The Priest at Puddle's End

by Jason Blacker

  “Possibly,” said Frances.

  “And he can’t be the murderer of the priest,” said Noble.

  “But why, that is the question. That is the point for which we need to get clarity. If we can get the why, we can get at the who.”

  “The motive for the Deacon’s murder was suggested to be money,” said Noble.

  Frances nodded her head cautiously.

  “So we are told.”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “If Turnbull did kill the Deacon I’m sure it had something to do with it, but if he didn’t then it may or may not have anything to do with it.”

  “I’ll leave you to speculating about the murders. I’ll work on finding out who did this one.”

  “By the way, Charles, Chief Inspector Pearce will be up this afternoon. They’ve found Turnbull.”

  “I know,” he said, “Scotland Yard called yesterday.”

  “One other thing. Have you found anything at all, to suggest who might have come for reconciliation?”

  “We have found nothing yet. I have a man looking around here at the church, in Father Fannon’s office and another man at the rectory. Nothing to report yet.”

  “Thank you, Charles. I hope we can finish this up quickly,” said Frances.

  Noble nodded.

  “I’d like to go and speak with Peter if that’s alright?”

  Noble nodded again. Frances walked up to the bye-altar and as she neared Bolton she could hear him murmuring. He had a rosary in his hand and he was praying with it. Frances could hear that he was finishing up a Glory Be as she came upon him. She didn’t have to wait long. He could feel her presence and he stopped when he came to the end of the prayer. He looked up at her.

  “Do you see what I mean?” he asked her. “The penance must be paid.”

  “What did you do, Peter?” she asked him.

  He got up from kneeling in front of the statue and faced her.

  “It’s not so much what I did but what others did. It’s what I failed to do. But what could I do? You weren’t there, were you? You can’t judge.”

  “I can’t help, Peter, let alone judge if I don’t know what’s been going on here.”

  He looked down and shook his head. His hands were clasped together holding the rosary and his thumbs and forefingers were rubbing the beads. The crucifix hung like a man swinging from the gallows. Bolton didn’t say anything for a while.

  “They’ve found Turnbull,” she said to him. “Scotland Yard’s bringing him up here today. He’ll be here this afternoon.”

  Bolton looked up at her. His eyes were wide.

  “He’ll tell ya. Yes, he will. He doesn’t carry the shame like some of us. I don’t know if he killed the Deacon or not, but he didn’t kill the priest.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  Bolton shrugged.

  “Where were you last night?”

  “I was at The Flying Blizzard until eleven.”

  “And lots of people saw you?”

  He nodded.

  “Were you with anyone particular?”

  “No, but I was with a bunch of the lads. The regulars.”

  “Who are they?”

  “There was Harry Tomson, Gerald McBarth and Harlan Tavisham.”

  “Who else was there?”

  Bolton frowned at her.

  “I dunno, do I? I wasn’t paying attention, was I? I was there with me mates having a pint, not watching to see who might come out and kill the priest.”

  “So you thought he might get murdered then?”

  Bolton shook his head.

  “You’re putting words in my mouth. I didn’t say nothing like that. But if I’d have known I might’ve been paying attention better, wouldn’t I?”

  “Anyone else you’d like me to know was there? Specifically anyone who left just before you did.”

  “Colin Lewis come in again, didn’t he? Sat in the corner by himself. Had one pint and then left. But not before arguing with me again, right?”

  “What did he want to argue about this time?”

  “He was gloating really, wasn’t he? About how he’d told me justice would be coming to Puddle’s End for all the wicked things that been done. He said to mark his words he did, that Ms. Walmsley was just the first. He said I shouldn’t be surprised if I was next. I told him I didn’t do nothing wrong and he said it wasn’t what I did but what I didn’t do. I told him he could do something about it too, didn’t I? He said maybe he would.”

  “And then he left?”

  Bolton nodded.

