The Priest at Puddle's End

by Jason Blacker

  “I’ll need to be speaking with your staff now. There’s nothing else you can do here, Father. I’d suggest offering some comfort to your people when we’re done.”

  Father Fannon nodded and both he and Potts walked back up to the church and entered the rear entrance. Matilda Walmsley, Peter Bolton and Isabel Slaughter were all sitting on a bench up front. Isabel was kneeling and praying.

  THREE

  Police Station

  IT was raining on Thursday the day after Ash Wednesday. That meant they’d drive down to the police station instead of walking. On a nice day it would only be a thirty or so minute walk. But walking in the rain was out of the question. They climbed into Hudnall’s red Alvis Speed 25 and she drove aggressively down to the station.

  “This is so exciting,” said Florence as they neared the station.

  Frances clutched her umbrella across her lap.

  “I’d prefer a less exciting speed, Flo, if it’s all the same to you.”

  Florence smiled at her friend.

  “Sorry, Fran, I forgot you don’t care for speed all that much. I’ll slow down.”

  And she did. Florence slowed down a little, but not enough to allow the blood to enter back into Frances’ white knuckles.

  “The last time we did this was in thirty-nine, wasn’t it?” she asked Frances.

  “Yes, it was. The spring of thirty-nine. Similar time to now.”

  Lady Marmalade’s eyes were fixed on the road. They turned the last corner and there on the main street was the police station. A modest affair amongst the other shops. The baker and the pharmacist on either side. Florence parked in front and they got out.

  Inside was a small waiting room with a wooden bench for a seat. Nobody was there except for an old woman talking to the desk sergeant about her lost cat. He was commiserating with her. Frances and Florence sat down on the bench and waited until the woman had exhausted all possibility of help from the sergeant. The last thing she did was dig into her purse and pull out a small photograph of the missing cat in question.

  He wrote down something on a piece of paper and promised that he’d share it with his constables and they’d keep a look out for ‘Missy’. Though he was certain that Missy would come home soon of her own volition. The old woman, who must have been eighty with extra years added, nodded and smiled and thanked him and then turned around and left with that same smile on her face.

  “Mrs. Hudnall,” bellowed the Sergeant. He waved his arms at them to come on over. He had a bushy mustache and a round face that represented well his round body. His face was reddish in complexion and his eyes twinkled. Florence and Frances got up and walked over to the desk. Frances put him in his late thirties to early forties.

  “Good morning, Sergeant,” said Florence. “This is my friend from London, Lady Frances Marmalade.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, my Lady,” he said, “I’m Sergeant Charles Noble, but my friends call me Chuck.”

  Frances shook his hand over the desk.

  “Please call me Frances,” she said.

  He nodded. He was a very friendly man, full of enthusiasm. He looked towards the door where the old woman had not long ago left through.

  “Poor woman,” he said, “Mrs. Salisbury comes in once a month, I’d say, asking if we’d go looking for her lost cat. I gave up telling her that her cat’s been dead for years some time ago. Now she just seems happy that I promise we’ll do our best.”

  “That’s very good of you, Chuck,” said Florence. “Kindness is the grease that keeps the gears of civilization going, isn’t it?”

  “Hate to see it though. My own mother passed, God rest her soul, some years ago from dementia. It’s terrible to lose someone to something like that.”

  Florence nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” said Frances, “she must have been young.”

  “Sixty-two,” he said. “Well, what brings you two out here to the station?”

  “Frances is a sleuth you know,” said Florence, “she’s helped Scotland Yard on many cases.”

  Noble nodded his head.

  “I remember you were involved in the Forsyth murder. That was, let me see, around seven years ago?”

  Frances nodded.

  “We were just talking about it. Spring of thirty-nine. Almost seven years ago to the day.”

  Noble nodded.

  “Terrible business that was.”

  “I’m sorry to say I don’t remember you at the time,” said Frances.

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” he said. “I wasn’t here then. Me and Potts were training in Scotland Yard.”

  “I see, and what about Inspector Hank Gibbard?”

  “He retired shortly after, moved to the country. I’m not sure where. So you’re looking to do some sleuthing in my backyard, are you?” He said with a twinkle in his eye.

  “We won’t be a bother,” said Florence. “Isn’t that right, Fran?”

  Frances nodded.

  “I believe you,” said Noble, “except we haven’t had much of anything lately except for a broken window from a boy’s catapult.”

  “This is an older case,” said Florence. “Not sure if you know of it, happened in 1929. Do you remember the murder of the Deacon up at St. Francis’ Church?”

  “Do I know it?” asked Noble with a rueful smile. “I was the one set to guard the body until the coroner took it away.”

  “You don’t say,” said Frances.

  “Good Lord,” said Florence, “what a coincidence.”

  “I remember it well. I was wet behind the ears. My first homicide as I recall. Terrible mess and we never found the killer.”

  “Though you believe you know who did it,” said Florence.

  “That’s right. Sergeant Potts was very thorough. Taught me everything I know. He had us find fingerprints on the wheelbarrow and the shovel that were at the scene.”

  “Which wouldn’t have been unexpected if the killer had been tasked with removing the rubble of headstones,” said Frances.

