Death at the Cafe (8 page)

SECONDS AFTER ANNABELLE had confidently and firmly struck the knocker, the door was opened by a young woman dressed demurely in a grey pencil skirt and white blouse. With her black, perfectly coiffed hair, her dark eyes, and dusky skin, Annabelle assumed she must be of Spanish or Italian descent. She smiled, revealing a set of perfect teeth, as white and as strikingly large as the front of the building.

“You must be Sister Mary and Reverend Annabelle,” she said, in husky voice with an accent that Annabelle couldn’t quite place. “Please come in.”

“Thank you,” the two women responded, stepping carefully inside.

Suddenly, they felt as if they had stepped into some kind of portal, for the large entrance hall was more like that of a castle or stately mansion than a home tucked into a corner of Kensington. A thick, red carpet sat in the middle of the marble floor. To one side, there was a small, tidy desk and to the other, patterned carpeted stairs chased up the wall toward the second floor. Doors led in all three directions from the entrance, guarded by plinths upon which various busts stared blankly forward, like an unimpressed audience.

“Golly!” cried Annabelle, as she stepped onto the soft carpet and craned her neck to see the religious artwork hung high upon the walls. “It looks larger inside than it does outside!”

“How impressive!” Mary added.

The dark woman retained her smile and clasped her hands in front of her.

“This property has actually been owned by the Catholic Church since shortly after it was built in 1822. It has been used for a multitude of purposes over the years, mostly involving visits from various Catholic officials abroad. Pope John Paul II was rather fond of stopping here when he traveled to London. Currently, as you know, it is predominantly being used by Bishop Murphy, as both his main place of residence and that from which he conducts his London-based affairs.”

“It’s almost inconceivable that such a place would lie behind what seems to be a simple Kensington home,” Mary said.

“It’s interesting you should say that,” the dark woman replied, retaining her upright, prim posture. “The building once had a far more elaborate – and rather striking – exterior. However, two years ago, Kensington council introduced a set of initiatives to help retain the harmony of the neighborhood’s appearance. Although this building was protected by various laws pertaining to matters of religious and historical importance, Bishop Murphy agreed to have the façade redesigned so that it was more in line with the area’s aesthetics.

“Though it seems small from the outside, there are actually twelve large rooms in the building, along with three bathrooms and a sizable kitchen. There is also a large cellar in which items of value and significance are stored and occasionally displayed to select visitors.”

“How interesting!” Annabelle said, turning her head to the woman for the first time since she had entered.

“My name is Sara,” the dark woman said, unclasping her hands to shake Annabelle’s and then Mary’s. “I’m Bishop Murphy’s secretary. He’s expecting you. If you’ll just hold on a second, I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”

Once, when they were children, Mary and Annabelle had been called to the headmaster’s office together. As they had taken the solemn walk toward his extremely private office, they realized that it could only mean one of two things. One, they were to receive a commendation for the recent, well-designed, soda-bottle-rocket project they had conducted in science class. Or two, they were about to be punished for said soda-bottle-project’s destruction of the science classroom’s ceiling, as well as the clothes of everybody in the room at the time. As they waited for the Bishop, they shared the same mixture of foreboding and excitement.

Sara stepped lithely toward the desk, leaned over it, pushed a button on a panel, and spoke briefly with the Bishop.

“He’ll be down immediately,” Sara said, flashing her fashion magazine smile at the visitors once again.

“Thank you,” Mary said.

Though Bishop Murphy was renowned for his warmth and his inviting nature, the two women felt as if they were preparing for an occasion with all the glamour and pomp of a visit from the Queen. Mary brushed a little dirt from her friend’s cassock, to which Annabelle nodded a curt “thank you.”

Soon, they heard the sound of well-heeled shoes upon marble steps, as Bishop Murphy came down the stairs. The sense of being in the midst of a special event only increased as they watched the slow, descending emergence of his polished, elegant shoes, then his tailored suit, his tall, athletic build, and finally his dashing, combed-back hair.

Though he was well into his fifties, Bishop Murphy had all the vigor and sharpness of a man half his age. Were he not a relatively high member of the Catholic Church, many would have described him as having a “roguish charm.” Instead, they referred to his “energetic dynamism” and “sparkling personality.”

“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 downwards 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 – 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, after 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…”