The Priest at Puddle's End

by Jason Blacker

  “If you’d forgive me, Owen,” said Frances, using his first name to develop a rapport, “what other sort of evidence did you have?”

  Potts sipped his tea and then placed it onto his saucer.

  “We found the bible-sized piece of headstone with the blood on it. The wheelbarrow was tipped on its side suggesting that there had been a scuffle and that very morning we came to the scene, Turnbull had fled. That looks like guilt to me. Then of course his history of violent crime and robbery. Also, the donation box by the votive candles was stolen. Though if I remember correctly there likely wasn’t much money in it.”

  “Why not?” asked Florence.

  “I believe the priest empties it every evening and he had emptied it the evening before we attended the scene.”

  “I see,” said Frances.

  They took a moment to each drink some tea. Florence took a second biscuit. Frances dunked the last bit of hers into her tea and ate it.

  “Look,” said Potts, “I'm not married to the idea that Turnbull did it. But it's the best evidence we had and still have. I'm ninety-nine percent sure it was him. If I could get him in a room I'm certain I'd get a confession out of him. But we haven't been able to find him so I haven't been able to chat with him.”

  Frances nodded.

  “So there was no one else on your list of suspects?” she asked.

  Potts shook his head.

  “Not anyone that we could come up with. Now we didn't look into the Deacon's background. We had no reason to. He was after all the victim. Furthermore, he'd been in Puddle's End for nine years without so much as a harsh word said about him by anyone.”

  “Do you know where he came from before then?” asked Frances.

  “I do not,” said Potts. “We concentrated on finding the suspect rather than the victim's whereabouts a decade before. He was a well liked man. The children seemed to take to him especially.”

  Frances nodded.

  “It would be wonderful if we'd have a chance to catch this Turnbull chap,” said Florence, holding her biscuit over her teacup. “That would help, wouldn't it?”

  “It certainly would,” said Potts. “I'm certain he'd have pled to it.”

  “Did you speak to anyone else? Any witnesses?” asked Frances.

  Potts nodded.

  “Spoke to the housekeeper and the secretary of the church as well as the groundskeeper.”

  “Do you remember their names?” asked Frances.

  Potts nodded.

  “This was quite the murder back then. People still talk about it. The groundskeeper was a chap by the name of Peter Bolton. Small, wiry man with jet black wavy hair and bad teeth. He's probably still with the Church I should imagine. He was only around thirty in twenty-nine. He had the most to do with Turnbull other than the Deacon. The Deacon had hired Turnbull on and put him under Bolton to work.”

  Frances took a sip of her tea.

  “Did he have anything to say about Turnbull or the Deacon?”

  “Not much. Said Turnbull kept to himself. Ate alone, didn't much socialize with any of the staff. Staff being pretty much Bolton and Isabel Slaughter the housekeeper. Matilda Walmsley the secretary kept to herself pretty much. She was also quite a bit older than the rest of them. I think they're all still with St. Francis if you want to speak with them. Matilda will probably be in her eighties by now I imagine. Isabel was a similar age to Bolton and Turnbull as I recall.”

  Frances nodded. Potts took a sip of tea. He looked into his teacup but there were no leaves to read.

  “Bolton said he heard the Deacon and Turnbull arguing but couldn't make it out.”

  “When was that?” asked Frances.

  “A few days before the murder I believe. He also seemed to think that Turnbull and the Deacon were rather familiar with each other.”

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Frances.

  “Hard to tell,” said Potts. “I asked Bolton about that, and all he said is he thought the two of them might have known each other before.”

  Frances nodded.

  “That doesn't mean much, does it?” asked Florence.

  Potts looked over at her.

  “Didn't mean much to me. Like I said, we didn't investigate the Deacon, we investigated Turnbull.”

  “And what did you find about his background?” asked Frances.

  “Well, he'd spent some time in London before moving up here to Puddle's End. First charged in London in 1914 I believe, petty theft, things like that until it started escalating in the years that followed.”

