The Priest at Puddle's End (A Lady Marmalade Mystery Book 10)

by Jason Blacker

  Galen smiled.

  “Almost thirty-one years without a fight,” he said.

  “You’re very fortunate,” said Frances.

  “Yes, but we work at it. I think working together in the pub helps. Are you married, Frances?”

  “I was. Eric, my husband, past away some years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  There was a moment of silence between the three of them, that Florence decided to fill.

  “You’ll remember that I told you that Frances is a sleuth. She often helps Scotland Yard on their cases.”

  “Yes, yes I do remember that now that you mention it. That terrible Forsyth murder here back in thirty-seven, thirty-eight, was it?”

  “Thirty-nine,” corrected Florence.

  Galen looked from Frances to Florence.

  “There hasn’t been another murder that I’m not aware of has there?” he asked.

  “No, good heavens no,” said Florence, “though I’ve asked Frances to see if she can find any anomalies with the Deacon’s murder from twenty-nine.”

  Galen rubbed his beard.

  “That’s quite some time ago.”

  “It is, and I was wondering if there was anything you remember about it that seemed odd.”

  A young man, in his early to mid-twenties came to the table. He was taller than Galen and slimmer with brown curly hair and a boyish face.

  “Dad, can I offer your guests something to drink?” He looked over at Florence. “Good afternoon, Ms. Hudnall, it’s wonderful to see you again.”

  “Hello, Holme.”

  Galen looked at his son.

  “Yes thank you, Holme, please offer our guests some drinks. Where did my manners go?”

  Holme, also being left handed like his father took down their orders. Frances ordered a gin and tonic. Florence asked for an ale.

  “This is Lady Marmalade,” said Galen.

  “I know,” he said to his father, and then turned towards Frances. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my Lady. Welcome to our humble little town. Harmonie is telling anyone who’ll listen all about you.” He smiled at her.

  “Thank you, Holme, that’s very kind. It’s wonderful to be here enjoying your hospitality and to meet you. Please call me Frances.”

  Holme nodded. Galen watched his son head on back towards the bar.

  “They were only small then,” he said, turning back to look at his guests. “Thankfully they don’t remember much about any of it.”

  “How old would they have been at the time?” asked Frances.

  “Let me see,” said Galen. “That terrible murder happened in September, was it?”

  Florence nodded.

  “The ninth of September.”

  “Right, Harmonie was born in August of twenty-one, so she would have been eight and Holme was born in November of nineteen, making him just shy of ten.”

  “Are you Catholic?” asked Frances.

  Galen nodded.

  “Are you members of the congregation? Florence and I were there for Ash Wednesday, but I don’t recall seeing you then.”

  “We were back then yes, but since then we’ve sort of fallen away. Business keeps us very busy. We didn’t attend this past Wednesday.”

  Holme came back with the drinks and placed them in front of everyone. He then returned to the bar. A few local men had entered and sat up at the bar talking with Holme.

  “And what did you think of Deacon Millar?” asked Frances.

  “He seemed like a likable fellow. Most of his time was spent with the upkeep of the church grounds and such. He also led some of the study groups. Children’s bible study and women’s bible study.”

  “And Turnbull?”

  “Now there was an odd man. He was only here a short while. A month or two if I recall…”

  “Just a month,” said Florence. Galen nodded.

  “Right. I didn’t have much to do with him. Looked a bit shady, but then perhaps I’m being unkind.”

  “Why did you think he was shady?” asked Florence.

  “Well, he kept to himself, he had shifty eyes, and I’d sometimes catch him staring at the women and when I did, he’d quickly look away guiltily. I mean he’s there one day and gone the next. That’s particularly suspicious, don’t you think?”

  Frances nodded.

  “Everyone seems to think he murdered the Deacon,” she said.

  “Well yes, he seemed like the type. Not that we meet many murderers here at Puddle’s End. But you’ve got to wonder, don’t you? I mean he was here such a short time, gone as soon as the Deacon is murdered and never seen again. It’s all speculation on my part of course, but the inquest seemed happy with Sergeant Pott’s investigation. And so I suppose that’s why everyone thinks it was him.”

  “And you, do you think it was him?” asked Florence.

  “Seems like the best candidate. I didn’t have anything to do with him directly so I can’t say for certain, but all arrows pointed that way. I can’t think of anyone else that the Deacon had trouble with.”

  A shorter plump woman came out from the kitchen towards them. She wore a white scarf over her head and a white apron over her clothes that was stained with her work in the kitchen. She carried a tray with their food on it. The most remarkable thing about her was her horse’s mouth.

  “Hello, Lottie,” said Florence, “looks magnificent as always.”

  Lottie smiled.

  “Hope you enjoy it, Flo,” she said, “I fried the fish extra crispy just how you like it.”

  She placed the plates of food in front of each of them, and then wiped her hand on her apron and offered it to Frances. Frances would have preferred not to, but she politely shook it lightly. Lottie had a big smile. So big, you weren’t sure if she was about to neigh.

  “You must be Lady Marmalade,” said Lottie, “my daughter won’t stop telling me all about you.”

