The Priest at Puddle's End

by Jason Blacker

  “But isn’t that verse of sparing the rod in the bible?” asked Florence.

  “That’s the crime I believe, that parents have come to think of it as written in scripture, but it isn’t. Not in the New Testament. There are some Old Testament scriptures that would seem to proscribe corporal punishment but I would not trust them. We are a church founded upon the New Testament and Christ was a vessel of love, not of violence.”

  “I always thought it was in the bible,” said Florence.

  “Poem by Samuel Butler, I believe,” offered Frances.

  “Quite right,” said Fannon, smiling, “it is from the poem Hudibras. The quartet is as such: What medicine else can cure the fits/Of lovers when they lose their wits?/Love is a boy by poets styled/Then spare the rod and spoil the child.”

  Florence sipped her tea.

  “That’s an obscure poem to remember,” said Florence.

  “It is, but then it has been my mission to try and encourage parents to discipline their children appropriately. You see, Florence, my father was an evil man, he abused me indiscriminately and it has only been God’s divine will that I never ended up in jail or dead. You see, I know first hand the vileness of the rod and the evil of abuse.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Kane,” said Florence.

  He smiled softly.

  “Sixty years of history has a way of giving one distance from it. What I am trying to make the argument for is in not using corporal punishment on children. To discipline them yes, but without using the rod. I’d also make the suggestion that the rod in the Old Testament was the rod used by shepherds. These shepherds had two tools, the staff and the rod. As you know, we are often compared to sheep and God’s flock. And in the twenty-third Psalm we are told that ‘your rod and your staff comfort me’. The staff was the tool with the crook on the end and was used to rescue sheep who had fallen into a ditch or were otherwise stuck. The rod was used to guide the sheep when corralling them. Sheep were valuable, as are children. Thus shepherds never beat their sheep with these rods, they used them to guide them in the right direction. As such, I argue that the rod here is meant to be used in the same vein. One must guide and discipline children into becoming upstanding members of society but not with beating them.”

  “I admire your passion, Kane,” said Frances. “Both my husband and I have similar beliefs and we have raised both a daughter and son without any corporal punishment, into fine young adults.”

  Fannon nodded.

  “Exactly, and I’d go so far as to suggest it is the only way.”

  Florence put down her empty teacup.

  “Kane, do you know that Isabel and Peter are related?”

  Fannon looked at her without speaking for a moment.

  “Yes, I do, but I’m not sure what that has to do with your investigation.”

  “You’ll forgive me for being indelicate, but if fornication is going on right under your nose then I’m not sure how much you know of anything about the goings-on of your church.”

  Fannon’s face went red and he looked down at his table. His fingers were still tented but he was visibly angry. He took some time to compose himself.

  “Florence,” he said, with an edge to his voice, “you are being more than indelicate, you are trying my patience. If there is nothing else, perhaps you will take your leave.”

  “I’m sorry, Father,” said Frances, “my friend is not trying to insinuate anything at all.”

  “It sure doesn’t sound like it,” he said.

  “But could I ask you. Would it seem possible that Peter and Isabel were carrying on in the shed at the back?”

  Fannon looked at her carefully.

  “I would be surprised,” he said, “though I cannot keep an eye on all of my sheep or staff. Though you can be certain I will put an end to it if you are right.”

  Frances smiled at him and took the last sip of her tea. She put the cup and saucer down on the edge of the table.

  “You’ve been very kind, Kane,” she said. “Could you ever consider the idea that perhaps Peter and/or Isabel might have murdered Deacon Millar?”

  “No, I find that a preposterous idea. Peter might be a little sullen, but he has always followed his orders and done his work diligently. And never in all these years that I’ve known him have I seen him show violence towards anyone.”

  “Except for when he threatened the Deacon with a pitchfork,” suggested Frances. “Perhaps my friend Florence is correct. Perhaps you do not really know what is going on in this very house of worship.”

  Fannon looked at Frances for a long while. She held his gaze.

  “Perhaps you’d like to leave.”

  “Yes,” said Frances, getting up. “We’d like to speak with Isabel and Peter now.”

  Fannon got up and came around to their side of the desk.

  “Follow me,” he said curtly.

  They exited the door that Isabel had come in through. They went left through a long hallway and then came out to a waiting area with what must have been a rear entrance to the back of the church and its grounds outside. Off to the right was a kitchen which took up most of the back of the church and was accessible to the other side of the church by a door. There was another French door at the far side of the kitchen which opened up to the grounds. Isabel was cooking something in a big pot on the stove. It smelt delicious. A soup of some kind.

  “Isabel,” said Fannon as they walked towards her. She had not noticed them come in. She looked over at them and smiled meekly.

  “Yes Father,” she said, not holding his gaze.

  “You’ll remember Lady Marmalade and Ms. Hudnall. They’re here now to ask you some questions about the Deacon’s murder in twenty-nine. Answer them, and then send them onto Peter.”

  “Yes Father,” she said.

