The Priest at Puddle's End

by Jason Blacker

  “Okay then, who are the other four suspects?”

  “The groundskeeper Bolton, the secretary Walmsley, the housekeeper Slaughter and that fellow who was out for a walk.”

  “You mean Galen Teel of The Flying Blizzard. Again, I find that quite hard to believe, he’s a gentle, kind man, never saw him even raise his voice. As for the others, well, maybe the groundskeeper, but I doubt the secretary or housekeeper.”

  “And I hope you’re right, Flo, but we must rule them out before we can completely dismiss any of them.”

  “And how do we do that, Fran?”

  “Well, tomorrow I should think the real work begins.”

  Florence smiled.

  “More sleuthing to be done then?”

  Frances nodded and picked up her teacup.

  “Tomorrow, my dear Flo, we visit the church and talk to our witnesses if you’d prefer to call them that. Though I fear there will not be a quick resolution to this case unless or until we are able to find our main suspect Mr. Carbry Turnbull.”

  “And what about Galen Teel.”

  “I fear we should be quite parched by the end of our busy day tomorrow and might find ourselves at The Flying Blizzard for a pint.”

  “A pint of ale?”

  “A drink, Flo, I use the term colloquially.”

  Florence smiled and took a bite of her sandwich. Closing this case would help her feel safer here in Puddle’s End even if it meant the priest did it.

  SIX

  An Inquisition Begins

  FRIDAY was suggesting a good weekend for the townsfolk of Puddle’s End. The day had started sunny and the weather forecast was indicating the same through the weekend. Spring had sprung and it had buoyed everyone’s mood, so it seemed, as Florence and Frances walked back over to the church just after lunch. The ground was still damp but it had dried enough not to leave any puddles in their path.

  Florence led them up the path to the church as they had done before but instead of heading in through the main doors, they took a path to the left and on that side of St. Francis’ Church was a wooden door with a plaque on it that read simply ‘office’. They opened it up and walked in.

  It was a reasonably sized room with a large waiting area with chairs and a table with Catholic publications upon it. This area had opened up after walking through a short hallway. Opposite the chairs, to Frances' and Florence’s left was a large table behind which sat an older woman. She was slim with gray white hair that was put in a bun. She wore glasses that rode on the tip of her nose and attached to a beaded necklace. She was plain with a severe face that seemed to have held no joy. She wore a gray jersey over a white blouse and a long gray skirt with plain black shoes. She looked up at them over her glasses as she busied paperwork on her desk. On her right was a typewriter. On her left was a phone. In front of her on the desk was a tented plaque that had her name on it. Ms. Matilda Walmsley it said.

  “May I help you?” she asked without any feeling or warmth. One got the impression that help was not what she was really offering.

  “Hello, Matilda, this is my friend Frances Marmalade, I’m…”

  The phone rang and Walmsley put up her finger as if silencing unruly children. She picked up the phone.

  “St. Francis’ Church,” she said. “Yes, Mrs. Cropper, women’s bible study is tomorrow morning at ten am. The same as it has been for several months now.”

  She hung up the phone without so much as a courtesy farewell. She looked back up at Florence over her thinly wired glasses.

  “You were saying,” she said.

  “Yes, Ms. Walmsley, I’m Florence Hudnall and this is my friend Frances Marmalade.”

  “I know who you are, Ms. Hudnall,” she said without feeling.

  “We’d like to talk to you about the Deacon’s murder back in twenty-nine,” said Florence.

  “I don’t much feel like reliving that awful time. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Walmsley went back to pushing paper around. There was no one else around to distract her from the two women. So she pretended to ignore them.

  “Ms. Walmsley, I should like to inform you,” said Florence, “that we do not take kindly to being ignored and disrespected. You should also know that Scotland Yard is reviewing this case and they’ve asked us to interview all the suspects, of which you are one.”

  That got Ms. Walmsley’s attention.

  “I am not a suspect,” she said spitefully.

  “Actually you are, Matilda,” said Frances, “and until we can prove otherwise you’ll be treated as such.”

  Frances knew she was overstepping a bit, but the woman was unconscionable and needed a bit of dressing down so it seemed.

  “Now, if you refuse to cooperate with us,” continued Frances, “I’ll have to call down to the station and speak with Sergeant Noble. He’s very much on board helping Scotland Yard with this case again and I’m sure he will not be pleased to come down here and tell you so himself.”

  “And as you know,” said Florence, ganging up on the old woman, “he’s not a Catholic and he doesn’t think too highly of Catholics.”

  Florence had no idea whether this was true or not, but she didn’t think Walmsley would know either. She did know he attended the Church of England, but as to his thoughts about Catholics, she had no idea. Matilda put down her paperwork and took off her rubber thimblette which she hadn’t been using often enough it seemed, as several small paper cuts were still visible on her index finger tip. She took off her glasses and let them hang across her bosom. She raised an arched eyebrow.

  “Alright,” she said. “What is it you want to know. But I should warn you, this happened long ago and my memory is not what it once was.”

  She sucked tenderly on her sore index finger for a moment.

  “Did you see the murder?” asked Florence with a big opening.

