“Rain’s terrible for tools. Makes them rust and then it’s a terrible job to bring them back to working order.”
“So on that Monday, you would have put away your tools before you left and surveyed the grounds and this would have been around five pm?” asked Frances.
“Yeah, that sounds about right.”
“And yet you never saw the Deacon out by the tree near the graveyard, dead?”
Bolton looked at her for a while and furrowed his brow.
“No, ma’am, I didn’t.”
Frances was playing with him, trying to make him uncomfortable on purpose.
“How would you explain that?” she asked.
Bolton looked down at the ground, kicked some soil with the toe of his shoe and rubbed his forearm across his forehead.
“I dunno, maybe I left early that day or maybe he was murdered later than they say.”
He looked back up at her.
“Listen,” he said, “I didn’t kill him, that’s the God’s honest truth. I might not have liked him, but I didn’t kill him.”
“Why didn’t you like him?” asked Florence.
“He wasn’t the kind of man he was supposed to be,” said Bolton. “Neither is the priest if I’m to be honest.”
“Just like you aren’t?”
Bolton looked at Florence.
“Sinning and fornicating with your cousin as a married man on God’s hallowed grounds,” said Florence.
Frances grabbed her friend’s forearm gently.
“I… I am not,” he said, looking away.
“The evidence suggests otherwise,” said Frances. “Here’s some caught cloth that can only be from women’s underwear,” she said, pointing at the corner of the table where a small piece of white cloth was caught on a splinter.
“And here,” she said, pointing to the floor just in front of the table. “Clearly these are the shoe prints, recent, of a man and a woman. The woman’s facing the man’s.”
And in the soil you could make out such impressions on the thin layer. Bolton looked at them.
“Bloody hell,” he cursed under his breath. He moved over slightly and rubbed the impressions out with this shoe.
“You don’t deny it?” asked Florence.
“It’s got nothing to do with the murder. We’re adults.”
“You’re sinners,” said Florence. “You’re married and she’s your cousin.”
“I ain’t ever pretended to be something else. I am a sinner. I’ve been a sinner all my life. But that house up there,” he said, pointing towards the church, “might be the house of God but the devil’s working inside it. I might be a sinner, God forgive me,” he said as he crossed himself, “but I ain’t committed a crime.”
“You’re making strong allegations against God,” said Florence.
“What do you mean by the devil’s working in the church?” asked Frances, trying to moderate Florence’s disgust.
“I’ve got nothing more to say about it, ma’am. I ain’t saying no more. I’m grateful for my job. There’s a lot of men come home from the war and needing work. At least I got this. That’s all I got.”
He paused for a moment.
“And my sinning,” he said quietly. “God forgive me.”
“God forgives sinners who repent,” said Florence, “who turn away from sin. Looks to me like you’ve got years of sinning under you.”
“I’m not well,” he said, tearing up, “I know I’m a sinner but I just can’t help myself. There’s something wrong up here.”
He was facing them and had picked up the trowel and was tapping the side of his head with it. Florence got worried he might thrust it right into his skull.
“God has a great capacity to forgive,” said Frances, “you just have to try. Please put down the trowel.”
Bolton wiped his eyes and put the trowel back down.
“Now Isabel tells us that she usually brings you afternoon tea between three thirty and four,” said Frances.
Bolton nodded.
“And that on the Monday, that’s the day the Deacon was murdered, she brought it to you at the usual time and you sat together for a few minutes and she said that she saw the Deacon and Turnbull by the tree arguing.”
Bolton nodded.
“Is that what happened?”
“Yes,” he said.
“But I don’t think that’s what happened,” said Frances. “Is it?”
Bolton said nothing.
“I think that what happens is that Isabel brings you tea in here and you visit inside the shed.”
“Fornicating,” said Florence, unable to help herself.
Bolton looked down at the floor. He shrugged.
“I dunno, my Lady, I just dunno anymore.”
“Think,” said Frances.
“It’s true we visit in here. Not always but often. But I don’t remember seeing the two of them arguing on that Monday. Not specifically. I mean I know they argued, but I can’t recall on that day.”
“What did you hear them argue about?” asked Frances.
“Mostly it seemed to be about money. Seemed like Turnbull thought he wasn’t getting paid what he was owed. But that’s funny ‘cos I’ve never had a problem getting my pay every week.”
“Was that all it seemed to be about?”
Bolton nodded.
“He wasn’t here a long time. But the couple of times I heard them arguing was about him being owed by the Deacon and the Deacon saying he’d get it to him. Though he was a strange man that Turnbull.”
Frances found that humorous coming from Bolton who was himself pretty odd.
“In what way?” she asked.
“He seemed awful familiar with the Deacon, but maybe that was his way. I know I could never get away with that kind of behavior. Looking at the two of them you’d think they were mates, not the best of mates but like they were equals. And he wasn’t the Deacon’s equal, I mean the Deacon employed him. Both me and him got our orders from the Deacon usually, and he’s acting like he’s the equal. Too familiar if you ask me.”
