“What does it all mean?”
“Well, you see here on the first couple of pages we have a list of flowers. Rose, marigold, orchid and so on and so forth.”
Florence nodded.
“Right, and then further in we start seeing lines with dates on them and then a flower’s name and the weather.”
“Yes, but I don’t understand, why was a pedophile interested in gardening and weather when he had a groundskeeper for all of that?”
“He wasn’t, Flo. Let’s take a look at the last few pages of the notebook.”
Frances fanned through the slim notebook. Three quarters in there were blank pages until she got to the end.
“You see here,” she said, pointing at each line of the last page. “We’ve got initials and then a dash and a name of the flower.”
Florence nodded.
“Well, that other sheet of paper the constable found was the missing key. You remember that Fannon was meeting with someone at ten pm that night for confession. And on that sheet were the initials CL and in quotes Prickly Pear.”
Florence nodded, looking at Frances’ finger on the notebook. Frances drew her finger down to a line that had those same initials. CL - Prickly Pear.
“Good Lord,” said Florence. “You think CL might be Colin Lewis?”
Frances nodded.
“I do.”
Frances flipped back many pages, towards the front. She stopped and showed the page to Florence, pointing at a line that had: 18th May 1919, Prickly Pear, Foggy.
“This is the only written entry I can find for Prickly Pear,” said Frances. “Colin Lewis would have been about eight I think at this time. I am assuming he was called Prickly Pear as he wasn’t very agreeable to the abuse, and further, I think he likely left the church around that time.”
“I see,” said Florence, “this is quite distressing.”
“Very,” said Frances. “But there’s more. In the years nineteen eleven and nineteen twelve I see a variety of entries for Buttercup.”
Frances turned to the back of the book again and drew Florence’s attention to a couple of lines.
“Here’s Buttercup associated with PB, and here is Orchid associated with IS. Bear these in mind.”
Frances flipped back towards the front, and going from page to page she drew Florence’s attention to at least one if not several written entries on each page.
“Each page makes up about a month,” said Frances, “you can see from the dates.”
“Good heavens,” said Florence, “are you suggesting this is Peter Bolton and Isabel Slaughter?”
“I am, and they were abused consistently, at least for a year or two in the case of Peter and for several years in the case of Isabel. I believe that as soon as Peter hit puberty, he was no longer appealing to his abuser, to Kane Fannon. Sadly, the same cannot be said for Isabel. It appears her abuse only stopped in nineteen sixteen.”
“I feel sick again, Fran,” said Florence.
“I’m sorry, Flo, this is indeed, unfortunately, one of the most atrocious crimes I have ever been witness to. If there is only a small glimmer of hope it is that those responsible are no longer capable of committing their atrocious and heinous crimes.”
“And I for one,” said Florence, “can’t see the benefit of trying to bring those responsible to justice. In fact, if anything, I sympathize with them.”
Frances nodded.
“I too am sympathetic, and yet I can’t condone taking justice into one’s own hands.”
“In this instance, my dear Fran, I’ll have to respectfully disagree with you.”
Frances took a fish paste sandwich triangle and nibbled at it. She could understand her friend’s feelings. In fact, her enthusiasm for catching the killers and bringing them to justice had waned considerably since she’d found out the details of these most vile crimes. And yet her calling was the truth and the pursuit of justice and if she left murderers free, however justified their murder, was it not a slippery slope from which it would be exceedingly difficult to recover?
“One thing I don’t understand,” said Florence, putting her half eaten cucumber sandwich down on the small side plate, “is what has the weather got to do with any of this?”
“Yes, and that I am not certain about. However, my suspicion is that it has nothing to do with the weather and most likely to do with the abuse.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“Well, let’s look back at the nineteenth of May nineteen nineteen. The weather allegedly was ‘snowy’. I doubt it was.”
“But it might have been,” said Florence.
“It might have been, but how about here,” said Frances, moving forward a few pages to July of the same year. “The twenty-seventh of July is also ‘snowy’ as well as ‘sunny’. That doesn’t make any sense to me. It has something to do with the type of abuse. What? We’ll likely never know.”
“It certainly does seem suspicious,” said Florence, “those devious devils. Most heinous of the diabolical. It still gets me worked up just thinking about it.”
“I know, Flo, but we’ve figured it out and those that were doing harm can no longer do harm. What gives greater credence to this notebook being nothing more than the secret diary of a pedophile is that almost all of these dates are Sundays.”
“Really? How can you tell?”
“Well, I started on the last date noted which is the sixteenth of December of last year. That is a Sunday, and I worked back from there using my own diary from last year which I still have in my purse. Very few, perhaps one date out of ten is not on a Sunday or Saturday. Going back before nineteen forty-five I can’t be certain of course, but my guess is that they were abusing the children on the same days they had access to them. Sunday during Sunday School.”
“And you’re certain Galen Teel murdered the Deacon?” asked Florence, finishing up her sandwich.