  “How old would he have been then?” asked Frances.

  Potts looked up towards the ceiling in thought.

  “Around fourteen or fifteen. Maybe sixteen I think. I don't quite remember his actual date of birth.”

  “Do we know where Turnbull hailed from?” asked Frances.

  “Blairgowrie, Scotland,” said Potts.

  “So he was a long way from home as a young man,” said Frances.

  Potts shrugged and took a biscuit and dunked most of it into his tea. He put the whole thing in his mouth. He looked outside. It was still drizzling slightly. That was good for his flowers. They wouldn't need attending for a few days.

  “Not surprising for a young deviant to leave home early on. Seen it time and time again. They don't like the rules. They think their father is too strict so they bugger off. Pardon my language.”

  Frances put a pained smile on her face.

  “Or perhaps the father is too strict. Maybe there's too much punishment for the smallest crimes and so the young man leaves to escape it.”

  Potts shrugged again.

  “Not in my experience,” he said. “There's a reason this sort of riff raff end up the way they do and it's not because of too much punishment.”

  Frances bit her tongue.

  “You never interviewed the parents, I suppose,” she said.

  “No need to, the parents weren't witness to the crime,” he said.

  Frances thought about how much easier life might be when your views were as simple as black and white. Though she knew first hand that children don't end up bent or crooked without being beaten into that shape by either the rod or just a severe lack of love and kindness. She'd met such an unfortunate young boy as one of Declan's friends from primary school. Never knew what had come of him, but she was sure it wasn't any good.

  “Speaking of witnesses,” said Frances, trying a different topic. “What did Isabel and Matilda have to say?”

  “Similar to what Bolton said. They'd both heard Turnbull and the Deacon arguing, over what they wouldn't say.”

  “They wouldn't say?”

  “That's the impression I got. Though they both said they couldn't hear what was said.”

  “And they had all heard these arguments on separate occasions?”

  “Don't know.”

  Frances finished her tea and set her teacup and saucer down on the table. She was offered another cup but she declined.

  “Were there any other witnesses to speak to?” asked Florence.

  Potts shook his head.

  “No. Though the secretary, Walmsley, said she'd seen one of the local men walking towards the church when she left. Coroner thought the death occurred around that time in the late afternoon.”

  “Did you interview him?” asked Florence.

  Potts nodded.

  “Yes, one of the local men. He owns one of the pubs here, The Flying Blizzard. He's born and raised in Puddle's End. His father owned the pub before him.”

  “You’re talking about Galen Teel?” asked Florence.

  Frances looked at her friend.

  “That's right, that's him. He was out for walk on that late summer evening. Didn't see anyone or hear anything unfortunately.”

  “And there was no one else attending church or saying prayers at that time?” asked Florence.

  Potts shook his head.

  “No, I'm afraid not. Service wouldn't start until six and the coroner pu
t the death between four and five.”

  “Quite the challenging case,” said Frances.

  Potts nodded.

  “Only in so much as we never found Turnbull.”

  “And you still must have the warrant out for his arrest?” asked Florence.

  “Oh yes. But somehow he’s been able to keep himself clean or he’s fled to Ireland where the warrant isn’t valid.”

  “And which do you think it is?” asked Florence.

  “If I were a betting man, I’d think he’s in Scotland somewhere by now. He wasn’t shortly after the fact. I kept in touch with the police up there for a few years but they never found him. I’m sure he’s there by now though. Probably not to far from Blairgowrie. Perhaps around one of the bigger centers. I’d probably look around Dundee or Perth if it were me. Might have taken a different name.”

  “So you don’t think he’s gone to Ireland then?” asked Florence.

  Potts shook his head.

  “I shouldn’t think so. He’s not from around there and he doesn’t strike me as that intelligent.”

  Florence finished her tea and biscuit. Potts offered her more but she declined. He poured himself another cup and dunked another biscuit into it.

  “You’ve been very helpful,” said Frances. “We do thank you for your time.”

  Potts looked up at her.