  “Please call me Frances.”

  “Will do, Fran,” she said, ignoring Frances, “I do hope you enjoy the pie. If I don’t mind saying so meself, I think it’s the best in Puddle’s End.”

  “Smells like it is,” said Frances.

  “Alright then,” she said, “it’s starting to get busy so I’m needed back in the kitchen, but maybe you’ll still be here when I get a break.”

  She leaned over and kissed her husband and walked on back into the kitchen.

  “Lovely wife you have,” said Frances.

  “And the best cook in Puddle’s End,” he added.

  They sat in silence for a moment as Frances and Florence started on their meals.

  “You were saying you can’t think of anyone else who had a problem with the Deacon,” said Frances, finishing a bit of pie and cutting into the rest of it to let the heat escape.

  “Yes. But it’s all speculation of course. I didn’t know the Deacon very well. Only in passing and the odd social event that the church held. Like I said, he was mostly involved with the women and children.”

  “And how did the children take to him?” asked Frances.

  Galen looked off into the rest of the pub. A few more men had arrived and a couple of couples.

  “Fine I should think. You know how children are, most of them don’t care much for bible study.”

  “Would that be true for your children?” asked Frances.

  Galen nodded.

  “Perhaps that’s my fault. I’ve never been a true believe in God’s word, if you will, so I suppose they picked up on that. And of course after that awful event, we pulled them out of bible study. I didn’t feel it was safe for them then. And that’s when we sort of fell away from the church.”

  Florence nodded.

  “This fish is perfect,” she said. “Your wife is a terribly good cook.”

  Galen smiled and nodded.

  “The fish and chips is one of our most popular dishes. So is the pie,” he said, trying to be inclusive.

  “We were speaking with Matilda from the church,” said Franc
es.

  “The secretary?” asked Galen.

  Frances nodded.

  “Yes. She said that when she left at about four thirty or so that day, it was a Monday, that she saw you.”

  Galen nodded.

  “We exchanged a few words.”

  “Anything related to the Deacon?”

  “No, I asked how she was, she asked me where I was off to and we walked together for a short while until I turned off back towards town.”

  “And you were off to the shops, is that right?” asked Frances.

  “You aren’t suggesting that I had anything to do with it. I hardly knew the man. What would I have against him?”

  “Not at all,” said Frances, “I’m just trying to get a fuller picture of what everyone was doing who might have been around the church that afternoon.”

  Galen looked at Frances for a while.

  “Yes, I was on my way to the shops.”

  “Now the shops are closer to this pub than they are the church. If you’re going to the shops, why would you head up towards the church first?”

  “It was a fine summer’s evening and I felt like a walk. I often walk up that way, there’s plenty of trails and meadows. It’s more peaceful and beautiful than a walk about town. Are you sure you don’t suspect me for the Deacon’s murder. I didn’t do it if you are.”

  Frances shook her head.

  “No, I’m sorry Galen, I don’t mean to upset you, I just wanted to hear it from you personally. You know how gossip can go.”

  Galen nodded his head.

  “I do. We hear all about it here at the pub.”

  “Now there was a young boy out and about at the church, so we heard, playing with his dog.”

  “Yes, I recall seeing him playing up and down the hedgerow on the office side of the church, between the church and the rectory. Colin Lewis is his name.”

  Frances nodded.

  “Can you tell me about him?”

  “All I know is from the gossip I heard.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll have to stick with for the time being.”

  “He was a shy, reclusive boy. There seemed to be something not right about him. He didn’t play well with the other kids and he got into fights at school. He wasn’t a bully, I think the reverse was rather true. But he was sullen. More sullen than you’d expect teenagers to be. His best friend it seemed was that dog.”

  “Did you know the dog’s name?”

  Galen shook his head.

  “It was a border collie though.”

  “Anything else about Colin?” asked Frances.

  Galen looked off towards the pub entrance. A middle aged couple entered and he waved at them.

  “Well, his father was very strict from what I heard. I never knew the family mind you, they were one of those that kept to themselves. The wife was pious and they attended church regularly but never stuck around afterwards. Colin might have attended Sunday school when he was younger but I can’t recall for certain. At the time of the murder he must have been eighteen or so. Some of the townsfolk thought the father was actually abusive. There were incidents, so I’ve heard, where Colin ended up in hospital, but I don’t think anything ever came of it. His father was a drinker.”

  “Is he still here in Puddle’s End?”

  “He is now. Has been for about ten years or so I’d guess. He came back to take over the family’s dairy business when his father passed away about ten years ago.”

  Frances ate her pot pie and sipped on her gin and tonic in between. Florence was making quick work of her fish having doused it with lemon juice and soaked the chips in vinegar. Frances looked at Florence.

  “I think we should pay the Lewises a visit,” she said.

  “You think he could have done it?” asked Galen.

  “It’s hard to rule anyone out at this stage, I’d just like to talk to him and see if he remembers seeing anything. Do you think he’d remember seeing you?”

  “I should think so. I saw him, and I’m sure he must have seen me.”

  “What do you think, Galen, do you think he could have killed the Deacon?” asked Frances.

