The Priest at Puddle's End

by Jason Blacker

Shan Beake made no attempt to get up out of her chair, so Frances and Florence showed themselves out, shutting the door behind them. They walked towards the car.

  “God, I thought I’d choke to death in there,” said Florence.

  “That’s why we’re leaving Flo. I couldn’t take another moment inside.”

  “She wasn’t very helpful was she?” asked Florence.

  “Not particularly, and I can’t decide if it was purposeful or just plain ignorant. Did Tillie really not share much with her or did she just not want to tell us? And all we have are a list of suspects that keep getting added to by the minute.”

  “And they are?”

  “Let’s see if you can tell me, Flo,” said Frances, smiling at her old friend.

  “Alright. There’s the stag him. Kept her hand on his back as he continued to purr.

  “You know what else is strange?” asked Shan.

  Florence shook her head.

  “That Teel girl, Harmonie coming to church on Sunday afternoon for bible study.”

  “Why is that strange?” asked Frances.

  “Well, I’ve attended Sunday bible study every Sunday almost without fail for twenty years and I’ve never seen her there once.”

  “She said she wanted to renew her faith,” offered Florence.

  “Yes, well, we’ll see won’t we then, if she comes back next week.”

  The three of them didn’t say anything for a while. Shan lit up another cigarette. Frances wasn’t sure how it would fit in the ashtray at the rate she was smoking.

  “She offered me a ride home on Sunday. Tillie wasn’t there. Said she had some cleaning to do at home. I’m not far from church but I can’t walk like I used to.”

  Frances and Florence nodded.

  “All the way home she kept asking me about Tillie.”

  “What sorts of things?” asked Florence.

  “If she knew what sorts of things went on at the church. I told her that Tillie was probably quite aware of the church’s administration, after all I said, that was her job. But I don’t think that was the answer she was after. She kept asking if there were other things that Tillie was aware of. Some of the church’s failings. I asked her what she meant. But she shrugged it off. Said she’d heard there’d been some problems at the church.”

  “She didn’t say what sort of problems?” asked Florence.

  Shan inhaled on her cigarette and shook her head.

  “We’ve heard that some have mentioned the devil at work in the church. Do you know what that might be about?”

  Shan looked at them quizzically as smoke trailed out her nose.

  “No, and I’m sure Tillie wouldn’t have put up with anything like that at all. She was a good Catholic woman. I don’t know why anyone would say such detestable things about God’s home.”

  “Perhaps you just aren’t aware as some of the others are,” said Florence.

  “I like to keep my nose out of other people’s business,” said Shan. “Nobody likes a nosy neighbor, do they?”

  Frances nodded politely. The atmosphere was getting suffocating and was all from the smoke. She wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

  “Perhaps Tillie knew some of the difficult things that were going on in the church, and perhaps that’s what got her killed?” offered Frances.

  Shan tapped ash into the ashtray. Some had fallen onto her sweater and some had landed on the top of Hairy’s head. It looked as if he’d just come back from service on Ash Wednesday.

  “I can tell you this,” said Shan. “If Tillie knew anything shady was going on she wouldn’t have stood for it. That I can promise you.”

  “So other than perhaps the staff of the church, you can’t think of anyone who might have wanted to kill her?” asked Frances, trying to wrap this up.

  “Well, I don’t like the Teels and neither did Tillie.”

  “You surely can’t believe that Harmonie might have murdered her, do you?” asked a genuinely surprised Florence.

  Shan looked at her for a while taking a long inhale on her cigarette.

  “Who knows what people are capable of, but I can tell you this. She was helping Doctor Fitzgibbins this past summer and there was a mix up in medication and a poor lady almost perished because of it. Maybe it was accidental or maybe it was intentional. But there’s that.”

  “Hardly a solid condemnation of murder,” said Florence.

  Shan shrugged it off like a loose towel.

  “Not for me to prove any of this, but for the police to find out who did it.”