“I most certainly am now, unless Colin Lewis is lying about seeing him there arguing with the Deacon. I can’t find Galen’s initials in this book, at least not someone I think is Galen. There is a GT in here but that’s from the early forties…”
Florence looked up at her.
“That could be Gwendolyn Thompson. She’s eighteen now, a lovely girl who lives with her mother in town.”
Frances shook her head sadly.
“And Galen would have been too old in nineteen nineteen when Fannon came to this parish. If I had to guess his age I’d say in nineteen nineteen he was likely in his twenties.”
Florence nodded.
“Yes, I think that would be about right.”
“There’s over two dozen different initials in this book, Flo. I counted them. And there are several initials that are the same but must be different children as the one has a lower case letter after the capital letter of the last name. This is an absolute catastrophic tragedy.”
Frances finished up her sandwich and took a sip of tea.
“But to get back to your question, I’ve noticed a couple of entries for an HT in this book.”
Frances leafed backwards towards the front of the book.
“Here in nineteen twenty-seven it starts. They are intermittent but carry on until the fall of twenty-nine.”
“Intermittent you say?” asked Florence.
Frances nodded.
“Yes, I count no more than seven entries during this time with the initials HT.”
“I see,” said Florence, “and what flower is given to those initials.”
“This is the interesting bit,” said Frances. “The flower assigned to HT during this time is ‘belladonna’.”
“Good Lord,” said Florence.
“Yes,” said Frances. “Perhaps coincidental, but perhaps also suggesting that whoever this HT was, Holme or Harmonie was uncooperative. Bless them.”
“I find the just irony of Matilda’s death under those circumstances delicious,” said Florence, sipping tea from her teacup.
“Whoever it might be,” said Fra
nces. “Holme or Harmonie, it certainly gives them motive for killing who they did.”
“And you think it was Harmonie who murdered Matilda and Holme who murdered Fannon?”
“I do. Though the evidence in those cases is circumstantial. We can have Galen charged for the Deacon’s murder now that we have an eyewitness, but as for the others, a confession would be very helpful.”
“I doubt you’ll get it,” said Florence. “I know the Teels, if you get Galen for the Deacon’s murder he’ll take the other two as well to protect his children.”
“Yes, except that he can’t say he murdered Fannon for he has alibis for that.”
“You mean Beake and Toft’s food delivery?”
“That’s right. Beake said he delivered right at ten pm when the news was starting and Toft said Teel was with him at ten fifteen, because he looked at his clock when the door was knocked. He couldn’t have done it, Flo.”
Florence nodded.
“I know, Fran, but he’ll plead otherwise, mark my words. And isn’t that good enough? Leave the children be to have some semblance of a normal life. They were victimized after all, weren’t they? Let the father suffer the sins of the children.”
Florence looked at her friend. Frances smiled at her.
“We might have no choice, Flo,” she said. “Without further evidence pointing to Harmonie and Holme I don’t believe there’s enough to charge them. And I am oh so tired and weary of this whole ordeal. I don’t think I can keep snooping around much longer.”
Florence smiled and nodded. She raised her teacup to her friend.
“I’ll drink to that,” she said. “Seems we might have found a middle ground.”
“But I do want to speak to the banker about business,” said Frances.
“You want to go to the Builders’ Building Society? That’s the only bank we have in town.”
“Exactly, before Pearce gets here. Let’s ring up Noble and let him know where we are just in case Pearce gets into town before we’re back.”
SIXTEEN
Bankers' Hours
THE Builders’ Building Society was on Market Street in Puddle’s End. Market Street being the major street where most of the businesses were found. It was one of the larger buildings in town owing to its monopoly on banking within Puddle’s End. The manager was Mr. Thane Hume, a balding man with white mutton chops and always impeccably dressed. He was rotund and wore glasses pinched low on his nose. He was in his late sixties and short. He knew all his members by name and was often out front helping in the thick of it.
He waved at Florence as she and Lady Marmalade walked in. They waited their turn to get to the wicket where a young woman was seated as Hume stood behind her.
“Wonderful to see you again, Florence,” said Hume, smiling broadly, and looking at her over the top of his glasses. “What brings you in on this lovely spring day?”
“I was hoping we might have a word with you in your office. It’s a delicate matter,” said Florence.
“Yes, of course. Please come this way,” he said.
He walked to the end of the wickets and swung open the waist high door for them to get into the back area. He led them to the back of the open area where a few offices were. They were enclosed for privacy, but had glass walls from waist height to the ceiling. His office was large and spacious but without much in it. There was a bookshelf that held books about economy, investing, markets and other sundry business topics.
His desk was large and sturdy. Made of a dark brown wood and behind it was a studded, well padded leather chair that was made for a man twice his size. The two chairs in front of his desk where Frances and Florence sat were more modest.
“Would you like some tea?” he asked as they sat down while he stood.
“Oh no, thank you,” said Florence, “we just had ours.”
Hume nodded and sat down. He took off his glass and perched them on top of his head. He leaned in towards them and interlaced his fingers on the table. Florence turned towards Frances.