  Noble nodded his head.

  “That’s true. However, there were other reasons to believe it was Carbry Turnbull.”

  Frances nodded, encouraging the sergeant to continue.

  “Both the administrator at the time - I forget her name - and the housekeeper had overheard the Deacon and Turnbull arguing just a few days before. Additionally, I believe that Sergeant Potts had verified the fingerprints at Scotland Yard and the reason Scotland Yard had his prints was because he’d been in trouble down in London on more than one occasion.”

  “In trouble for what?” asked Frances.

  “Robbery and assault and battery with actual bodily harm,” said Noble, “though I don’t remember the details.”

  Florence nodded.

  “Seems to me that’s good enough to suspect he’d be capable of murder,” said Florence.

  “I agree, as did Sergeant Potts and the coroner Dr. Holme during the Inquest. Turnbull was charged in absentia. Though we still haven’t found him that we know.”

  “We’d really like to speak with Sergeant Potts if at all possible,” said Frances. “We’d like to plumb the depths of this terrible crime.”

  “Let me ring him up,” said Noble, “and see if he’d be happy to meet with you. I don’t see why not. He still likes to keep his ear to the ground for any criminal activity here in Puddle’s End.”

  Sergeant Noble walked away from the desk and towards a table where a constable sat manning the telephone. Noble picked up the handle of a separate telephone and dialed the number for Potts. Frances and Florence waited for a moment while the call collected.

  “Owen, yes this is Chuck Noble. I’m fine thank you, how are you? Good. Listen, I have a couple of ladies here who’d like to come and visit you to talk about that old Deacon murder. Yes, that’s the one. From 1929. Are you available? Lovely, I’ll let them know. Thank you. Yes, good bye.”

  Noble hung up and then returned to the desk where Frances and Florence waited.
/>   “He’d be happy to see you,” said Noble.

  “That’s wonderful,” said Florence. “Thank you, Chuck.”

  “Not at all. Happy to help. Though I don’t think you’ll find anything different. Though it would be a coup to put that man Turnbull to trial.”

  Sergeant Noble wrote an address on a piece of paper and tore it from the pad. He handed it to Florence.

  “Do you know where that is?” he asked.

  Florence looked at the address and nodded. “Not far from here actually. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes I should think?”

  “Not at all. Potts said he’s putting on a pot of tea.”

  “How kind,” said Florence. “Thank you again, Chuck. I’ll see you soon.”

  Sergeant Noble nodded. Frances and Florence left the station, but not before opening their umbrellas again just before stepping out.

  “This is going very smoothly,” said Florence once they were both in the car. “Does it always go this smoothly?”

  “Sometimes,” said Frances. “Though only because I think both sergeants involved seem to think they have an ironclad case. That remains to be seen.”

  “Looks pretty ironclad to me,” said Florence.

  “Onward to Potts then,” said Fran. “Leisurely if you don’t mind.”

  FOUR

  Pot Of Tea At Potts'

  POTTS’ home was a lovely small cottage with a red clay tiled roof. The hedge was immaculate and the freshly painted black gate opening to the path to the front door was well oiled. The grass was green and the path to the front was lined with flowers that had started blooming. Tulips, irises and daffodils. Pinks, yellows and blues bobbed under the rain which had lightened up to a steady drizzle. Vines snaked up the front of the brick cottage.

  Frances and Florence got out of the car and walked up the lane, closing the door behind them. A brass lion held a brass ring in its mouth that Florence used to rap on the door. Moments later a very tall, slim man opened the door. His head would bang against the door frame if he wasn’t careful. He had a full head of curly white hair and big bushy eyebrows. The rest of his face was gaunt and lined and creased giving him a stern look. But that was quickly broken by a mischievous smile.

  “Please, please, do come in out of the rain,” he said, moving aside whilst still holding onto the door knob.

  Frances and Florence came in and closed their umbrellas. They put them in a brass umbrella holder by the door and took off their coats. Potts took them from the women and hung them up on a coat rack. It was warm inside the cottage and Potts was in tan pants and a pale blue shirt.

  “I’m Owen Potts,” he said, shaking their hands in turn as they introduced each other.

  “Tea is brewing,” he said, “let’s go into the living room for tea and biscuits.”

  “Sounds marvelous,” said Florence, following Potts down the hall and then first right into the small but cozy living room. There was a couch covered in a blanket facing the front garden and across from it were two bergère chairs facing at angles towards it. They were immaculately well kept with no signs of wear on the upholstery. Though the top of the backs and the armrests were covered in matching pieces of fabric.

  Potts offered the choice of chairs to Frances and Florence. They took to the bergère chairs and Potts sat on the couch. A low, rectangular table was between them which had on it a silver tray with a bone China teapot, teacups and saucers, sugar bowl and creamer, and a small plate with four slices of lemon. Three silver spoons were also present and a bone China plate carrying ginger snap biscuits. Though they both had enjoyed a hearty breakfast, the ginger snap biscuits looked to be just the thing to enjoy with tea.