  Frances stood up. She’d had quite enough of the suffocation.

  “Thank you very much for your time, Ms. Beake. You’ve been most helpful.”

  Florence stood up.

  “Yes indeed.”

  “Well, make sure you catch whoever did it and make them pay,” she said.

  Shan Beake made no attempt to get up out of her chair, so Frances and Florence showed themselves out, shutting the door behind them. They walked towards the car.

  “God, I thought I’d choke to death in there,” said Florence.

  “That’s why we’re leaving, Flo. I couldn’t take another moment inside.”

  “She wasn’t very helpful, was she?” asked Florence.

  “Not particularly, and I can’t decide if it was purposeful or just plain ignorant. Did Tillie really not share much with her or did she just not want to tell us? And all we have are a list of suspects that keep getting added to by the minute.”

  “And they are?”

  “Let’s see if you can tell me, Flo,” said Frances, smiling at her old friend.

  “Alright. There’s the staff who keep on coming up. Isabel and Peter, and now she’s added the Teels into the mix for good measure. And let’s not discount the priest while we’re at it. He’s been around at both murders, hasn’t he? And then there’s that Colin Lewis chap too. I think that’s all I can think of.”

  “Yes, and except for the Teel children, they all might have been involved in the Deacon’s murder too. In that they were all of adult age. Who do you think did it, Flo?”

  “Well, I’ll stick with Turnbull for the Deacon’s murder as the inquest suggested he was the one, and until we’ve got evidence to suggest otherwise, why not bet on the favorite. As for Matilda’s, that’s harder. I can’t say I know really. If I had to point fingers at anyone, I’d have to say it was Isabel.”

  “Why do you choose her?”

  “She’s the one with the best opportunity, isn’t she? She’s got no alibi, in that she was at the women’s study group and she had access to the tea. In fact, she made Matilda’s tea every morning. Who else would have known how Matilda liked it?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to argue that it was a Vatican secret that Matilda only drank mint tea in the mornings. I’m sure that anyone visiting would have known that just by smelling it in the room.”

  “True. And yet Isabel is the one who buys the tea and prepares it.”

  “Unless of course someone used her as a vector to poison Matilda with tea. We’ll have to wait until we hear back from the toxicology findings. But you’re right, Flo, Isabel does not look innocent, even if she is. And let’s not discount Kane Fannon.”

  Florence looked at her friend for a moment, not sure what to make of the comment. Was she serious or was she joking. It looked like Frances was serious.

  “Really?”

  Frances nodded.

  “He has been around for both murders,” said Frances.

  “Yes, but, well, I was joking when I mentioned him in passing,” said Florence. “You… you don’t really suspect him do you, Fran?”

  “One must not discount the wolf just because he wears sheep’s clothing.”

  Florence furrowed her brow.

  “That would shatter every belief of mine I’ve ever held about good and evil,” she said.

  Frances patted her friend’s forearm.

  “And it would be the first time I’ve ever known a priest to co
mmit murder. I am not suggesting he did it, Flo, only that we cannot rule him out just because of his station.”

  “Very well then.”

  ELEVEN

  The Confessional Gallows

  TUESDAY morning the phone rang at seven thirty. Frances and Florence were both up and just sitting down to breakfast with toast, and of course Lady Marmalade’s world-famous marmalade. The day was promising clear skies and sunshine. Frances wasn’t sure about any clarity for the case, but she welcomed spring sunshine at any rate. This afternoon, Chief Inspector Devlin Pearce, a dear friend of Lady Marmalade’s was coming up to Puddle’s End with a Mr. Carbry Turnbull. Today, Lady Marmalade believed, would bring the beginning of closure to this awful mess. Florence got up to answer the phone.

  “Who on Earth could that be at this time of morning?” she said as she went for the phone.

  She stood as she picked up the receiver rather than sitting down. She wasn’t going to be long on the telephone regardless of who it might be.

