Death at the Cafe (2 page)

“I know I shouldn’t,” she muttered to herself on the relatively empty bus, “but if this doesn’t deserve a cherry-topped cupcake, then I don’t know what does.”

The thought of rewarding her patience with the thing she loved almost as much as her vocation itself – cake – settled Annabelle’s nerves for a full twenty minutes, during which the bus trundled in fits and spurts along another half-mile stretch.

The assignment of Annabelle, fresh from her days fervently studying Theology at Cambridge University, to the tough, inner-city borough of Hackney had been an almost literal baptism of fire. She had arrived in the summer, during the few weeks when the British sun combined with the squelching heat of a city constantly bustling and moving. It was a time of drinking and frivolity for some and heightened tension for others; a time when bored youths on their summer holidays found their idle hands easily occupied by the devil’s work; a time when the good relax and the bad run riot.

Though Annabelle had grown up in East London, when it came to her first appointment as a vicar, her preference had been for a peaceful, rural village somewhere. A place in which she could indulge her love of nature, and conduct her Holy business in the gentle, caring manner she preferred. “Gentle” and “caring,” however, were two words rarely used to describe London. Annabelle had mildly protested the assignment, but after a long talk with the Archbishop, who explained the extreme shortage of candidates both capable and willing to take on the challenge of an inner-city church, she agreed to take up the position and set about her task with an enthusiasm for which she had become noted.

Father John Wilkins, of neighboring St Leonard’s Church, had been charged with easing Annabelle into the complex role of a city-based diocese. He had been a priest for over thirty years, and for the vast majority of that time had worked in London’s poorest, most difficult neighborhoods.  The Anglican Church held far smaller sway in London than it did in rural England, comprised as London was of a disparate mix of peoples and creeds from around the world, each with their own beliefs. The only time Father John’s church had ever been full had been a particularly warm Christmas Eve. Even then, the congregation had been composed of especially devout immigrants from Africa and South America, many of whom were not even Anglican but simply lived nearby.

Despite its lack of influence, London’s churches found themselves playing pivotal roles in the local community. With plenty of people in need, churches in London became hubs of charity and community support. Fundraising events, providing food and shelter for London’s large homeless population, caring for the elderly, and engaging troubled youths were their stock in trade, not to mention providing both spiritual and emotional support throughout the many deaths and family tragedies which frequently occurred.

The stress of it all had turned Father John’s wiry beard a speckled grey, and though he knew his work was important and worthwhile, he had been pushed to his breaking point on more than one occasion. Upon her arrival, he had taken one look at Annabelle’s breezy, cheerful demean or and her fresh-faced and open smile before assuming that her assignment was a case of negligence, desperation, or simply a bad prank.

“She’s utterly delightful,” Father John sighed on the phone to the Archbishop, “and extremely nice. But “delightful” and “nice” are not what’s required in a London church. This is a part of the world where faith is stretched to its very limits, where strong leadership goes further than gentle guidance. We struggle to capture people’s attention, Archbishop, let alone their hearts. Our drug rehabilitation program has more members than our congregation.”

“Give her a chance, Father,” the Archbishop replied softly. “Don’t underestimate her. She did grow up in East London, you know.”

“Well, I grew up in Westminster, but that doesn’t mean I’ve had tea with the Queen!”

Father John’s complaints were shown to be premature, however, merely a week into Annabelle’s placement. Her bumbling, naïve manner proved to be merely that – a manner. Father John observed closely as Annabelle’s strength, faith, and intelligence were consistently tested by the urban issues of her flock.  He noted that she passed with flying colors.

Whether it was with a hardened criminal fresh out of prison and already succumbing to old temptations or a single mother of three struggling to find some sense of composure and faith in the face of her daily troubles, Annabelle was always there to help. With good humor and optimism, she never turned down a request for assistance, no matter how small or large it was.

When Father John visited Annabelle a month later to check upon an incredibly successful gardening project she had initiated for young delinquents, he shook his head in amazement.

“Is that Denton? By the rose bushes? I’ve been trying to get him to visit me for a year now, and all he does is grunt. You should hear what he says when his parole officer suggests it,” he said.