  “If you do find him. Please let me know. I’d like to put this case to rest. Awful business it was.”

  Frances nodded.

  “I’m going to call my friend at Scotland Yard and see if he can shed any light on anything or reach out to his colleagues in Perth and Aberdeen, or perhaps Dundee like you suggest. I think you might be right about Turnbull heading back there by now.”

  Frances stood up and Florence followed. Potts showed them out and they waved goodbye to the very tall man. They sat in the car for a few moments to talk and digest what they had heard.

  “Certainly seems to me like this Turnbull chap is the best suspect,” said Florence.

  Frances nodded watching the rain patter softly on the windshield before snaking down in little streams.

  “He sure does sound like it. But why would he kill the one man trying to help him get a leg up in life?”

  Frances looked over at Florence.

  “Well, I don’t know. I suppose that’s what we need to find out.”

  “Exactly, my dear Flo,” smiled Frances. “I haven’t come across a murder that doesn’t either have a motive or is a crime of passion. And this one stinks more of motive than of passion.”

  “Maybe the motive was theft,” offered Florence helpfully.

  “Theft?”

  “Yes, Chuck did say the votive candle donation box was stolen.”

  Frances nodded thoughtfully.

  “And yet there was hardly anything in there at all. Surely with just a little bit of knowledge, Turnbull should have known to steal it in the afternoon before it was emptied by Father Fannon.”

  “Perhaps then, it was a crime of passion,” said Florence.

  “But passion over what, Flo?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the puzzle isn’t it. Something we’ll have to find out. But maybe the passion was just the heat of the argument. We know they argued, so there’s that.”

  Frances nodded thoughtfully.

  “So far this is all speculation,” she said. “Even what Potts has said. Most of that is speculation too. We need to get to the facts. And the facts so far is that the Deacon was bludgeoned to death between four and five in the afternoon of the ninth of September 1929 and no one saw it. Or, to be more precise, we believe that no one saw it.”

  “This is very exciting,” said Florence. “I hope we do uncover its grizzly mysteries. I should think the whole of Puddle’s End would rest easier if we all knew the whys and wherefores of this terrible crime.”

  “Then let us get to it,” said Frances.

  Florence started up the car and drove off back to her little cottage at a more sedate pace.

  FIVE

  A Favor From Scotland Yard

  THERE were no scones for tea this afternoon. Instead it was sandwiches. Frances and Florence made fish paste sandwiches and cucumber sandwiches to go with their tea. While Florence was finishing up with the preparation Frances needed to make a call.

  “Do you mind if I call down to London?” she asked her friend.

  “Not at all.”

  “I’ll settle the bill before I leave,” said Frances.

  “No need,” said Florence, “you’re my guest here.”

  Frances walked out into the living room. Not far from the two chairs they usually took their tea at, in the same room across from the couch stood a wooden chair with a small table next to it. On this table was the telephone. It was against the same wall where the fireplaces was just a few feet away. The fireplace was not lit. Frances picked up the receiver and dialed her trunk call.

  “Yes, hello. I’d like to speak with Chief Inspector Devlin Pearce please. Yes you may. It’s Lady Frances Marmalade. I’ll hold.”

  After a few moments Frances was connected to the Chief Inspector.

  “I am doing well, thank you, Devlin. How are Ethel, Nigel and Miles? Good Lord, you don’t say. Baby Miles is now entering university? Where does the time fly? I know, it speeds by. I’m up here in Puddle’s End. Yes, Florence is doing very well, she’s actually got me snooping around on an old case here. Dreadful business. Yes, that’s why I’m calling. I was hoping you might be able to lend a hand. You see, we’ve just gotten back from speaking with the now retired Sergeant at the time. Potts is his name. Yes, that’s right, extremely tall fellow. That’s right, he was down there quite a few years ago. You have a great memory.