  Walmsley furrowed her brow.

  “I did not,” she said. “Same as I told the police if you’ve looked at the reports.”

  “We are reviewing the whole case, Matilda,” said Florence, “even that which may have been asked before.”

  “Where were you when it happened?” asked Frances.

  “I can’t say for certain,” she said.

  “I will refresh your memory,” said Frances. “It occurred between four and five pm on the afternoon of the ninth of September 1929. That was a Monday afternoon.”

  “Yes, yes, I know what was in the coroner’s report, I was at the inquest,” she said. “Well, between those times I was likely just finishing up here as I am every weekday and have done for the last twenty-two years. I usually get off work at four thirty and that day was likely no different.”

  “And when you left work that day,” continued Frances, “you came right out the side and left via the front entrance?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t go round back for any reason?”

  “No,” said Walmsley, squinting at her.

  “And at around four thirty when you were leaving, you didn’t hear any arguing coming from the grounds behind the church?”

  “No, I didn’t hear anything.”

  “And after you left what happened exactly?” asked Frances.

  “Nothing, I walked home and then only found out what had happened the next day when Peter had found the Deacon in the graveyard when he was doing his rounds at the grounds that morning. Then the police arrived and you probably know the rest.”

  “You told the police you met Galen Teel when you left the church.”

  “Yes, well he wasn’t coming from the church. He was going for a walk.”

  “How do you know he wasn’t coming from the church?”

  “Because he wasn’t. He was coming from home. From that direction.”

  “Which direction is that, Matilda?” asked Frances.

  Walmsley partly turned around behind her and pointed in that direction.

  “It’s that way. As you leave here you’re pointed in the direction of his house.”


  “I see, and that’s the direction he was coming from?”

  “Well, yes, he caught up with me just as I passed that side of the church on the pathway.”

  Walmsley pointed in front of her.

  “And he was alone?”

  She nodded.

  “Anything else about his demeanor that seemed unusual?”

  “No,” she said, “he was carrying a rucksack as he said he was going to the shops to pick up a few things.”

  Frances nodded.

  “And you saw no one else out around that time on your way home?”

  “Well, yes, it was a lovely summer evening. Most of my neighbors were out in their yards gardening.”

  “Other than that?”

  “Well no,” said Walmsley, thinking for a moment. “Well, there was young Colin Lewis playing fetch with his dog around the church at the time.”

  “Where?”

  “Just around the corner here on the side. At least that’s where I found him. He’s a bit of a loner and often plays by himself with his dog. He’s very shy. I just said hello to him and that was all.”

  “And how did he seem?”

  “Like his usual self. He can be sullen at times and that was one of the times. His hands looked a bit rough, especially his right one. It was scuffed up a bit, but then again he was playing fetch.”

  “And you decided not to tell the police this?”

  Walmsley looked genuinely surprised.

  “You can’t be serious. Colin Lewis, the murderer. Ha! Not likely.”

  “And why not?”

  “He’s a meek young man. Well, he was really just a boy then, really.”

  “How old?”

  “I should think he wasn’t more than eighteen or nineteen then.”

  “And you don’t think he’s capable of murder.”

  “Absolutely not. His father’s very strict with him and he keeps to himself. Don’t think he has any friends even.”

  “I see,” said Frances. “Now you also told the police that you’d overheard the Deacon and Turnbull arguing?”

  Walmsley nodded.

  “I did.”

  “When was this?”

  “The Friday before. I had gone out to the back to enjoy my lunch and when I came round I heard the two of them arguing, so I discreetly left and ate my lunch in the front.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “I couldn’t tell.”

  “You couldn’t tell or you won’t tell?”

  Walmsley stared at Lady Marmalade and Lady Marmalade stared back.

  “Very well,” said Walmsley at last. “I didn’t hear much. What I did hear was Turnbull say something like ‘you owe me’, and the Deacon said ‘it wasn’t like that’ and then Turnbull said ‘it was exactly like that and you owe me for it or I’ll tell everyone’. Last I heard was the Deacon saying ‘you’ll have to give me some time’ and Turnbull said ‘you’ve had years to get me my share.’”

  Florence looked at Frances and Frances looked back at her.

  “And this you also decided not to tell the police?” asked Frances.

  “I saw no point. The Deacon was dead, God rest his soul, and Turnbull had left. Now granted, it might have had something to do with the murder but the police had all the evidence they needed.”

  “So you think that Turnbull did it?” asked Frances.

  “Of course, everybody does. He’s the most likely. Now there was a sullen man if ever there was one. Kept to himself, hardly said three words to me the whole month he was here. Ask Peter and Isabel about it.”

  “We plan to,” said Frances. “But for arguments sake, let's pretend that there never was a Carbry Turnbull here at all. Who would you most likely suspect?”

  “The two of them,” said Matilda without having to give it much thought.

  “Which two?” asked Frances.

  “The housekeeper Isabel and the groundskeeper Peter,” she said matter of factly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Well, the two of them carry on if you know what I mean?”

  Walmsley wasn’t looking at Frances or Florence, she was squeezing and manipulating her cut finger.