  “Yeah. I don’t like him. Tries to put blame on others when he should carry some of the weight himself. I didn’t do nothing. But then again neither did he, right?”

  “And what time did he leave?”

  “It was about half nine.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Well, he soured my mood, didn’t he? So I glanced at my watch to see if I had time for another pint to see if I could get rid of those bad feelings. When I was ordering this other pint, right, Holme tells his dad he needs to head home to get a filleting knife. Says the one he was using during the day has just vanished, and they’re still serving fish and chips.”

  “I see, and this would have been around nine thirty as well?”

  “Yes mum.”

  “Anyone else leave between then and when you left?”

  Bolton shook his head.

  “Well, no, that doesn’t count,” he said.

  “You’ll let me do the counting please, Peter. Who else left?”

  “Well, it was after Holme and Colin had left, see? Galen left too. But he left with a couple of bags of food. Told his wife he had a few deliveries to make.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Dunno, wasn’t looking at my watch then, was I? Might have been around fifteen minutes after the other two left.”

  “And when was everyone back?”

  “Well, Colin didn’t come back. Holme was back just before his dad.”

  “Do you remember the time?”

  “No, but I was on my last pint. Maybe about a half hour before I left at eleven. Maybe around ten thirty.”

  “And they have two cars?”

  “Yeah, they’re doing alright, the Teels. Seems the pub business is a good business to be in.”

  Frances heard some voices behind her that she couldn’t make out. She turned to look. Dr. Toft and his men had arrived. She turned back to Bolton.

  “Thank you, Peter. If you think of anyone else coming and going around that time, you let me know, won’t you?”

  “Yes mum.”

  Frances left him and he knelt back down at the bye-altar looking for answers. Frances walked up to Sergeant Noble who was pointing to the confessional and talking to Dr. Toft.

  “My Lady,” said Dr. Toft.

  Frances smiled at him.

  “Please, it’s Frances. It’s good to see you again, Doctor, if not for the circumstances.”

  “Agreed, but please, it’s Harlan.”

  Frances smiled again.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to take a look at the deceased,” he said.

  Toft left the two of them and went over to the confessional. Noble looked at Lady Marmalade. Florence came up and stood with them.

  “Feeling better, Flo?” asked Frances.

  Florence nodded. Frances turned back to Noble.

  “Did you get anything out of him?” he asked.

  “If you’re right about this murder occurring late last night, then there might be three suspects worth looking at.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “Colin Lewis, Holme and Galen Teel.”

  Noble raised his eyebrows and closed his eyes, not quite believing it.

  “I’ll have a go at Lewis, but the Teels, I don’t think so. Never heard anyone say a harsh word about them.”

  “Well, none of them likely have alibis. Colin Lewis left around nine thirty and wasn’t seen again that nigh
t. Holme Teel left saying he needed to go home to fetch the filleting knife as the one at the pub had suddenly vanished. This was also around nine thirty. Shortly after that Galen Teel left with packages suggesting he had deliveries to drop off.”

  “So you’re suggesting that Holme went home and grabbed the filleting knife and then came by here and just happened to meet the priest for confession and stabbed him through the ear?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Sergeant, you are. That’s one option. The other is that whoever took the pub’s filleting knife came by and murdered the priest. I’m sure the Teels will be able to identify the murder weapon if it is either of their knives. Furthermore,” said Frances. “I have a feeling this was premeditated. Why else would the priest be in the confessional at such a late hour if it took place last night as you suggest.”

  “I’m sure Dr. Toft will have a general idea of the time of death soon and we can move forward with that information.”

  The plain-clothes constable Frances had seen interviewing Isabel and Kane yesterday came in through the main church doors towards them. In his hand he held some paper and a notebook.

  “What is it, Constable?” asked Noble.

  “Found these at the rectory,” he said. “They were locked in the priest’s bedside table drawer. Had to force it open. Nothing much else of interest I’m afraid. The first one might have to do with confession. The other notebook I can’t make heads nor tails of.”