“I see,” said Frances. “Turnbull was here for about a month, is that right?”
Bolton nodded.
“As far as I remember. Seems about right. He wasn’t here a long time. Kept to himself mostly, hardly said more than a handful of words to me all that time. Always ate by himself.”
“Was he a good worker?”
“Seemed to be alright. I never had to ask him twice to do anything. He mostly trimmed the hedges and the bushes, mowed the lawn, weeded the graveyard.”
“Did he steal anything from here?” asked Frances.
Bolton looked around a bit as if to remember the past.
“Not that I recall. I don’t think he was that handy with tools. I had to show him how to use the mower a couple of times before he got it right.”
He pointed to the mower which was on the other side of him from the wheelbarrow full of soil.
“That’s not the original one,” he said, “this one’s new.”
Frances nodded. She had no interest in lawn mowing or lawn mowers for that matter.
“And you were the one to find the body?” asked Frances.
“That’s right. When I get here in the mornings at eight I take a look around the grounds to see what my priorities are. Mr. Brogan taught me that.”
Frances nodded in encouragement.
“And I saw him lying down by the tree…”
Bolton stopped for a moment and then his eyes opened wider.
“Yes, that’s it. He was by the tree, but the spade and the wheelbarrow were there. I must’ve not put them away the night before. That’s right. I think Isabel was in a rush to go home the day before and I must have been out front and just left when she was ready.”
Frances nodded.
“That’s probably what happened.”
“Though I remember now. As I was coming from the far side, this side by the shed, towards the graveyard I couldn’t quite make it o
ut. I thought at first the Deacon’s body was part of all the broken bits of the gravestones that Turnbull was supposed to be cleaning up. Them and the wheelbarrow were blocking the view almost completely.”
Bolton looked up at them and smiled.
“I remember that now, very clearly.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Frances. “Did you touch the Deacon’s body at all, or move anything around?”
“No ma’am. I was quite taken by the shock of it all as you can imagine. The Deacon was lying there flopped over by the wheelbarrow and the side of his head was all bashed in and bloody. A piece of gray headstone was near the head and it had blood on it. I left them and ran up to the rectory and got Father Fannon up. He called the police.”
Frances nodded. She knew the rest. She looked at Florence. She had no more questions.
“If I can offer one small piece of advice, Mr. Bolton,” said Frances.
Bolton nodded.
“If one is sincere in attempting to overcome one’s sins, then perhaps one should stay away from the very temptation that causes one to sin.”
Bolton nodded.
“Yes ma’am,” he said.
“Is there anything else you’d like to mention that you might think is important?”
Bolton shook his head.
“Nothing you’d like to mention as to why you think the Devil is at work in the church?”
Bolton looked up at her guiltily.
“No, ma’am, I was just upset is all. I get angry sometimes, say things I shouldn’t.”
Frances looked at him for a while. He looked down at the floor and scuffed his shoe on it.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Bolton,” she said, “we’ll leave you to your work.”
Bolton looked up at her.
“Turnbull did it,” he said. “I’m sure of it. It was proven in the inquest too.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Well if you’re asking if I seen him did it, then no I didn’t. But you could tell he was the type. The way he argued with the Deacon. The way he thought he was equal to him. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t looking. He was a quiet man but it was more than that. He was unhappy, seemed to me. And then the next day when I found the Deacon he’s gone, isn’t he? Hasn’t been seen since. I’d put a week’s wages it was him.”
Frances nodded.
“Thank you, Mr. Bolton.”
She and Florence turned around to leave.
“If you find him, I bet he’ll confess. Gotta be weighing on his conscience all these years.”
Frances nodded and walked out of the shed. She and Florence walked up towards the church, this time on the right as they looked at it.
“I want to see what’s behind the bushes outside Father Fannon’s office.”
Florence nodded and walked with her. As they made their way up to that side of the church, there was a long hedgerow all the way down the church’s grounds on their right, all the way down and then it turned at ninety degrees to run along up to the end of the shed.
“You don’t want to take a look at the graveyard?” asked Florence.
“I think we should let sleeping ghosts lie, my dear Flo. Besides, I’m sure that graveyard is not the same as it was seventeen years ago.”
Up against the back of the church were clumps of bushes that faced out towards the grounds. They turned up along the side of the church as Frances and Florence walked up it. The side of the church was narrow between the wall, the bushes and the hedgerow. You might be able to drive a car down it but that was about all. It was well kept and neat, with a stone path down the middle of it. Frances stopped just as she was at the corner of the church and the path. She turned and looked back down.
“You can see the graveyard and the tree from here, Flo,” she said.
Florence stood next to her and looked.
“Not well though, unless I was carefully spying, I’d be hard pressed to tell you who might be down there.”
Frances nodded.
“The distance is great. But perhaps that Lewis boy saw something if he was down here with his dog.”
“You mean if he wasn’t murdering the Deacon,” said Florence.
“Yes, if he wasn’t murdering the Deacon, though we need a motive, don’t we?”
