Murdering Ministers

by Alan Beechey

  “Yes, well, in this case, it did give you a ringside seat for Tapster’s death. Tell me, did you see the Reverend Mr. Piltdown do anything odd with the wineglasses when he served Tapster?”

  “My eyes were closed in prayer at that time, Mr. Swithin.”

  “Well, did you see Tapster eat or drink anything apart from the Communion sacraments?”

  Cedric smiled again and fixed his eyes on Geoffrey. “‘For he that eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and drinketh damnation to himself…’” He raised his eyebrows quizzically.

  “One Corinthians, chapter twelve, verse twenty-nine,” said Geoffrey immediately. He and Potiphar beamed at each other with mutual satisfaction, while Oliver tried to remember if that verse or some other had been the text for Piltdown’s sermon. There was something about eating in it.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ I suppose,” Oliver sighed quietly, below the assumed level of Cedric’s hearing, feeling suddenly out of his depth. “May I ask you one more question, Mr. Potiphar?” he added with increased volume. “I’d appreciate your thoughts on Revelation chapter eleven, verse seventeen.”

  The look of affability faded from Cedric’s face. He seemed uncomfortable and eyed his closed Bible wistfully. “You catch me a little unawares, Mr. Swithin,” he quavered, reaching again for the book. “I may need to refresh my memory…”

  “Oh, please, never mind, it’s not important,” Oliver said quickly, standing up and blocking Potiphar’s view of Geoffrey, while he reached behind his back and squeezed his friend’s beak-like nose to stop him offering his own commentary.

  It was as he had suspected: The Plumley churchgoers took their cues from the Gospels and the Epistles (and could do a lot worse for a guide to life); the magical mystery tour of the Book of Revelation was more the province of heavy metal bands and teenagers who thought painting their bedroom walls black was a statement of profundity. The old man was clearly unfamiliar with the prophecy of the Two.

  “We needn’t disturb you any longer,” Oliver continued, “but I would like a word or two with your good lady before we leave.”

  In the gloomy passageway that led to the rear of the house, Oliver turned on Geoffrey.

  “What was that all about?” he demanded.

  “What?”

  “The Bible quotations.”

  “Oh that,” said Geoffrey. “My parents were fundamentalist Christians. All through my childhood, we had to learn a new verse of the Bible every day, complete with reference. We were tested over Sunday lunch on the previous week’s assignment. We had to get all seven right to earn our Yorkshire pudding.”

  “How utterly ghastly.”

  “It was all right. It trained the memory. And an accumulation of well-chosen Bible verses would be marginally more useful on a desert island than knowing the lyrics to every Gilbert and Sullivan opera, which I happen to know is one of your talents.”

  Oliver paused, aware that he could hear an odd rattling through the closed door of a room that he assumed was the kitchen. He had wondered why Mrs. Potiphar had not returned during their interview with her husband. No doubt she was sitting there, tatting or crocheting tea cozies or whatever else the dutiful elderly spouse of a long-serving deacon was supposed to do to preserve a God-fearing household.

  “Now, I should warn you that although Elsie Potiphar seems a sweet old lady,” he whispered to Geoffrey, “I fear she suffers from Tourette’s syndrome or something like it. Don’t be offended if she suddenly calls you, oh, for example, a priggish, irritating, nut-faced little twerp. It’s nothing personal.”

  He tapped on the door and pushed it ajar. Then he stopped, astonished.

  Mrs. Potiphar was sitting at a scrubbed pine table in the middle of the large, bright room, staring into the oversized monitor of desktop computer and occasionally clicking the side button of trackball. A skein of cables flowed from the back of the computer and across the tiled floor of the kitchen. From the reflection in her dainty glasses, she seemed to be contemplating a color picture.

  She looked up. “I know, I know,” she said with a smirk. “There’s nothing in the Bible about the Internet. Well, tough titty.”

  “Do you mind if we ask you some questions?” Oliver asked tentatively.

  “Of course not, dear boy. Have a seat, the pair of you.”

  They took two bentwood chairs on their side of the table, while she shuffled her office chair a few inches to the right and peered affably around the monitor.

