The Priest at Puddle's End

by Jason Blacker

  Galen Teel walked out into the living room area with a smile on his face. He was dressed in slacks and a shirt with no tie. He looked smart. His hair, what was left of it, was neatly trimmed, as was his beard.

  “Please don’t get up,” he said, coming over towards them and shaking their hands. “It’s wonderful to see you again. I don’t think you’ve been here before have you, Florence?”

  “No, I haven’t. And it is a wonderful home you have,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  Galen sat down on the couch opposite them.

  “Is Lottie here?” asked Florence.

  “No, I’m afraid you just missed her. I can’t stay too long either.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll have to be off to the pub within the half hour. But you’re welcome to stay on.”

  “That shouldn’t be necessary,” said Frances, “we shouldn’t need more of your time than that.”

  Harmonie came back out with a tray carrying teacups, saucers, milk jug, sugar bowl, biscuits and of course the teapot. She laid it on the table between them.

  “We should probably give it a couple of minutes,” she said. “It’s so wonderful to see you all again.”

  She was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Are you still working on Mrs. Walmsley’s murder?” she asked.

  “We are, dear,” said Frances, “and unfortunately this is not a social call.”

  “Oh dear,” said Harmonie.

  Holme walked in to the living room to join them. They all said their hellos before he sat down on another wingback chair off to the left of Florence.

  “I’ll get myself a teacup,” he said, and got back up again and left.

  “Have there been any further developments?” asked Harmonie. “On the murder. Do you know who did it?”

  “I have my suspicions,” said Frances.

  Holme walked back in and sat down, putting his teacup on the tray. He went to pick up the teapot to pour but Harmonie stopped him, slapping his wrist gently.

  “It needs another minute or two,” she said. She looked back at Frances. “Do you know how she was murdered?”

  “Aren’t you being a bit macabre?” asked Holme, grinning at his sister. She shot him a look.

  “We have the great detective Lady Marmalade in our house and on this case, and I want to learn everything I can about detecting and solving crimes.”

  Harmonie looked at Frances.

  “She was poisoned, my dear, with belladonna.”

  “How dreadful,” said Harmonie, though she showed no emotion.

  “Yes, quite,” said Florence.

  “I couldn’t help but to admire your garden in the front as we strolled up. Did I see belladonna in there too?” asked Frances.

  Galen nodded.

  “It grows wild here as Florence likely knows.”

  “Yes, but it’s not a very attractive plant is it?” asked Frances.

  Galen shook his head.

  “Not particularly, but Lottie likes to have some around to remind her of the fragility of life you know. There’s many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip. She hasn’t always been blessed with good fortune, and I like the metaphor. It helps to keep one steady.”

  Frances nodded.

  “They’re not doing very well though, are they, they seem a little thinner than I’ve seen them in the wild.”

  “That’s the gardener,” said Harmonie, “he was here just last week and he’s sometimes a bit aggressive, especially with the poisonous ones.”

  “Oh, you have others?”

  “Oh yes,” said Harmonie, “like Daddy said, it’s sort of Mum’s theme. We have yew trees in the back along with oleander and daphne. All quite poisonous.”

  “You know what’s quite interesting,” said Holme, getting into the conversation, “is that deadly nightshade, or belladonna, is from the same family of nightshade plants that are quite sustaining to health, such as potatoes and tomatoes and eggplant and peppers.”

  “I did know that, Holme. In fact, when tomatoes were first introduced to England they weren’t consumed for fear they were poisonous for that very reason.”

  Holme nodded.

  “I didn’t know that,” he said.

  “Listen,” said Galen, “I don’t wish to be impolite, but are you suggesting that one of us murdered Mrs. Walmsley?”

  “It’s not impolite at all,” said Frances, “we are merely trying to follow clues and determine who the murderer is. We know that Harmonie worked with Dr. Langdon last summer, giving her intimate knowledge of doses of medicines and poisons as well as how to prepare them.”

  “Yes, well, I doubt the murderer would need training from a doctor to learn how to poison someone, would he?”

  “You think the murderer is a man?” asked Frances.

  “Well, isn’t he? Isn’t it usually men who murder? Even so, belladonna, as Florence knows, grows wild around these parts. Just because we have some in our front yard doesn’t automatically make us murderers,” he said. Then he looked at Florence. “Florence, please, you know us.”

  Harmonie started to pour tea, putting milk in the teacups for everyone first. They took a pause as everyone added sugar as needed.

  “Was Mrs. Walmsley poisoned with a tincture of the poison?” asked Harmonie.

  “No,” said Florence, “with whole leaves chopped up and interspersed with her tea.”

  “Her mint tea? I can see how they could be confused.”

  “There’s also the problem that Harmonie was at women’s bible study on Sunday afternoon, and she left halfway through the study.”

  “Yes, to use the bathroom,” said Harmonie. “Honestly, Florence,” and then she looked over at Lady Marmalade “Frances. You can’t really think I’d be capable of murder. What’s my motive then?”

  “Well, we’re not sure. That’s the missing piece.”