They walked up the side of the church on the path. Over the hedgerow was the rectory. A small home that most likely only held two bedrooms. The home of the priest and perhaps at one time the Deacon. At the end of the path where it opened up to the front of the church grounds was a gap in the hedgerow with a path that led from the church’s main entrance back to the rectory.
“Speaking of motive,” said Florence, “I am sincerely starting to believe that maybe that disgusting groundskeeper did it.”
“Why, Flo?” asked Frances.
“Well, he’s clearly a man driven by his baser instincts, and if you ask me, a man like that, fornicating with his cousin, committing adultery is a man who could easily slip down the slippery slope of sin and land up murdering.”
“All men are fallen, Florence, but not all of them end up in the manure,” said Frances.
“So you don’t think he did it?” asked Florence.
“He’s not the best suspect at the moment. If I might offer some advice, Flo,” said Frances, waiting to see if her friend wanted any. Florence nodded. “The key to being a good sleuth, Flo, is to not let your prejudices get in the way of your sleuthing.”
“But he’s a vile man,” she said in protest.
“He might well be a vile man, but he is not a criminal. Nothing he’s done, as much as you might detest it is illegal.”
“It isn’t?”
Frances shook her head.
“I’m afraid not. Sleeping with your cousin and being an adulterer are not illegal.”
“Well, they should be.”
“Unfortunately, my dear Flo, you can’t legislate manners or morality.”
SEVEN
The Flying Blizzard
THE Flying Blizzard was a cozy pub. At five in the afternoon, it wasn’t yet that busy. Florence had driven the two of them up in her car. There was a small parking lot at the back where she had parked. It had five stalls and only one had been taken. Inside it was warmly lit but it took them a moment for their eyes to adjust. Galen Teel was behind the bar. He smiled at her and waved them over.
“How are you, Florence?” he asked her.
Frances put him in his early fifties. He was a stocky man of average height, balding on the top with a well-kept, neat beard.
“It’s good to see you again, Galen. I’d like you to meet my friend Lady Marmalade.”
“A real Lady?” he asked, shaking her hand. Frances nodded.
“Please call me Frances,” she said.
“I will do, Frances, thank you. Can’t say I’ve ever had the pleasure of serving a real Lady at The Flying Blizzard.”
“It’s a lovely pub you have,” she said.
“Been here since the early seventeen hundreds,” he said. “My father brought it from a fellow in 1895, the year I was born. It’s all I’ve known.”
A young woman, fairly plain with dark brown hair that was put up in victory rolls joined Galen Teel. She was only a few inches shorter than him and slim. She was likely in her early to mid-twenties. He looked over at her and smiled.
“This is my daughter Harmonie. She’s helping out here. Harmonie, you remember Ms. Hudnall, and this is her friend Lady Marmalade.”
They exchanged introductions.
“Are you a real Lady?” asked Harmonie.
“I am,” she said, smiling, the young woman seemed quite enthralled. “I am, accurately speaking, a Marchioness, a Countess, a Viscountess and of course a Baroness.”
“Good Lord, Daddy,” she said, looking at Galen, “this is quite the honor. Did you know there are only thirty-four Marquesses and Marchionesses in the whole of England.”
Galen smiled at his daughter and squeezed her around the shoulder.
“I did not know that,” he said.
“What’s your full title, my Lady?” asked Harmonie.
“I will tell you on one condition,” said Frances, smiling at the young woman.
“Anything,” she said.
“That you call me Frances from now on.”
“Oh, I could never, that would be disrespectful,” said Harmonie.
“Nonsense, not if I’ve asked you.”
“Alright,” said Harmonie.
“Well, my dear, my full title would be The Most Honorable Frances Marchioness of Sandown.”
Harmonie grinned from ear to ear.
“It is such a pleasure to meet you, my Lady, um, Frances,” she said.
“Have you come for supper?” asked Galen.
“We thought we would have a small meal. But we want to ask you about some history around Puddle’s End if you’ve got a few minutes to spare?” asked Florence.
“You’ve been here a long time, Florence, I’m not sure I know more than you do. But yes, I can spend a few minutes reminiscing.”
Galen took down their orders, writing it on a slip of paper with his left hand. Frances ordered the chicken pie and Florence had the fish and chips. Galen gave the slip to Harmonie.
“Could you give this to your mother,” he said, “and ask Holme to attend bar for a short while.”
She nodded, smiled at Lady Marmalade and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Let’s sit,” said Galen, extending his arm out towards the booths on the one side of the wall. Florence led the way. She and Frances got into the same side of the booth and Galen took the opposite end.
“You’ve been here before, have you not?” asked Galen, looking at Frances. Frances nodded.
“Several times actually, Florence and I share a long history. We know each other from school.”
“Wonderful,” said Galen, “wonderful. I never managed to keep in touch with friends from that long ago. Seems that most of the children who grow up in Puddle’s End want to leave for the big cities. I like it here. Met my wife Lottie at school as it happens.”
“You’ve been together a long time then I imagine,” said Frances.
Galen smiled.
“Almost thirty-one years without a fight,” he said.
The Priest at Puddle's End Page 8