  “Well, as you know,” Oliver began, flipping over a page in his notebook, “I’m writing an article on the United Diaconalist Church and—”

  “Oh, I’m not a Diaconalist.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m not a Diaconalist,” Elsie repeated slowly. “I’m only married to one.”

  “But you attend the church,” Geoffrey observed.

  “Oh yes, I do that out of marital obligation. But I don’t believe all that Christian guff. Never have.”

  Oliver and Geoffrey looked at each other.

  “Then may I inquire discreetly what you are?” Oliver asked.

  She grinned, producing comely wrinkles out of thin air. “I’m a true-blue, dyed-in-the-wool, card-carrying atheist,” she declared.

  “I don’t understand,” Oliver admitted helplessly. “You’re a church member!”

  Elsie pushed herself away from the table and sat primly, her hands in her lap. “Let me explain,” she said. “Cedric’s been a deacon of Plumley United Diaconalist for the last forty years. It’s his whole life, apart from one thing—me. We met during the 1950s on an Aldermarston march, and despite our marked philosophical and religious differences, we fell in love. Neither of us would budge in our beliefs, but we wanted to get married anyway. We made a pact. I would show up at all the church services, prayer meetings, and events and play the quiet, loyal, mousy little wife, so I didn’t damage his prospects of earning and keeping his diaconal seat; and Cedric would never, never quote the Bible at me in our home. And for fifty years of marriage, we have stuck to that pact.” She sniggered. “Of course, I can’t help myself if I’m occasionally forced to express my opinion of the morons who cluster around the church. That little turd, Dougie Dock, for instance.”

  “How on Earth can you stand being there for all those acts of worship if you don’t believe it?” Oliver asked.

  “Oh, it’s not easy being an atheist in this modern world,” she answered lightly. “There’s so much out there that might shake your faith, what with people claiming to spot angels on every street corner and holy statues weeping blood at the drop of a fiver. I need to go to church regularly to remind myself why I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “I mean no disrespect for your considerable charm, Mrs. Potiphar, but I would have thought someone with your husband’s faith would have been severely conflicted about marrying a nonbeliever.”

  “He was,” she declared, with a sidelong glance at the computer screen. “But he found some verse in the Bible that squared it for him. It was the last one I ever let him quote at me.”

  “‘If any brother hath a wife that believeth not, and she be pleased to dwell with him, let him not put her away,’” said Geoffrey idly.

  “That’s the one, sport,” she cried, clapping her hands. “Isn’t the Good Book wonderful? You can always find a verse to justify any action. Except maybe coveting your manservant’s ass.”

  “Why did your husband go up to the platform for last Sunday’s Communion?” Oliver asked, returning to the list of potential questions he had jotted in his notebook the previous evening. “He says it was God’s will.”

  “God’s will maybe, but mine definitely,” she answered bluntly. “I may not share Cedric’s beliefs, but I love him and I’ll fight for him. He was devastated about losing that bogus election on Friday. So I encouraged him in a little civil disobedience. Or p
erhaps ‘uncivil obedience’ is a better description of a religious duty.”

  “A woman was spotted in the area of the church after the murder,” he said. “A young woman with long red hair. Does that sound familiar?”

  “It doesn’t sound like anyone at the church,” she answered, fiddling with her own braid of white hair.

  “Any idea how Tapster was killed?”

  “Not unless words can do it,” Elsie replied, her good humor returning. “He passed the wine around the congregation that morning. When he got to me, I told him where he could put it.”

  She cackled at the recollection but then became distracted by the appearance of her screen-saver. She clicked her trackball button to bring back the image she had been looking at before. Oliver stood up.

  “We’d better go and leave you to your work,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m just downloading pornography,” she said, without taking her eyes from the screen. She gestured at the monitor. “Stops my mind from wandering.”

  “That’s very amusing,” Oliver replied cordially, strolling around the table to see what hobby she was really tracking through the labyrinth of the World Wide Web. Filling the screen was a picture of a muscular and well-oiled man wearing only a Santa hat and boots, with a sprig of holly decorating his hairless and worryingly abundant genitals. He seemed to be taking his temperature with a candy cane. Oliver backed away quickly.