  Across from the couch, opposite to where Frances and Florence sat was the dining room. It was part of the same room. Towards the left as they sat looking towards it was a large fireplace that created the other part of the hallway. It seemed odd to Frances that the fireplace was where the dining room table was. It was going quite strongly and a pile of wood was ready for burning in a brass bucket just near the fireplace. Potts was stoking it. He came back and noticed Frances had been watching him.

  “That used to be the living area,” he said, “and this of course would have been the dining room. But since my wife passed I’ve changed it around. Keeping it the way it was, was just too difficult.”

  Frances smiled and nodded.

  “I understand. Still, the fire does warm the whole area quiet well.”

  “Yes, it does, and staring out windows keeps me more interested than listening to the wireless all day.”

  “When did your wife pass?” asked Frances, not being nosy but rather trying to be polite.

  “Two years ago this spring. She was sixty and she was taken by cancer.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  Potts shook his head.

  “It’s nasty business,” he said, looking past Frances and out into the garden. “Worst death I’ve ever witnessed.”

  Frances didn’t say anything to that. After a while Potts came back to the living. He looked at Frances.

  “I imagine you must be married?” he asked.

  Frances nodded.

  “Yes, though sadly I lost my husband too. It was back in thirty-nine of a heart attack. I sometimes wonder if the stress of the war contributed to it.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Potts.

  “Thank you,” said Frances, “it still hurts as you know.”

  He nodded.

  “Do you have children?” asked Florence, trying to steer everyone onto a more cordial subject. Potts shook his head.

  “No, we both agreed we didn’t want any. In my line of work you don’t often see the best examples of people and the kids they have. Never interested me.”

  Potts leaned over and grabbed the teapot.

  “Tea?” he asked, looking at Frances.

  “Please,” she said.

  “Milk?”

  Frances shook her head.

  Then he did the same for Florence. Pouring milk in before he put in the tea. This he lastly did for himself.

  “I’ll leave you to the sugar and biscuits to please help yourself.”

  Frances took a wedge of lemon and squeezed it against the spoon over her teacup and stirred it in. She took a napkin and wiped her hand.

  “Have you ever tried pouring the milk in after?” asked Potts, looking at his tea as he contemplated the question.

  “I have and I quite frankly don’t see what the fuss is about. Tea seems to taste the same to me either way,” said Frances.

  “But perhaps that’s because you use cream instead of milk,” offered Florence.

  “I’ve tried it with milk too, both ways. Makes no difference. But that’s just my humble opinion.” She smiled at Florence.

  “Cream in your tea,” said Potts. “Now that sounds quite creamy.”

  “It is,” said Frances.

  “We could use more people like you at the station. Independent thinkers, that’s what we need. I think I’m going to try that next time. Though I imagine it gets expensive.”

  “I suppose it could,” said Frances.

  Potts looked up at her from his teacup.

  “I’ve never met a Lady socially,” he said, “you’ll forgive me if I don’t remember my manners.”

  “Not at all,” said Frances. “Please don’t consider it for a moment. And just to put everyone at ease, I hope you’ll excuse me for being uncouth but I do like to dunk my biscuits.”

  Frances leaned in and took a ginger snap and dunked it into her tea just a bit and took a bite of the end.

  “Delightful,” said Potts, smiling that infectious, mischievous smile of his. “That’s exactly how I like mine too.”

  He followed her lead and they all ate biscuits with their tea. Except Florence wasn’t one for dunking. She preferred it crisp.

  “Well, shall we get down to business then?” asked Potts. “You’ve come about that awful business with the Deacon.”

  Fra
nces nodded. She was chewing on her ginger snap.

  “Sergeant Noble told us you were the main investigator of the crime,” said Florence.

  “That’s right,” he said. “It was Chuck’s first murder I think. He was quite wet behind the ears at the time.” Potts chuckled to himself. “Though unfortunately we never found the murderer. Carbry Turnbull was his name. Deviant man.”

  “You found his fingerprints on the shovel and wheelbarrow,” said Florence.

  “That’s right. I took a trip down to Scotland Yard on my own time. As you can imagine, we didn’t have a lot of fingerprint records up here at the time. Still don’t actually, Puddle’s End is a rather peaceful and pleasant hamlet. As it turns out Scotland Yard did have records of Turnbull. Assault and battery, robbery, things like that. So with that information and my input at the inquest he was charged, though unfortunately we’ve still never caught him. Some think he fled to Ireland, or perhaps up to Scotland. I kept at it until I retired a couple of years ago. Never got any good leads.”

  “Wouldn’t you have expected Turnbull’s fingerprints to be on the wheelbarrow and the shovel?” asked Frances. “After all, he was hired on to help and perhaps he was tasked with moving those broken headstones.”

  Potts nodded.

  “Quite true, though nobody liked him. He was quiet from what I hear, but only really took to the Deacon. It was the Deacon you know, who had suggested helping him. Why I do not know.”

  “Charity,” suggested Frances. “He was a servant of the church…”

  “Yes, I know all that,” said Potts. “But this fellow was a drifter who just happened to come in a month before. There’s plenty of charity to be done at home. Those years were difficult for the country economically speaking. We had a lot of people out here needing work and charity. Why they offered work to him seems odd. There were a few strapping young men here then who could have used a few shillings.”