“Oh, Denton is wonderful!” Annabelle effused. “Terribly good with his hands. And a devilish sense of humor – when it’s properly directed. Did you know that he plays drums?”

“No, I did not know that. He never told me,” Father John said, allowing Annabelle an appreciative smile. “I must say, Reverend, I seem to have misjudged you dreadfully. And I apologize sincerely.”

“Oh, Father,” Annabelle chuckled, “it’s perfectly understandable. You have only the best interests of the community and myself at heart. Let’s leave judgment for Him and Him alone. The only thing we are meant to judge are cake contests, in my opinion. Mind those thorns, Denton! Roses tend to fight back if you treat them roughly!”

Progress in the service of the Lord was not matched by that of the London Bus Network on this occasion, however. The bus rolled forward and stopped once again, mere feet away from where it had started. Annabelle stood up to get a better view of the road ahead and scanned the long snake of traffic that extended in front of and behind the bus. She exchanged a shrug with a kindly-looking Jamaican man, grey curls tucked just underneath his porkpie hat.

“Fiddlesticks,” she uttered, too exasperated to contain herself, “I’m supposed to meet someone.”

“Aye,” the Jamaican man replied in his heavily accented English. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways.”

“Well, at least He moves, unlike this bus,” Annabelle replied, sitting back down and clasping her hands.

After another ten minutes, the bus rolled forward a little further, dejectedly opening its doors a full twenty yards ahead of the stop. Annabelle decided to walk the rest of the way and stepped off the bus into a crowd of people who all wore the same downtrodden expression of defeat.

Foregoing her usual laid-back, serene pace for one that would minimize the lateness of her meeting with her friend, Sister Mary, Annabelle marched down the high street, cassock flowing behind her, resolute about the cupcake and considering the benefits of buying a bicycle. It was to be the last time she and Mary would meet for a very long time.

Reverend Annabelle’s and Sister Mary’s lives had followed similar trajectories but for very different reasons. Mary had been born in the same year as Annabelle, in the back seat of the very cab Annabelle’s father drove for a living. Having recently witnessed the birth of his own daughter, Annabelle’s father was all too aware of how impossible it would be to get Mary’s mother to the hospital on time. He had pulled up outside the nearest grocery store, and with the help of the shop owner who provided towels and water, delivered Mary himself.

With Mary’s parents feeling deeply indebted to Annabelle’s father for the successful birth of their child, the families – and thus the children – became lifelong friends. They soon grew into strikingly different figures. Annabelle grew tall and sturdy, with an ever-present smile on her face. Mary, on the other hand, was small and slim, with a delicate expression. It was, however, Annabelle’s willingness and Mary’s nose for adventure that caused the two girls to become fast friends until Annabelle left London to study at Cambridge.

Though Mary was slight, her five foot three looking even smaller next to Annabelle’s towering frame, she had a habit of being at the center of things. Her first day at school ended prematurely when it turned out that an administrative error had registered her as a teacher, rather than a student. She passed her driving test with full marks, less for her ability to follow procedure and more for the expert precision with which she avoided an escaped bull that had found itself on the M25. Even the simple purchase of a second-hand coat turned into an event when Mary found plans for an undiscovered portion of London’s underground tunnels sewn into the seams.

Wherever Sister Mary went, peculiar occurrences followed. Upon leaving school, she decided to study nursing at university. One day, she turned up to a fairly routine lecture on hospital procedures, only to find she had instead stumbled into a talk given by an order of nuns working in West Africa. Instead of discreetly leaving to double-check her planner, Mary stayed, captivated by the talk of exotic climates, dangerous but fulfilling work, and the devout purpose that the nuns exhibited. She had been raised a strict Catholic, and just minutes after the talk had ended, Mary had made up her mind – she would become a nun and go to West Africa. This unexpected turn of events, combined with her capacity for stumbling upon the unpredictable, is what led those around her to assign Mary her nickname, “the accidental nun.”

This was to be their last meeting before Mary returned to Africa. As Annabelle drew closer to the café where Mary had requested they meet, she saw a gathering crowd of onlookers and felt her heart skip.

“Oh dear, Mary,” she thought, “what on earth has happened this time?”