  “The gay newsgroups are the best,” Elsie continued, starting to download another photograph. “They take better care of their bodies.” She looked up at Geoffrey and let her eyes drift up and down his frame appraisingly. “Why don’t you stay, dolly? We could admire the scenery together. There’s room on this chair for two, if you stack them correctly.”

  “No thank you,” Geoffrey squeaked, edging for the door.

  “Suit yourself,” she continued insouciantly, watching the screen. She clicked again, making odd purring noises in her throat, while Oliver and Geoffrey slipped from the room.

  ***

  “Come in, Mr. Swithin. Come in, Mr…er…Angelwine,” Patience Coppersmith was saying. No, no better the second time, thought Oliver, we still sound like the opening lines of a cross-talk act. “Swithin PI” wasn’t bad for a solo performance, but despite his near-seduction by a seventy-year-old, Geoffrey had stayed with him for the second appointment, neurotically repeating his desire during the short walk to the Coppersmiths’ flat to do some genuine detective work. They had managed to agree that only Elsie had the capacity and flair to mastermind Tapster’s death, although since she would require Cedric as her agent on the platform, the Potiphars were unlikely suspects.

  The sitting room was a striking contrast to Cedric’s lair, with simple decor and well-chosen furniture. The window-ledge and mantelpiece were lined with dozens of Christmas cards, many of them signed in childish handwriting, and a dense, natural fir tree, peppered with elegant white ribbons, almost scraped the ceiling in a corner of the room. From another part of the flat, they could hear odd sounds, like bagpipes being passed through a rusty mangle, and Oliver assumed that Billy was home and practicing his guitar.

  “We really didn’t get much chance to talk the other evening,” Oliver began. “And so much has happened at the church since then.”

  “You’re telling me,” Patience agreed, sitting primly on the arm of a chair and fussing with her neat, gray hair. “And I don’t have much time to talk even now, unfortunately. I have to go out in about half an hour.”

  “Some last-minute Christmas shopping?” asked Geoffrey.

  “No, I volunteer at a local hospice. Normally I’m only available for evenings, because I work during the day. But during the school holidays, I like to give a little more of my time, now that Billy’s older.”

  “Very commendable,” said Oliver.

  She brushed away the compliment. “To God be the glory. But since we’re a little pressed, let me tell you immediately that dead deacons and jailbird ministers aren’t part of our normal Christmas festivities at Plumley Diaconalist. If you’re going to include these events in your story, Mr. Swithin, I want to go on the record as saying I believe Paul Piltdown is completely innocent.”

  “You can’t imagine how he could have engineered the poisoning of Tapster’s wineglass?”

  “Oh, is that how they think it was done? Good heavens! No, I mean I don’t think Paul is capable of killing anyone, not even a vile man like Nigel Tapster. Please don’t misunderstand me, I’m very sorry Nigel’s dead, and my heart is with poor Heather. But Paul Piltdown was about the only person in the church who seemed to tolerate the Tapsters, despite their challenges to his authority. Since I’m the church treasurer, they trusted me to count the votes at last Friday’s deacons election. I couldn’t swear to it, but I’m sure I saw Paul’s handwriting on one of the ballots for Nigel.”

  “You do realize that if Paul’s not guilty, the killer’s still among us.”

  Patience shivered. “Yes, of course, that had occurred to me, and no doubt I’m a suspect, since I was on the spot and I was wielding wineglasses myself. I suppose I shall be quizzed again by those silly young policemen, dressed as a pantomime cow this time. And after I’ve been trying so hard to shut the details of Sunday morning out of my mind. Excuse me.”

  She left the room quickly, and Oliver was sure it was not just to see if the kettle was boiling.

  “She didn’t do it,” Geoffrey declared definitively.

  “What make you so sure?”

  “She was surprised when you told her how the poison was administered.”

  “Could be a bluff.”

  “Oh. Well, all right, maybe she did do it. Hey, can I try out some detective’s intuition when she gets back?”