  “Well, he’s quite adamant that Carbry Turnbull is the murderer in this case. Oh yes, sorry. This case occurred in 1929. Ninth of September of that year. The local Deacon at the Catholic Church here was the victim. Yes, his name was Kerr Millar. Bludgeoned to death across the back of the head with a piece of headstone in the church grounds near the graveyard. Turnbull, yes, Carbry Turnbull, was deemed the suspect. He was nowhere to be found the morning after when the police arrived on the scene. Potts got fingerprints off the wheelbarrow and spade at the scene and came down to Scotland Yard. Yes, he did, said you had fingerprints on file related to Carbry Turnbull. For petty theft, robbery and also assault I believe.

  “Potts now thinks that this Turnbull chap might have made it back up to Scotland by now. Yes, that’s where he’s originally from. Blairgowrie. No, Potts thinks and I’d agree that he’s probably in one of the bigger centers. Perth or Aberdeen, maybe Dundee. Could you see what you can find out. Yes, thank you. Oh and he might have taken on an alias if he has any sense. That’s right you should have a description of him, though he’ll be seventeen years older now. Oh and Devlin, do send my best to your family. Ethel especially. Yes, thank you. Goodbye.”

  Frances hung up the phone and sat for a few moments in the chair. Devlin Pearce had risen fast through the ranks to make Chief Inspector just a year ago. She smiled. If there was anyone she trusted could find out Turnbull’s whereabouts it would be him. She stood up and joined her friend in the kitchen. She helped Florence carry some items out into the living room. The tea was hot and fresh. The sandwiches soft and moist and hopefully, in a matter of days she’d have a better understanding of why someone, anyone really, would murder a man of the cloth.

  Florence poured tea and Frances helped herself to a triangular quarter of each kind of sandwich. It was now early afternoon and Frances found herself reasonably hungry.

  “This does the trick, Flo,” said Frances, “I haven’t had fish paste sandwiches in what seems like years.”

  Florence grinned at her.

  “I thought it might be something nice for a change.” Florence took a sip of her tea after she had stirred cream and sugar into it. “What did you think of retired Sergeant Chuck Potts?”

  Frances took a moment to finish chewing.


  “I liked him. He’s a very likable man,” she said. “Though I can see his determined and even severe manner at times. But I suppose that comes from having been a policeman for such a time. One has to become quite authoritarian, I suppose.”

  Florence nodded.

  “I liked him too. He certainly seems to know who did it. Or at least he thinks he does.”

  “Yes, Turnbull does seem the likely person, doesn’t he?”

  “You don’t think so?” asked Florence.

  Frances shook her head.

  “Oh no, Turnbull is certainly a very good candidate. But he’s the only candidate we know of at the moment.”

  “Because it seems there wasn’t anyone else around?”

  “Well, Flo, that’s not quite correct. Let’s review. There are at least five other suspects that we know of already?”

  Florence knitted her eyebrows together.

  “Really, who? I can’t imagine.”

  Frances took a sip of tea and put the cup and saucer on the table.

  “There’s the priest, Father Fannon.”

  “Good Lord Fran, you surely aren’t suggesting…”

  “No, I’m not suggesting anything, Florence, but without actually being at the scene at the time of the incident, we don’t actually know who did it. Granted, it would be exceptional if a priest would have murdered his colleague, though not unheard of. There was that incident in Australia some years ago.”

  “Yes, I remember it, but I can’t see Father Fannon like that, Fran. Honestly I can’t.”

  “My dear Flo, murder is an unpleasant business, and one mustn’t discount any suspects for reasons of sentiment. Sadly, sometimes the nicest of people are capable of murder in the right circumstances.”

  Florence looked out the window. It was still an overcast day and it had now put her in despondent spirits. It was no longer raining but it was gray and bleak. Exactly how she felt now about the murder investigation.

  “This is terrible, Fran, that one has to hold all parties as suspects equally until dismissed as such.”

  “I know, Flo. It is a distasteful part of the sleuthing business. But one I learned on my very first case.”

  “Hopefully the priest will have a good alibi that will remove him from suspicion. Now he’s not likely to be my favorite suspect but we must not be swayed by sentiment, only evidence.”