  “Hello,” she said, raising her eyebrows at Frances as Frances watched.

  “Sergeant Noble, how nice to hear from you. Oh, I see. Yes, that is unpleasant. Really, Father Fannon. Good Lord, how dreadful. Yes, of course we’ll be right over again. I do hope this is the end of this awful business. Goodbye.”

  Florence put down the receiver and stood looking at the floor, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “What is it, Flo?” asked Frances.

  Florence looked up at Frances and came over and sat next to her in a chair.

  “We can exclude one suspect now,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Father Fannon. He’s been murdered.”

  “Good heavens above,” said Frances. “This is awful news. Let’s be off.”

  Florence nodded. She stood up slowly, not feeling her usual self.

  “Are you alright, Flo? Would you like me to drive?”

  Florence nodded. Frances took the car keys, tied a scarf around her head and they headed out the door for yet another murder. Two in two days was not what she had expected.

  “Who would do this?” asked Florence on their way to the church.

  “I don’t know, Flo. Not yet. But we’ll get to the bottom of it. Chief Inspector Pearce will be coming up. I believe today marks a turn in the road for us. I feel certain we’re creeping up on the killer.”

  “First the Deacon and now Father Fannon. Is there nothing sacred on God’s green earth anymore?”

  Frances didn’t have an answer for her so she said nothing. As they got to the church Florence spoke again.

  “I don’t know how you do it, Fran, I just don’t. This would ruin me, all this murder and mayhem and senselessness.”

  “It can be difficult, Flo. But the resolution will give us some fortitude. Hold onto your resolve. It won’t be long now.”

  A bobby was standing guard at the front of the church with his hands clasped behind him.

  “Hello again,” said Frances as she approached.

  “Just inside on the right, my Lady, where the confessional is,” he said.

  They walked in and just through the foyer into the church on the right-hand side was the confessional. The church only had the one. Two doors side by side, placed apart by a six inch piece of wood. They were wooden and looked the size of two outhouses stuck together. Sergeant Noble was leaning into the first one. His hands pushing on the bench where the penitent would sit to confess. This caused the red light above the door to go on indicating that a parishioner was taking confession. The door where the priest would enter to sit was open but it did not afford Frances a view inside.

  “Good morning, Sergeant,” she said.

  Noble backed out of the confessional and the red light above the door turned off. He wasn’t smiling.

  “This is grim, Frances,” he said. “You might want to steel yourself.”

  Florence put her hand to her mouth.

  “What happened?” asked Frances.

  “He was stabbed through the wooden screen with what looks like a filleting knife.”

  “That’s awful,” said Florence, reeling and visibly upset.

  “Perhaps you can wait here?” said Frances, handing her her handbag. Florence took it for something to do.

  “May I, Sergeant?” asked Frances.

  He put out his hand and turned sideways to her.

  “It’s a bloody mess,” he said. “You’ve been warned.”

  Frances nodded and stepped into the confessional. The door was still open and there was ample light to see what had happened. Frances sat down on the bench in the confessional and looked over to her right. The black handle of the filleting knife was sticking out towards her at head height. It had been pushed through a gap in the crisscrossed wooden screen and right into the brain of Father Fannon through his ear.

  The filleting knife was no thicker at any point than her thumb. Father Fannon’s head was slumped up against the screen with the rest of his body. If you took the knife away, it looked as if he were leaning in to hear confession better.

  Frances walked out of the confessional, and walked to the other door. She noticed now that both doors had been kept open by joining each other together with twine. She also noticed that both handles on the doors had been dusted for fingerprints already.

  Frances didn’t step into the priest’s side of the confessional. There wasn’t room and she didn’t fancy getting that close to the body. She noticed that he was dressed in black slacks and a black shirt which was unbuttoned at the top. He wasn’t wearing his clerical collar. He also had on slip-on black shoes.

  Frances turned away and rejoined Sergeant Noble and Florence.