“Excuse me,” Annabelle called, as she made her way through the crowd. Though there were many of them, they stood aside for her, partly due to the authority her cassock brought and partly because Annabelle was taller than most of them. “Vicar coming through!” she trilled.

When she broke through to the space inside the circle of gawkers, Annabelle saw what was at its center: a dead woman. She was sprawled next to an outside table, a waiter crouched beside her, barking out instructions for the crowd to stay back and let the paramedics through. The woman was young and beautiful, golden-blonde hair tragically splayed out against the dirty pavement. She was wearing a simple but well-fitting pair of jeans and an elegant jacket that would have given her the appearance of a trendy woman-about-town were she not lying on the grey concrete. Her slim, pretty face had high cheekbones, offsetting pale-blue, lifeless eyes that gazed into the sky, as if witnessing the flight of her own soul.

Two green-suited paramedics burst through the crowd with the swift and graceful purpose of a job done a thousand times. They dropped their bags beside the body and went to work, talking with the waiter who spoke continuously while shaking his head in disbelief.

Annabelle peeled her eyes away from the scene and noticed Mary, wearing her civvies rather than her nun’s habit, standing on the other side of the crowd. Her hand was over her mouth, and she was visibly shaking. Annabelle’s instincts told her something somewhat stranger than a simple, straightforward death had occurred. Mary had been in West Africa. She had studied nursing. When it came to tragedy, Sister Mary had seen it all, including death. For her to look so shaken would require something either incredibly awful or shockingly surprising.

Annabelle marched through the space toward the nun, whose eyes were so fixed upon the dead body that she barely noticed the Vicar until she grasped Mary in her arms and hugged her gently.

“Mary! Are you okay?”

“Oh, Annabelle,” the Sister said, embracing her friend in return.

Annabelle patted Mary’s back until she had calmed down enough to pull away and look her in the eye.

“What on earth happened?” Annabelle said, as she grasped Mary’s arm and led her away from the crowd.

“It’s awful, Annabelle,” Mary said, sniffing back sobs. “She walked up to me. And then she just dropped down to her knees. Seconds later, she stopped moving. I don’t know what happened, Annabelle. I really don’t.“

“Walking toward you?” Annabelle said, pulling an ever-handy pack of tissues from her pocket and handing one to Mary. “You knew her?”

“No,” Mary said, just before blowing her nose into the tissue, “but I was to meet someone here, just before you came.”

“Who?”

Mary gave her nose one last blow before speaking. “I’ve been in London for a month now, looking for funding. As hard as we work, the hospitals in Africa simply cannot cope without large amounts of money. I was meant to meet someone here who could help me. Just before you came along.”

 “The woman who is now dead?”

Sister Mary shook her head, too overwhelmed by the situation to think properly. “I don’t know. We had only spoken over the phone. I don’t believe so. I’m sure the person I spoke to was much older.”

Suddenly, their attention was drawn by officious shouts to clear the pavement. Annabelle looked away from Mary’s small, pretty face to see police officers ushering the onlookers away.

“Sorry, ladies,” a nearby officer said, “would you mind moving just a little further down the road? We’re going to have to tape the whole area. Thank you.”

“Officer,” Annabelle called, before he could turn away, “this woman saw the death.”

The bobby turned back and cast his eyes toward Mary, who managed a mild nod from behind her scrunched-up tissue.

“Detective!” he bawled, with a voice well-practiced in commanding attention. He pointed at Mary. “Someone here you need to speak to.”

Seconds later, the two women found themselves joined by a short, bulky man with a face screwed-up into a perpetual expression of suspicion and frustration.

“Detective Inspector Cutcliffe,” he said, as if even pronouns were too indirect and time-wasting for him.

Everything about DI Cutcliffe was rough. From the heavy jacket he wore through all seasons to his angular, uncompromising jawline. There was a pool in his police branch for whomever could make him laugh. It had run into hundreds of pounds, and there still wasn’t a winner despite lowering the goal from “laughter” to “smile.” Officers joked that he had come out of the womb clenching his teeth, only to immediately question the doctor’s credentials. Colleagues said that he asked more questions than a TV game show host, and that he hadn’t dropped a case since 1982.