  The constable handed them over to Sergeant Noble. Who looked at the first single sheet of paper torn from a notepad.

  “You’re saying this was in the locked drawer as well?”

  “Um, no, sorry Sergeant, that we found by the telephone desk in the rectory. The notebook was in the locked drawer.”

  Noble nodded.

  “This must have been who had requested confession last night. Perhaps it’s our killer?”

  Noble handed the sheet of paper to Lady Marmalade. There wasn’t much on it.

  “10pm. CL ‘Prickly Pear’” That was all.

  “Ten pm could be the time for confession. And CL, that could be the initials of the penitent,” said Frances.

  “CL, could that be Colin Lewis?” asked Florence.

  “I can’t think of anyone else,” said Frances.

  Noble took the sheet of paper back.

  “Hmm,” he said. “I can’t think of anyone else off the top of my head either. Constable, go and pick him up and bring him down to the station.”

  The constable nodded and left. Noble started to look through the small notebook. It didn’t make much sense to him either. On the first couple of pages was a list of names of flowers. Rose, orchid, tulip, daffodil, marigold, primrose, poppy and so on. There must have been close to two dozen or more.

  The following pages listed dates, starting in 1911. Noble flipped through the pages until about three quarters of the way in he came to the end. The last date was December the sixteenth of last year. All these lines of input were similar. The date came first then there was the name of a flower and after that was some sort of weather remark. Rainy, cloudy, sunny, snowy, windy and foggy. On many days the weather either changed or was variable, so that it was both rainy and snowy, or perhaps cloudy and then snowy or sometimes even sunny and snowy. Noble showed it to Frances.

  “Do you mind if I keep this for a day or two to try and make sense of it, Charles?” she asked.

  “If you wish,” he said. “So long as we get it back. Seems that Father was up to a bit of gardening.”

  “You will get it back. But if he was an avid gardener why is Bolton here and why keep this in a locked drawer?”

  “Maybe he didn’t garden so much as focused on tending the flowers. That’s what it looks like to me. And perhaps this information was important to him and he didn’t want others snooping upon it.”

  Dr. Toft came back over to them. He was carrying a heavy brown envelope which contained something.

  “I’ve put the knife in here,” he said. “Had to take it out to get Father Fannon out. Terrible crime.”

  Noble nodded at a bobby standing guard not far from the confessional. He came over and relieved Toft of the knife.

  “It’s a long blade,” said Toft, “about six inches, but I imagine the murderer had Father Fannon lean in towards the screen as most of the knife except for the last inch or two was right in his brain.”

  “That was apparent when I had a look for myself, Harlan. When was he murdered?”

  “Well, lividity suggests he hasn’t been moved since he was murdered and he’s in full rigor. Along with the temperature I’d say it was somewhere late last night. I’d put it between nine and eleven.”

  “It was ten, Doctor,” said Noble.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Noble showed him the piece of paper with the initials and time on it.

  “I see. Do you think that’s Colin Lewis?”

  “Well, I can’t come up with anyone else, can you?”

  Doctor Toft thought for a moment.

  “There’s Claire Longwell, but she’s Anglican and in poor health. There’s also Calvin Llewellyn, though he’s only six, so I don’t think that makes him a suspect.”

  “Yes, thank you, Harlan. I’ve discounted Claire and I had forgotten about Calvin.”

  Noble turned towards Lady Marmalade.

  “You fancy a six year old as the murderer?” he asked. “Or a sickly woman?”

  “Not a six year old, no. A woman though, that might be a different matter.”

  “Take my word for it, Claire Longwell isn’t the murderer. She’s a middle aged woman who’d likely be in bed by ten pm if not sooner. She’s not well. The doctors can’t make out what’s wrong with her but she’s very weak.”

  “I see.”

  “I can vouch for that, Frances. I doubt Claire would have or could have done it. In any event have you ever heard of a woman using a knife as murder?”