  “Look,” said Harmonie, “it’s an awful thing that happened to Mrs. Walmsley, but if I were you, I’d take a closer look at the housekeeper. It’s no secret that both she and the groundskeeper didn’t like her, and I think the feeling was mutual. Miss Slaughter always made Mrs. Walmsley’s mint tea for her every morning. She’d be the one I’d look at.”

  “Thank you, dear, and how do you know they didn’t like each other?” asked Frances.

  “Well, the two of them have been up to no good for years, haven’t they? Children can overhear things even when you don’t think they’re paying attention. I overheard Mrs. Walmsley speaking with Father a long time ago during Sunday School and she told him that Bolton and Slaughter were at it again and that they shouldn’t be having carnal relations, that it didn’t look good for the church if it got out.”

  “And what did Father Fannon say?” asked Frances.

  “That he’d speak with him, but I don’t think he did.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, he was up to… um, what I meant to say is that he was up to his eyebrows in church work I suppose.”

  “That brings us to the other point,” said Florence. “We keep hearing about the devil being at work within the church. It’s a terrible thing to say, and yet we’ve heard it from more than one person. What do you think it could mean?”

  Galen looked at his children, and they looked at him. Harmonie and Holme exchanged looks as well.

  “I can’t say why anyone would say anything like that,” said Galen. “Perhaps it has something to do with that Turnbull chap when he murdered the Deacon.”

  “Perhaps,” said Frances, “though I got the impression it was something else. Harmonie?”

  Frances looked at Harmonie. She looked at her teacup and took a sip. She shook her head.

  “No, I can’t say what that’s about.”

  “Holme?” asked Frances.

  He shot her a quick glance, picked up a biscuit off the tray and shrugged.

  “No idea,” he said.

  “Well,” said Frances turning to look at her friend, “we’ll have to figure that one out for ourselv
es.”

  “There’s been another tragedy at the church last night,” said Frances.

  “Really?” asked Harmonie.

  “Yes indeed. It seems that bad things have been following that church for some time. We’ve heard there’s been inappropriate behavior between the clergy and the children of the congregation.”

  “That’s terrible. Just terrible. They should burn in the fires of hell,” said Harmonie.

  “It’s alright, Harmie,” said Galen, patting his daughter on the shoulder. “These are just rumors.”

  She turned to look at him.

  “Yes, but still, Daddy, if it’s true they should burn in hell.”

  “I agree with Harmie,” said Holme, looking at his sister.

  “So you know about it then?” asked Florence.

  Galen looked at Florence and Frances sternly.

  “No, like Daddy said they’re rumors. I haven’t heard anything of the sort. But if it’s true, they should all burn in hell.”

  “That’s quite a strong feeling,” said Frances.

  Harmonie looked up at her and her cheeks were flushed.

  “You mean that you don’t think the same. That these pedophiles should be treated kindly? I don’t share that. Not one bit. If you harm children you should burn in the fires of hell. I’ll not be ashamed to say it.”

  “Well, I might agree with you, dear,” said Florence, “if not quite as strongly.”

  Harmonie nodded vigorously at Florence.

  “I knew you would, Florence. There can be no one worse than those who prey on the innocent. I shan’t stand for it if I were a judge or jury.”

  “And especially if it’s a man of the cloth,” said Holme. “That is the most vile abuse of trust one can imagine. Isn’t it?”

  He looked at them.

  “Well, like Florence said, we don’t necessarily disagree with you, but we can’t be going to church with our pitchforks and burning people at the stake. We are a civilized people after all.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Galen, “but such monsters do deserve the most wicked of punishments.”

  Frances took a sip of her tea and picked up and nibbled a biscuit. It was a gingersnap.

  “You own a filleting knife at the pub, do you not?” asked Frances, looking at Galen.

  “Yes,” he said, “though Holme said it had gone missing and he had to come home to pick up the one here.”

  “Did you notice when it had gone missing?” asked Frances, looking at Holme.

  Holme shrugged.

  “Can’t say for certain. I had done my prep work earlier in the afternoon for the dinner rush. Had it then. Then later that night I needed it again and I couldn’t find it.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “Can’t say for certain. I imagine it must have been around nine or nine thirty. I wasn’t watching the clock.”

  “What is this about?” asked Galen.

  “Father Fannon was murdered last night,” said Frances.

  “With a filleting knife?” asked Holme.

  “I didn’t say that’s how he was murdered,” said Frances.

  “Well, you didn’t have to. Why are you asking about a knife then?”

  “Look,” said Galen, “I’m beginning to feel like you’re convinced we did it, and I won’t stand for it. I’d like a motive first if you don’t mind.”

  “That’s the missing piece,” said Frances.

  “And you won’t find it here, snooping around with us,” said Galen.

  “What happened to him?” asked Harmonie.

  “He was stabbed in the ear, dear, with a filleting knife,” said Frances.

  “That’s awful,” she said without much feeling.

  “It doesn’t sound like you mean it,” said Florence.

  “Well, we hardly knew him, did we? It must be over ten years since we’ve been to church. But I do mean it, it is awful, for both of them, but I’m sorry, I’m not going to pretend deep sadness for someone I hardly knew.”