  Fannon left. Slaughter smiled at Florence and Frances meekly. She didn’t say anything.

  “That smells lovely,” said Frances. “What are you cooking? Is it a curry?”

  “Mulligatawny soup,” said Slaughter, just glancing at Frances. “It is Father’s favorite. I always make it on Fridays.”

  “With lamb or beef?”

  “Lamb. That’s what he prefers.”

  “Smells delicious, you must be a very good cook.”

  Slaughter smiled quickly.

  “May we sit and talk?” asked Frances.

  Slaughter nodded. She went over to the pot and gave it a stir and then turned the heat down to low.

  Off to the side was a wooden kitchen table with wooden chairs. Frances and Florence sat down at it. Frances on the one side, Florence with her back to the window and Slaughter sat facing outside.

  “I imagine you do remember the murder of Deacon Millar,” said Frances.

  Slaughter nodded. She looked outside through the windows behind Florence.

  “Hard to forget something like that, my Lady,” she said.

  “Please call me Frances. When was the last time you saw Deacon Millar alive?”

  “It would have been on the Monday afternoon. Peter takes his tea out by the shed during the summer and that’s usually around three thirty to four o’clock.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, I remember taking him his tea and sandwich and I went down there,” said Slaughter, pointing towards the shed, “and I saw that Carbry and Deacon Millar were by the tree out there talking. Carbry had the spade in his hands. They didn’t seem happy. I stayed and talked with Peter for a while and Deacon Millar and Carbry got more angry. When I came up back to the church they hushed down. That was the last time I saw either of them.”

  “Did you hear what they were arguing about?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “Now Isabel, it’s very important that you be honest with me. I’ve spoken with Sergeant Potts and he tells me that you heard them arguing and that you overhead what they were arguing about. What was it?”

  Slaughter looked down at her dress and fiddled with her fingers.

  “I’d hea
rd them argue before and that’s when I’d heard Carbry asking for money from the Deacon.”

  “Why did he want money?”

  Slaughter gave a small little shrug as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders.

  “I’m not sure. It sounded to me from the little bit I heard that he felt that Deacon Millar owed him money. Maybe he hadn’t been paid in a while. We get paid weekly you know.”

  “I see, and you’ve always been paid on time?”

  “Yes, ma’am, for as long as I’ve been here.”

  “And how long has that been?”

  “I’ve been a housekeeper for Father since I was eighteen. That’s almost thirty years.”

  Slaughter blushed a little, perhaps embarrassed by her age.

  “I understand Peter has been here that long as well?”

  Slaughter nodded and smiled.

  “You like Peter?”

  She looked up at Lady Marmalade and blushed again.

  “We’re just friends,” she said as if she’d been asked something different.

  Frances smiled and nodded.

  “Did it come as a shock to you when Deacon Millar was murdered?”

  Slaughter nodded her head vigorously.

  “Yes ma’am,” she said. “He was a good and kind man. All of us loved him, especially the children. He had no enemies.”

  “There is no one then who you can think of that would have wanted him dead?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “And yet everyone thinks that Carbry did it. Do you?”

  Slaughter shrugged again, looking down at her knitted hands.

  “It seems so, ma’am,” she said. “Can’t think of nobody else. I mean I saw them arguing and so it seems he would have done it. The doctor said as much at the inquest.”

  “What time do you usually leave here each day?”

  “About five. Sometimes a little later. I get supper ready for Father and leave it so he just has to warm it up.”

  “And do you remember what time you left on Monday the ninth of September 1929.”

  “I can’t say for certain, ma’am. But it would have been around five.”

  “And you leave out back, from the kitchen?”

  “No, ma’am, I close the curtains in the kitchen and then I leave out the front.”

  “And when you closed the curtains you didn’t see Deacon Millar down by the tree outside?”

  “No, ma’am, the sun sets down in that direction and it's pretty blinding in the late afternoon. Hard to see anything out these windows then.”

  “And when you left, you didn’t see anybody else loitering around the church?”

  “No, ma’am, I mean there was some men walking home from work I suppose or walking towards town and the pubs but they kept to themselves.”

  “Thank you, Isabel,” said Frances. “Can you tell us where we might find Mr. Bolton.”

  Slaughter pointed down towards the end of the grounds to the left from where they sat. It was a largish tool shed, on the opposite side of where the graveyard and tree was where Millar had been murdered.

  “I can take you, ma’am.”

  “No thank you, dear,” said Frances. “We’ll find our own way. You take care of the soup.”

  Frances and Florence got up and nodded at her. Florence walked over to the French doors and opened them up. They exited the kitchen. They stood just outside for a moment taking in the scene.

  “That’s where the Deacon was found, I believe,” said Florence pointing down towards the graveyard and large tree to their right.

  “I have a feeling Isabel was lying about what she saw,” said Frances.

  “On that Monday in twenty-nine?”

  Frances nodded.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I can’t be. It was just the way she said it. The way she looked. I think she never saw the Deacon and Turnbull arguing that day. I think she was in the shed with Bolton and likely came back out before the Deacon was murdered, by Turnbull or whomever.”