  “How are you feeling, Flo?” she asked.

  “Not very well,” she said.

  “Why don’t you have a seat somewhere further away and I’ll come and get you when we’re ready to leave.”

  Florence nodded gratefully. Frances took her handbag back and Florence walked into one of the pews and sat down as far away as possible.

  “Dreadful,” said Frances. “Simply dreadful.”

  Sergeant Noble looked at her steadily.

  “I see you’ve got a stomach for this sort of thing,” he said.

  “I’ve developed one over the years, Charles. Sadly, I have seen worse. I have not however, seen a priest murdered. That is stooping to a level of evil I have not known before.”

  Noble nodded.

  “It almost feels like a curse, doesn’t it? First the Deacon some years ago and now the priest.”

  “Speaking of which, Charles. I have heard mention, by more than one person, that the devil is at work in this house of God. That is plain to see over the last two days, but this was said to me before these murders occurred. Do you have any idea what it might be about?”

  Noble shook his head.

  “Can’t say I do. I’m Anglican myself so I have no knowledge of what goes on here at St. Francis.”

  “Who found him?”

  Noble looked past Frances and past the confessional towards the front of the church where Peter Bolton kneeled at the bye-altar. Noble nodded his head in that direction.

  “Peter Bolton did. I’m beginning to wonder if it isn’t the staff who’re behind these two murders. First Matilda Walmsley who’s found by Isabel Slaughter, and now Father Kane Fannon found by the groundskeeper Peter Bolton. Though Peter seems to have an alibi for this one.”

  “He does?”

  “Yes. I’m assuming this murder took place late last night in which case Bolton said he was at the pub. We’ll check on that alibi of course.”

  “Dr. Toft hasn’t arrived yet, has he?” asked Frances, not seeing him around anywhere.

  Noble shook his head.

  “Said he’d be a bit behind on this one. He has to find room in his offices for another dead body. As you can imagine, this doesn’t often happen here in Puddle’s End.”

  Frances nodded.

  “You haven’t dusted the knife yet I s
ee.”

  “Not until we get it back from Dr. Toft, then we’ll do it. He doesn’t like us to interfere with the body until he’s had a chance to look at it.”

  “Did you get any prints on the handles to the confessional?”

  “Perhaps a partial on the confessor’s door, and a few on the priest’s door which I’m assuming will be Father Fannon’s. I think our killer was probably wearing gloves.”

  “What gives you that impression?”

  “There were no fingerprints right around the middle of the handle as you’d expect if you naturally opened the door suggesting to me that the murderer was either wearing gloves or using a cloth to cover up his prints, and I’d rather go with gloves. The partial we found was up towards the top of the handle suggesting it hadn’t been rubbed away by the gloves. Noticed the same on the entrance door to the church.”

  “Which side?”

  “The right hand door,” said Noble. “The left we got good fingerprints from which probably aren’t going to be the murderer’s.”

  Frances nodded.

  “This would suggest the murderer is right-handed then,” said Frances.

  Noble nodded.

  “It would.”

  “Which means we are likely looking for someone different from who killed the Deacon.”

  “I don’t follow,” said Noble.

  “The Deacon was hit on the left side of the head suggesting someone left-handed struck him from behind…”

  “Or he was struck from the front by a right handed person.”

  Frances shook her head.

  “No, we likely would have found some sort of defensive wounds, or he might have tried to duck if he’d seen it coming. Additionally, the blow was further towards the back of the head which would have been extremely difficult to get to if being struck from the front. It was a single, fatal blow from someone standing behind him. What did the inquest suggest?”

  Noble shrugged.

  “I don’t remember that part. You’ll have to check. Though I’ll take your word for it.”

  “And if that is indeed the case, we’re looking for a right-handed killer of the priest who has to be different from the murderer of the Deacon.”

  “Which would suggest that Turnbull was the man who killed the Deacon.”