  “You left the pub just before ten,” said Frances, looking at Holme.

  “Somewhere around then, why?”

  “Just trying to get my facts straight,” said Frances.

  “I had to leave to fetch the filleting knife from home.”

  “And what time did you get back?”

  “Not long after I left,” said Holme. “I was gone perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  “That’s not what witnesses said. They said you were gone at least half an hour.”

  “Look,” he said, “I wasn’t paying attention to time. What does it matter how long I was gone?”

  “Because it gives you opportunity to murder the priest,” said Frances.

  “But I didn’t,” he said. “I had some trouble finding the filleting knife, and when I found it, it was filthy so I had to clean it. That took some time. Additionally I needed some fresh air and a cigarette. That’s all I did.”

  “This is getting annoying, Florence. You’re a friend of the family, but I’m not happy with where this questioning is going,” said Galen.

  “I do apologize, Galen. I know it is upsetting, but don’t you want us to catch the killer?”

  “I do, and that’s why I’m puzzled you’re here pestering us as if we did it.”

  “I understand, Galen,” said Frances. “Can you tell us where you were last night?”

  “I was delivering food to a couple of patrons.”

  “Who?”

  “Shan Beake and Harlan Toft.”

  “And what time did you get back to the pub?” asked Frances.

  “I can’t say and I won’t say. I’ve had about as much of this as I can take. And I need to leave, and you’ll have to leave with me. The only alternative you have is to send the police over now and arrest us if you think we did it.”

  “Did you build that birdhouse outside?” asked Frances, changing topic.

  “What? Yes, I did. Many years ago, and not a very good job either. It’s a reminder to me not to try woodworking again. Mind you, the birds don’t seem to mind.”

  Galen stood up and looked at Frances and Florence. Frances ignored him for a moment.

  “Did you kill Mrs. Walmsley, Harmonie?” she asked, staring at her piercingly. Harmonie held her gaze.

  “No, I didn’t and I’m offended that you’d even ask.”

  “And did you kill Father Fannon, Holme?”

  Holme looked at Frances for a moment before reaching for another biscuit.

  “No,” is all he said.

  “Alright, time to leave if you don’t mind, Florence, Frances.”

  Lady Marmalade and Florence stood up and started to walk out.

  “Thank you for the tea, dear,” said Frances, looking at Harmonie. “It wasn’t poisoned, was it?”

  Harmonie shot her a dark look.

  “We’ve all been drinking it, if I’d wanted…”

  “That’s enough,” said Galen, looking at his daughter, and then back at Frances. “Do you think this is sport trying to upset us?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “But a murder has been committed and a murderer must be brought to justice.”

  Galen showed them out and started to walk off towards the garage as Frances and Florence started down the path.

  “Galen,” shouted Frances after him. He stopped and turned around and looked at her. “Did you murder the Deacon?”

  He stared at her for a while before turning around again and continuing on. Frances and Florence walked on down the path towards Florence’s car.

  “Do you really think they’re guilty?” asked Florence.

  Frances turned towards her friend.

  “I think they’re involved somehow, if I could just figure out how.”

  “You know I’ve known them a long time. They’ve always been good members of the community,” she said. “I do hope you’re wrong.”

  “I understand, Flo. I hope so too, but there’s something there. Regardless, we’ll get to the bottom of this
one way or another.”

  FOURTEEN

  Spilled Milk

  LADY Marmalade and Florence Hudnall arrived at the police station just a few minutes after ten thirty. Strictly late, but under the circumstances quite on time they thought. Sergeant Noble was at the front desk to meet them.

  “Good timing,” he said, “we were just about to go in.”

  “He’s here then?” asked Florence.

  “He is, and not happy about it either.”

  “Come this way,” said Noble, pointing to a frosted glass door to the side.

  “Just before we do, could I ask a favor?” asked Frances.

  “Certainly.”

  “Could you have one of your men ring up Dr. Toft and Mrs. Shan Beake and see what time Galen Teel delivered their suppers to them last night.”

  Noble turned to the constable doing paperwork at the front counter just next to him.

  “Did you hear that, Constable?” he asked.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good, then find out, won’t you?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Frances and Florence were let into the main area of Puddle’s End Police Station by Sergeant Noble and followed him down a couple of hallways into the back where, like most police stations, the interrogation rooms were. The door was metal with a glass panel in it at eye height so that one could see in. And inside was Colin Lewis, smoking a cigarette, handcuffed and looking quite miserable.

  They all entered. Noble, followed by Lady Marmalade and then Florence. A constable who had joined them stood guard outside.

  “Right then,” said Lewis as they walked in, “are you letting me go?”

  “Not yet,” said Noble, sitting down opposite him. Frances and Florence stood on either side of Noble.

  “What do those two want? I just saw them last Friday.”

  “We have some questions for you, Colin,” said Frances.

  “You had your chance to ask me questions on Friday.”

  “Things have changed and now it looks like you’re a prime suspect in the murder of Father Fannon,” she said.

  “Bloody hell, what?”

  Lewis sucked on his cigarette, bringing both handcuffed hands up towards his face to do so.