  Frances nodded.

  “Yes, Harlan, sadly I have. Though it is quite a rare choice of murder weapon for women.”

  “Oh yes, before I forget,” said Toft. “We analyzed the tea, both the mint and the black tea, and we found a large amount of belladonna in the mint tea. It looks similar to the untrained eye especially when chopped up as it was. Also makes for stronger poison that way too.”

  “What about the black tea?”

  “That’s just fine. Had a cuppa of it myself this morning,” smiled Toft with a twinkle in his eye.

  “And is that what killed her?” asked Frances.

  “It was. I found traces of tropane alkaloids in both her stomach contents and blood.”

  “Thank you, Harlan. Can you tell me who might have access to such a plant?” asked Frances.

  “It grows wild in these parts,” said Harlan. “I’ve seen it in the meadows behind the church here on my many walks. In fact, Dr. Cavan Langdon grows it in his garden and uses it for his patients I believe.”

  “And that’s Cavan with a C or a K?”

  “A C. Ha, there’s another one with the same initials, isn’t it? I couldn’t see him as a killer could you, Sergeant?”

  “No, I don’t imagine so.”

  “If that’ll be all,” said Dr. Toft, “I’ve got an autopsy to do.”

  “You’re not sure what killed the priest, Harlan?” grinned Noble.

  “Oh, of that I’m quite sure, but one must do an autopsy to rule out other causes as well. Good day.”

  Toft tipped his head towards Frances and then he left as his men carried out the body covered in a white cloth to offer the deceased privacy.

  “A poisoning and a stabbing,” said Florence. “What on earth has become of this place?”

  “Well, feel free to look around, but it doesn’t look like anything was stolen. Isabel didn’t know anything from what I can tell. Said she had Peter look around for the priest this morning when he hadn’t arrived when she got in at seven. Peter went over to the rectory first, naturally. Found the door
unlocked and the priest not in. Then he came and looked around the church, starting with the offices before he saw the confessional door open and the priest’s side closed. You know the rest.”

  Frances nodded.

  “You know,” said Noble, “she could still be a suspect for the poisoning.”

  “If she knows what belladonna is, which I’d guess she doesn’t. We’ll be off to see Dr. Langdon now.”

  “Very well. I’ll be interviewing Colin Lewis in a couple of hours if you’d care to join.”

  “Thank you, Charles, we would.”

  Frances looked at her watch. It was eight thirty.

  “What time?”

  “Ten thirty,” said Noble, marking the time on his watch.

  TWELVE

  Surgical Precision

  THERE wasn’t much time for what they wanted to do. And what Frances and Florence wanted to do was speak with both Dr. Cavan Langdon and the Teels. Florence was driving them towards Dr. Langdon’s practice.

  “Are we getting closer?” asked Florence.

  Frances nodded.

  “I think we’re getting much closer,” said Frances. “And with Turnbull and Chief Inspector Pearce coming up this afternoon, I believe we’ll be finished with this investigation within the next day or two.”

  “That would be good,” said Florence. “I find it all quite discouraging really. I don’t think Puddle’s End has ever had such a spate of murders in all of its history.”

  Frances patted Florence on the forearm.

  “I do believe they’re all related,” she said.

  “Really?” asked Florence, looking over at her friend. “Even the Deacon’s from seventeen years ago?”

  “I think that started it all. And I think with us here putting our noses into it, that has incited those same feelings, whatever they are.”

  “I wonder what that could be?” asked Florence.

  “Me too, Flo. Me too. It has to be something quite diabolical. Something quite untoward what you’d hope to find at a house of God.”

  Florence nodded. They were nearing the doctor’s practice.

  “Do you think we’ll get anything from him?”

  “Who, the doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope so. He’s only come up in conversation now. Could he have murdered Matilda and Kane? I don’t know the answer to that yet. If he has, I’m sure it has something to do with the church.”