  Galen shrugged.

  “At this stage as you get me thinking about it, who couldn’t have killed him? I don’t know anymore. I still think Turnbull sounds like the best suspect but why, I don’t know. Colin was a troubled lad, that was no secret. He had a temper too and he would have known the Deacon through church and maybe Sunday school. But to actually kill him, I can’t think of why.”

  “Motive is my primary concern too, Galen,” said Florence. “That’s why I’ve asked Frances to help look into it. I’d feel so much safer knowing there was a reason for the Deacon’s death rather than just some random, angry outburst by someone who lost their marbles and then did such an awful crime.”

  Galen nodded.

  “There has to be a motive,” he said to her and then he turned to look at Frances. “Do you find there’s usually a motive?”

  “There is always a motive, Galen, however small it might be.”

  “Even in something like these random emotional murders you hear about?”

  Frances nodded.

  “Yes, even in something apparently random. A murder is about rage and anger. The motive for such things can be to quench the anger and if you dig deeper into that background you find a stronger reason or motive for the murder. For instance. Let’s take a look at the Deacon’s murder and let’s, for argument’s sake, say it was Turnbull who did it. Why did he do it? Well, he was angry and lost control of his temper. What made him angry? Something he and the Deacon argued about. At the moment it appears to be about money. That can be a good enough motive, I’ve seen it often. But perhaps there is more to it. They knew each other in Blairgowrie a long time ago. Perhaps the anger was seeded there for some reason. If one looks deep enough, one will always find a motive.”

  Galen smiled and nodded.

  “I heard he had stolen from the church and that he was arguing about needing money. Perhaps it was a simple as that.”

  “Could be,” said Frances.

  “What we’d really like to do,” said Florence, “is get ahold of Turnbull and interview him and see if we can get at his motive.”

  “If he did it,” said Frances.

  “Right, if he did indeed do it.”

  They ate the rest of their meal in silence. Frances pushed her plate away and Harmonie came by and collected hers and Florence’s plates. She asked how it was before disappearing back into the kitchen.

  “When you were out walking,” said Frances, “did you happen to hear anything, any arguing coming from the church?”

  Galen shook his head.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said, “being on the road in front of the church is quite some distance from where the Deacon was found murdered.”

  Frances nodded.

  “I know, but just by the off chance you might have heard something.”

  “Maybe I was late or too early by several minutes,” he said.

  “Do you know the groundskeeper, Peter Bolton?” asked Frances.

  “I know of him, but I can’t say I know him. He comes in here once in a while for a pint. Keeps to himself. Fairly angry sort or so I gather.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Frances.

  “He got into a fight outside the pub one night, quite some time ago with Colin Lewis as a matter of fact. I had to call the police.”

  “Really, Colin Lewis, are they the same age?” asked Frances.

  “No, I shouldn’t think so, I’d say that Peter has to be at least ten years older.”

  “What was it about?”

  Galen shrugged.

  “I have no idea, most likely some woman.”

  “What gives you that idea?”

  “Well, isn’t always about some woman?”

  “You didn’t actually see the fight, did you?”

  “Not really. I got notified they were fighting outside. So I called the police and the
n went out to try and calm them down. I think they’d finished it up mostly by then. By the time the police came they’d gone their separate ways.”

  “Were they both in the pub before?” asked Florence.

  “No, just Peter. He had a few and then left. Probably around nine or ten I’d say. That’s the time he usually leaves if he’s here. They must have crossed paths outside I’d imagine.”

  “And when was this?” asked Florence.

  “I’d have to say at least a year ago, maybe two.”

  “We were talking with Mr. Bolton this morning,” said Frances, “and we got him quite agitated. In the heat of his emotional outburst, he said something about the devil working in the church. Do you know what that might be about?” asked Frances.

  Galen looked off towards the entrance to wave at another group of men coming in for a drink. Then he looked down at the table before looking back at Frances and Florence.

  “Now this is strictly gossip, but rumor has it that he and the housekeeper are going at it. I wouldn’t know for certain but that’s what I heard.”

  “You mean Isabel Slaughter?” asked Florence.

  Galen nodded.

  “And they’re cousins if you can believe it. Something not right about him that’s for certain.”

  “Yes, we know that,” said Florence, “he admitted as much.”

  Galen cocked his eyebrow.

  “Oh,” he said.

  “Is there anything else you can think of when he mentioned the devil working in the church?” asked Frances.

  Galen shook his head slowly.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said. “Like I said, we haven’t been much involved in the church for the past seventeen years. Not since the Deacon was murdered. If you don’t mind, it’s getting busier and I need to help Lottie and the kids.”

  Frances nodded. Galen got up out of the booth.

  “It was lovely to meet you,” he said, “I hope we’ll be seeing more of you while you’re here.”

  They shook hands.

  “Thank you, Galen, the food is wonderful and the company was delightful, I’m sure we’ll be back again.”

  Frances and Florence still had some of their drinks to finish.

  Harmonie came by and delivered the bill. It was handwritten.

  “I’ve given you a discount. It’s a special discount only reserved for royalty.”