  “Of course not.”

  They sat in silence, listening to Billy’s attempts to master either “Layla” or “How Much is That Doggy in the Window?” After another minute, Patience returned with a tea tray and with redder eyes than before, followed by a trotting pug with a pained expression. Her stance brought back a memory for Oliver of Tina Quarterboy proudly bearing a tray of cups and saucers into the manse living room, the only time he had ever seen the missing girl. It was hard to think of the skinny, gauche adolescent in any kind of sexual liaison with Nigel Tapster, and he felt ashamed for the explicit image of the entwined, naked couple that sprang unavoidably into his mind. He shifted some magazines on the coffee table to make room for the tray.

  “Ms. Coppersmith, is Tina Quarterboy in your class at school?” Geoffrey drawled.

  Patience paused, milk jug in hand, and gave Geoffrey a puzzled look. He smirked. “You’re probably wondering how I guessed,” he continued lazily. The dog stopped investigating the skirting boards and gazed at him adoringly.

  “I’m actually wondering who’s been giving you the wrong information,” she replied, pouring dribbles of milk into the cups.

  “Ms. Coppersmith is a head teacher, Geoffrey,” said Oliver, glaring balefully at his friend, “and at a junior school, not a senior school.”

  “That’s right,” Patience confirmed. She handed Geoffrey a cup of tea, but the pug chose that second to leap into his lap and parade cautiously over his stomach.

  “Ah, I see T’Pau has taken a fancy to you, Mr. Angelwine,” she said. “I’ll leave your tea on the coffee table.”

  She continued pouring, her actions the same as Tina’s at the manse that time. But wait—where did Oliver’s memory of Tina pouring tea come from? The girl had certainly brought in a tray and coffeepot, but Paul was the one who had poured the beverages, “played mother,” as the expression goes. That was it! When he and Effie had visited Paul, the day before the murder, the minister had used that same expression of Tina. But he had described an event that hadn’t actually happened. And then he pointedly linked this to her being cast as the mother of God in the Nativity play. Dear Lord, had Paul been sending s
ignals all along—consciously or otherwise, but probably consciously—of what he could not permit himself to utter? Then what else had he talked about that day that may have revealed what he knew of Tina’s whereabouts, the father of her child? Confession, Jaffa Cakes, mother hen—there was that maternal metaphor again, anyway.

  “Billy must be disappointed about tomorrow night’s carol concert,” Oliver commented. T’Pau had begun a slow ascent of Geoffrey’s rib cage.

  “Why?” asked Patience, smiling indulgently at the pug.

  “Well, I imagine the whole thing’s off, what with the murder and the arrest and so forth.”

  “On the contrary. Sam Quarterboy went to see Paul in the police station last night and brought back the message that the show was to go on. And Paul fully expects to be up in the pulpit, welcoming the Lord of Christmas.”

  Another message to the murderer, Oliver assumed, unless Piltdown assumed he would have made bail by tomorrow evening.

  “I’ve just seen Cedric Potiphar and he didn’t mention this.”

  “Well, poor Cedric’s not a deacon at the moment, so perhaps Sam hadn’t called him,” Patience replied kindly. “And even if he had, there’s a chance that Cedric may have forgotten. We’re none of us as young as we used to be.”

  “But what about the music for the service? Surely Heather Tapster’s not up to performing?”

  “No, she was utterly devastated by the news. I know how I felt when Billy’s father was taken from us. I just thank the Good Lord that Heather wasn’t there to see Nigel die.”

  “So with Heather unavailable tomorrow evening, who’s going to play the piano for the carols. And for Barry Foison’s Nativity play?”

  “A friend of Barry’s, called Oona. She’s actually an organist. So’s Barry, incidentally, but he says this Oona is a better musician. They’re going to awaken the church organ from its long slumber for the occasion.”

  “If Barry’s an organist, why hasn’t he been playing for the church?”

  “Because his job sometimes takes him out of town on Sundays. So when Heather Tapster turned up and offered her services as a regular pianist, she seemed a Godsend.” She was unable to conceal a slight wince.