrying any weapons, let alone a crossbow. The Vicar, being a man of peace, owned no weapons so how could she kill him? There are two pieces left to this puzzle, that when slotted into place complete the picture. First, Mr. Cain fought against the Sand tribes in the southern war, he is the only one to whom the crossbow could belong. When I inspected his studio, sure enough I found other quarrels that shared a profile with the murder weapon. Second, Mr. Cain and Mrs. Sanguis were engaged in an affair.” Once David calmed the enraged Mr. Cain I continued. Mrs. Sanguis only stared Icily, sending shivers down my spine.
“Mr. Cain entered the building first, placing his crossbow and an arrow in a flower pot in the hallway. I later checked and found the imprint in the soil. Mrs. Sanguis then took the weapon and slew her husband, taking the opportunity to divert attention to Mr. Hills when she discovered what the victim had been writing. Or perhaps she already knew, even though she claimed he hadn’t revealed the reason for his visit. Then by either guilt or her direction, Mr. Cain is confused, getting some critical information wrong. Followed by her own confession, preceded by the fake confession and again containing misinformation we were unlikely to ever believe. Crude, no this crime was not crude.” I ended my monologue. I had become too caught up in my speech and barely reacted in time to the white blur headed straight for me.
White fangs glistened in the fire light as, to everyone's shock, Mrs. Sanguis darted towards me. I stumbled back; grasping one of the anointed pint glasses, I doused the berserk Vampire with most of the liquid, some splashing back on me. Whatever I possessed that passed for adrenaline, protected me from the pain. Thinking quickly, David snapped off a table leg and stabbed it through the hissing and smoking creature's heart while it still fumbled. I smiled; not at the completion of a case, not at the defeat of an evil vampire, but because for the first time in hours my thoughts were completely my own. There was no confusion with who I was. Frowning, I realised that also meant, the life force, the soul force that had plagued me was gone. Looking down I confirmed it. I was no longer dressed as any elderly town’s man might. I was once again in my stolen monk's robes. My hands were no longer those of a slightly chubby retiree, but the skin and bone of a lifelong scholar (minus the skin). Reaching up to my face, I could feel it was uncovered, just as it had been when I cast the illusion spell. The room’s attention was turning from the remains of their first foe to that of their second; all I could think was:
“Shit!”