“This is my dear friend Frances…”
“Lady Frances Marmalade,” said Frances, cutting off Florence.
“I say,” said Hume, “my Lady honors us with her presence.”
He leaned back in his chair and sat more upright in it, though he still looked like a child sitting in it.
“Please call me Frances.”
“Are you here to open up an account, Frances?” asked Hume, almost salivating at the smell of money.
“Well, Thane,” said Florence, “we’re actually here to ask about the owners of a number of different business accounts.”
“I see,” said Hume. “Unfortunately, that’s not something I can divulge.”
“Mr. Hume,” said Frances.
“It’s Thane, please.”
“Thane, I don’t think you appreciate the importance of the information that we are requesting.”
“Oh, I assure you I do, that is why I can’t be of assistance.”
“Do you know, Thane, that the Catholic priest, Father Fannon was murdered last night?” asked Frances.
“Yes, I do. Terrible business. Word travels fast in Puddle’s End I’m afraid.”
“Did you know that children were being abused at the hand of this priest, for years and years.”
Hume squirmed a little in his chair. He looked down towards the table.
“No, I did not know that.”
“And we believe that the owner or owners behind these businesses are related to these murders and this vile abuse of the very same children that come in here everyday with their mothers and fathers.”
Hume didn’t say anything for a moment.
“I understand your dilemma, Frances. I really do, but we pride ourselves on privacy and discretion here at the Builders’ Building Society. I’m afraid, I just can’t give you that information.”
Frances didn’t say anything for a moment.
“Well, thank you, Thane,” said Florence, as she started to get up. Frances put her hand on her friend’s arm.
“I had hoped you might see the importance of our calling,” said Frances. “But as you don’t, I find myself having to seek the alternative.”
Hume was not familiar with being addressed by any of the women from Puddle’s End in this fashion, and neither was he familiar with how to conduct himself with a Lady. His eyes widened and he opened his mouth as if to speak, but didn’t.
“If you can’t see it in your heart, Thane,” said Frances, “to help us in this delicate matter I will ensure that all of my friends, and I have a lot of friends who have a lot of money, withdraw their support from this Society.”
Hume’s mouth opened and closed but he didn’t say anything.
“I know that a Society such as this does not have enough savings for the amount of lending that needs to happen. You require outside assistance in this matter, and if you are unwilling to help, that outside assistance will dry up by the end of the week. I can promise you that. Furthermore, we will have to waste time getting a warrant, and to ensure that nothing goes missing, I’ll have Sergeant Noble, with the help of Chief Inspector Devlin Pearce from Scotland Yard, who as we speak is likely arriving here in Puddle’s End, close down your Society until such a warrant is granted. In the interim, word will leak that you are willing, able and comfortable in aiding those who abuse children, namely pedophiles. How does all of that sound to you as an alternative?”
Frances was sitting upright in her chair, her gaze steady on Hume. Florence was looking at her friend, proud and yet surprised, while Hume sat with his mouth slightly ajar his eyes blinking. He was shattered, and it took him some time to recompose himself.
“Well,” he said finally, “we should not wish to upset our valued patrons, and of course we are always happy to help the police in these difficult matters. If only you’d said as much.”
He tried to put on a smile, but it was weak and tired. Lady Marmalade smiled back at him.
“I knew you were a decent
man, Thane, the moment I saw you,” said Frances, offering him an olive branch to assuage his wounded ego.
“What businesses are you inquiring about?”
“Baudin Grocers, Ainsworth Meats and Hollin’s Cabinetmakers,” said Frances. “Florence tells me she knows nothing of these businesses.”
Hume nodded.
“That’s because they aren’t real businesses,” he said. “Shell companies.”
He looked somewhat embarrassed.
“And you know who owns them?”
Hume nodded.
“Baudin Grocers has Galen Teel on the books. Ainsworth meats’ signatory is Galen Teel and Holme Teel. And Hollin’s Cabinetmakers…”
“Is Galen and Harmonie?” asked Florence.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Hume. “I know all my accounts by heart, especially the business ones.”
“And how long have they been open?” asked Frances.
“I should think since nineteen twenty or nineteen nineteen. That I would have to check on if you want the exact date.”
Frances shook her head.
“That’s not necessary. Do you know the current balances?”
He shook his head and stood up.
“I’ll find that out for you,” he said.
He left the room for a moment. Florence looked over at Frances.
“Good heavens, Fran, what is going on?”
“Blackmail, I believe,” said Frances. “I think that Galen has been blackmailing the church ever since his children got caught up with the Deacon’s pedophilia.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Florence. “Not literally of course, this just seems quite odd.”
“It was likely hush money,” said Frances. “Galen likely threatened the priest with exposing him if he didn’t pay.”
“And you’re saying that Galen was turning a blind eye to the rest of the abuse then, just for the sake of a few bob?”
Frances looked over at Florence.
“I hope not, Flo. Perhaps he was both blackmailing the priest and requiring him to cease his abuse.”
“But the records suggest otherwise.”
The Priest at Puddle's End Page 20