  “That will be hard to prove.”

  “Yes, but perhaps we won’t have to.”

  Frances started walking towards the shed. The two doors were open. It was a brick built shed with a small window on this side of it as they walked towards it across the large grounds. The window was towards the back. When they got to it, Frances knocked on the outside door.

  “Hello,” she said.

  She peered inside but it was dark inside even with the windows and it took her eyes a few moments to adjust. A small, thin man with wavy black hair that was starting to gray came towards them. He was carrying a small trowel.

  “Who are you?” he said. He had bad teeth and a permanent scowl on his face.

  “This is Lady Marmalade, and I’m Florence Hudnall. We’re here to talk to you about the Deacon’s murder in twenty-nine.”

  “A bit late, don’t you think?” He turned around and walked back into the shed. “If you want to talk you’ll have to come in here. I’m busy.”

  They followed him into the shed. He stood at the very back against a table that took up the whole back wall. Above the table was a small window facing out that looked into brush and unkempt meadowland. The window was the same size as the one which was now on Frances’ left as she looked at the back of Bolton. There was a similar window on her right. Under all windows were tables. The one on the left was filled with bits of sanded and chiseled wood as well as tools. The table on her right was empty, and its surface smoother than the others. On the floor by this table towards the door were a couple of bolts and screws and a screwdriver that had fallen off.

  Frances’ eyes adjusted and she looked down at the edge of the table. On the corner was a splintered piece that looked to contain a piece of cloth. On closer inspection it looked most similar to what could only be considered women’s knickers. Florence followed Frances’ eyes and nodded at her. They looked back up at the back of Bolton. He was working on filling some pots with soil that he had in a heap in a wheelbarrow. He craned his neck to look at them but it was more gesture than anything else.

  “Cat got your tongue?” he said.

  Frances didn’t like him, but what he didn’t know was that she didn’t find him as brash as he thought himself to be.

  “Can you tell me where you were when the Deacon was murdered?”

  “Dunno,” he said, “I wasn’t out here though that’s for certain. If I was out back I would’ve seen him, wouldn’t I? So I must have been out front. I take care of all the grounds, you know. And there’s flowers and hedges that need tending out front, in case you didn’t see. What time was he killed then?”

  “It was between four and five,” said Frances.

  “Well like I said, I must’ve been out front, ‘cos I didn’t see anything or anybody here.”

  “And what time do you usually leave work?”

  “I usually leave around five, me and Isabel walk home together. We have the same route. So I walk her home.”

  “Ms. Slaughter didn’t mention that,” said Frances.

  Bolton was still digging around in the pot and patting down some soil with his back still facing them.

  “Don’t know why she wouldn’t have. Maybe you didn’t ask her the right question.”

  “So you walked Ms. Slaughter home on that Monday afternoon in twenty-nine,” said Frances.

  Bolton turned around and wiped his brow with his forearm’s shirt. He still held the trowel.

  “Would you mind putting the trowel down?” asked Frances. He put the trowel down behind him on the table.

  “Now how the hell would I remember a specific day like that back seventeen years?”

  “Because a man was murdered that afternoon,” said Frances.

  “Listen, I didn’t know it at the time, did I, that he was murdered?”

  “So you don’t have an alibi,” said Florence.

  Bolton looked at her and licked his thin lips.

  “Don’t need one. The only person who’s been cha
rged is Turnbull, right, and that’s what the inquest shown.”

  “That’s correct,” said Frances, “though it would help if you had an alibi, especially if this case gets reopened.”

  Bolton scuffed his shoe across the floor of the shed which was covered with a layer of soil.

  “Well, ask Isabel again, if she’s got that good of a memory then she’ll remember me walking her home, which I believe I would’ve done.”

  Bolton turned to add soil into his pots. He grabbed the trowel and stuck it into the heaping pile of soil in the wheelbarrow.

  “Is this the same wheelbarrow that would have been used in twenty-nine?” asked Florence.

  “Yes. It’s a fine wheelbarrow, no need to change it.”

  “Can you tell me, Mr. Bolton,” said Frances, “what you usually do at the end of your day?”

  “I go home.”

  “If it’ll make you more comfortable to answer my questions with Sergeant Noble present, I can arrange it.”

  Bolton leaned on the edge of the table and huffed. He put the trowel down again and turned around.

  “No need for that,” he said. “I’m happy to answer your questions, ‘cos I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Well then?” said Frances.

  “I close up the shed, put the tools away and do one last look over the grounds.”

  “You put all your tools away? Wheelbarrow, spade, everything?”

  “That’s right. Everything. We don’t have a lot but what we have fits in here, and if you don’t treat your tools right you make your work harder. I learned that from Mr. Brogan.”

  “He was the groundskeeper before you?”

  Bolton nodded and looked off to the side.

  “Good man,” he said. “One of the few good men I ever met in my life. Taught me everything I know. Died too young.”

  Bolton broke his reminiscing and looked back at Frances.