  “I don’t quite follow,” said Florence.

  “They carry on round back, in the shed, as if nobody is the wiser, but I know it.”

  “You mean they have relations?” asked Florence.

  Walmsley nodded.

  “He’s married and she’s got a gentleman friend, sweet man, and worse than that they’re related. Cousins.”

  Florence looked over at her friend with a raised eyebrow.

  “Really?” asked Florence.

  “Yes,” said Walmsley, looking up at her with a look of distaste on her face as if she’d just sucked on a lemon. “They’re sinners, the two of them, not saints. They have no business working in God’s house.”

  “There are many sins, Ms. Walmsley. And the sin of fornication is different from that of murder,” said Frances. “Other than these sins, what would give you cause to believe the two of them could murder the Deacon.

  “They constantly bicker about it between the two of them, and Peter makes it obvious he doesn’t care for the Deacon at all.”

  “What do they bicker about?” asked Frances.

  “Peter thinks she’s always kowtowing to the Deacon and the priest and he expects her to be more confident and not do everything that they ask. He takes any orders from the Deacon poorly and he’s lazy. The Deacon and he have argued about it before. I once saw him threaten the Deacon with a pitchfork. I have no idea why Father has kept him on all these years.”

  “And where were the two of them between four and five on that September afternoon when the Deacon was murdered?” asked Frances.

  “I have no idea. They weren’t here which is where I was finishing up my work for the day. For all I know, they were out in the shed at it again. Or perhaps murdering the Deacon, though if it were me I’d favor Turnbull over those two as much as I detest them.”

  “So you have no alibi?” asked Florence.

  “No, I suppose not. But I didn’t murder the Deacon even though we had our differences. He was a man of the cloth. But I always say goodbye to Father Fannon when I leave. And I remember saying goodbye to him that day. We spoke for a few minutes.”

  “What sorts of differences did you have with Deacon Millar?” asked Florence.

  “Oh nothing of real importance.”

  “You’ll let us decide what is important if you don’t mind, Ms. Walmsley,” said Frances.

  Walmsley gave Frances a look which she didn’t mind.

  “I didn’t think the Deacon had made a good decision in hiring that drifter Turnbull to come work here for a start.”

  “And why is that?” asked Florence.

  “Because I didn’t like him. Not from the beginning. Wouldn’t look you in the eye, crept around, he’d startle you. Walk right up behind you and wait until you acknowledged him. Scared the living daylights right out of me. Plus he was unkempt. Unruly in appearance.”

  “Do you know where he was from?” asked Frances.

  “Yes, he was Scottish, had a thick accent. Deacon Millar told me they came from the same place. Blairgowrie I believe it was. Small world, isn’t it? A saintly man and a sinner from the same town.”

  “So they knew each other?” asked Florence.

  “No, I shouldn’t think so. Not unless Turnbull was a member of the parish family, and I find that hard to believe. The Deacon never mentioned knowing Turnbull.”

  “So the Deacon served at the Catholic Church there then, did he?” asked Florence.

  “Yes, he did. Was his first appointment as a Deacon he said. I imagine he did good work there. Was St. Nicholas’ Church in Blairgowrie, Scotland. I believe he was there for many years until he came here.”

  “And when was the last time you saw him?” asked Frances.

  “I believe that would have been the Monday of his death. We had lunch tog
ether, the three of us.”

  Frances looked at Walmsley to continue.

  “The Deacon, Father Fannon and I.”

  Frances nodded.

  “Anything related to Turnbull come up over lunch?” asked Frances.

  “Nothing other than Deacon Millar suggesting to Father Fannon that it might be time to let Turnbull go.”

  “And what did Father Fannon have to say about that?”

  “He said that whatever Deacon Millar thought was best was fine with him.”

  “And Turnbull, when was the last time you saw him?” asked Frances.

  “I can’t really recall. Might have been on that Monday, though probably more accurately the Friday.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because on Friday afternoons I like to go strolling through the grounds of the church. Mondays I’m far too busy, so I usually have my walk on Fridays. But as I said, it was a long time ago and I can’t be certain.”

  Frances nodded. She looked over at Florence. Florence shrugged.

  “Is Father Fannon in Ms. Walmsley, we’d really like to talk to him?” asked Frances.

  “He is, but if you’d let me go and see if he’s available to talk with you.”

  She got up and walked down the hallway. This was behind and to her left as she sat at her desk. Frances could see a couple of doors on either side of the hallway and another door at the end of the hallway. She headed to the doorway at the end. Florence turned to look at her friend.

  “Never in all my years here would I have thought such filth was taking place right under our noses.”

  “It’s only when you turn over the polished rocks that the bugs come out,” said Frances.

  “I don’t know what to say,” said Florence. “This carrying on here on the church’s grounds by a married man with his cousin. Is nothing sacred anymore?”

  “Sometimes people are infected with a sickness they don’t know how to cure. But you are right, Flo, one would hope that on such hallowed ground one would not have to play with vermin.”

  Florence shook her head slowly.

  “I’ve a good mind to tell Father just exactly what is going on in Christ’s house.”