“You’re right about the butter,” she said. “It really is special to have it so fresh.”
Connie smiled and nodded.
“It’s interesting you say that about the church, Colin,” said Frances. “When we spoke to Mr. Bolton he said that it might be God’s house but the devil’s working inside of it. What do you think he meant by it? What do you mean by it?”
“Well, he would know, wouldn’t he? And he could do something about it, couldn’t he? But he hasn’t, has he?”
“But what do you mean? What is going on at that place of worship that is so bad?”
“It’s probably the biggest reason there’s so much violence in this small town,” said Lewis. “I’m not going to say anything about the church, you’ll have to figure it out for yourself, it’s a close community and they’ve put the fear of God into most of their flock. So you won’t get it from me. Like I said, me and mother are going to leave soon as we can. This place is no place to find peace.”
Frances looked over at Connie. She shrugged and put some scone into her mouth and washed it down with a drink of tea.
“Colin never told me anything. Alls I know, he didn’t like Sunday School and he was happier working on the farm with his dad than going to church, and that’s saying something.”
Frances looked over at Lewis. He finished chewing and went for another swallow of tea but found his mug empty.
“Besides,” said Lewis, “what’s going on in that house of God as some of you put it doesn’t have anything to do with the murder of the Deacon.”
“How can you be so sure?” said Florence. Frances was working on her scone.
Lewis shrugged.
“Can’t be sure. But seems very unlikely. They’re two different things and the fella that killed the Deacon, that Turnbull man, he’d only been here for a month or something, wasn’t he? So he hadn’t been here long enough to get involved. Besides, he’s not the type to get involved in that business.”
“What business is that?” asked Frances. Florence was now working on her scone.
“The business I told you about before. The one I’m not telling about.”
Frances looked at him steadily for a bit. Lewis just held his gaze. There was something odd about him. But he was a clam when it came to this puzzle.
“Galen Teel mentioned breaking up a fight between you and Peter Bolton,” said Frances. “When was that?”
Lewis looked down at his lap for a bit.
“Last spring I think, maybe the autumn before. I can’t remember.”
“What was it about?”
“Personal issue,” he said. “He hasn’t done things he should’ve done and I don’t like that. I don’t like bullies, but worse than that, I don’t like cowards. He’s the latter.”
“Is it related to what’s going on at church that nobody wants to talk about?”
Lewis looked at Frances for a moment.
“Now you’re catching on,” he said.
Lewis slapped his hands down on his thighs.
“Look, I’ve gotta get back to the work.” He stood up and walked out. Frances and Florence watched him walk out and they saw a sliver of him through the window before he disappeared right towards the trough where they had found him. Frances looked back at Connie. She smiled.
“He’s an odd lad,” she said, “but he’s a good lad. He wouldn’t have done nothing like that.”
“Do you keep on top of the town gossip?” asked Florence.
“A little,” she said.
“So who do you fancy for killing the Deacon then?”
“I can’t say. I don’t understand it. Didn’t then, don’t now. Do I? I never liked the groundskeeper, I figured him for it.”
“Turnbull?”
“No the other one, Peter. Peter Bolton.”
“Why is that?”
Connie shrugged.
“Don’t have a reason, do I? But he didn’t seem to like the Deacon very much. Got his orders from him. There’s probably bad blood between them. Never saw them closely, but when I did see them they never looked happy. Looked like he carried a grudge against the Deacon.”
“You’ve been very hospitable, Connie,” said Frances, putting her plate down next to her mug on the table. Florence did the same.
“We don’t want to take up anymore of your time.”
Connie stood up and walked them out. At the porch Frances stopped and turned towards her.
“You make great products here. Can they be bought in town?”
Connie nodded.
“The grocer carries them.”
“Well, thank you again, Connie, and good bye.”
Frances and Florence walked back to the car. The dogs were busy watching Lewis pack hay into the feeding troughs. He stopped and looked after them. Frances waved as Florence started up and drove down the driveway. All she received in turn were blank stares.
At the end of the driveway she got out, opened and then closed the gate. When Lady Marmalade looked back, Connie was nowhere to be seen and Lewis was walking towards the barn.
“Odd sort,” said Frances as she climbed back into her friend’s car.
“Aren’t they just. Queer as nine bob notes the pair of them.”
Frances laughed. They drove on in silence for a short while.
“What on earth do you think is going on at that church?” asked Florence.
Frances looked at her friend.
“That’s the one piece of the puzzle that might let us see the color of the whole thing.”
“I think,” said Florence, “that maybe there’s a lot more embezzlement going on. Maybe the Deacon was stealing money from the church, and perhaps that’s why Turnbull was angry about not receiving his money.”
Frances stared out the window.
“What do you think?” Florence asked.
“I prefer not to speculate, my dear Flo, without more evidence to point to.”
“But it could be theft, couldn’t it?”
“It could, though it could be worse.”
“How could it be worse? What possibly could be worse than the murder of the Deacon and stealing money from the church.”
Frances didn’t say anything for a while.
“The devil would know,” she said at last, “but he’s not talking, is he?”
NINE
A Spinster's Sorrows
AT just after ten in the morning Florence’s phone rang. The weekend had begrudgingly rolled over onto the rainy damp start of the week. It was Monday morning, and Sunday had found Frances and Florence in the cottage reading, listening to the wireless and generally not talking about the case. There wasn’t anything to talk about. Pearce hadn’t called from Scotland Yard, not that she expected him to. But as Lady Marmalade looked at the pieces of the puzzle that made up this case, she realized that there were large gaps missing. And without those corner pieces, it was hard to make sense of such an old murder.
“Yes, it’s Ms. Hudnall. Oh, hello, Sergeant Noble, nice to hear from you. To what do I owe the call? Good Lord. Really? That’s awful. Yes, we would. We’ll be there in ten minutes. Thank you. Good bye.”
Frances looked up from the paper. Something was afoot. Florence put down the telephone and looked at her friend.
“We’re needed at the church. There’s been another murder. Matilda Walmsley’s dead.”
Frances nodded.
“Did he give you any other information?”
“No, but he thought we might like to come and see for ourselves. It looks like natural causes, though he isn’t ruling out foul play since we’ve started poking into the Deacon’s murder.”
“Right. Let’s be off.”
The rain was light but persistent, however, it didn’t require umbrellas. Florence put on a hat and Frances tied a scarf around her head. That would be sufficient. Time was of the essence. They left the house and made it to the church in under ten minutes as Florence had promised.
There was nobody in the church. It was
quiet. Mass had been cancelled. They made their way round the side like they had done just a couple of days earlier to the offices. A bobby was standing outside trying not to let the rain bother him. He asked who they were and then let them in.
Inside was Sergeant Noble with another constable and the coroner was there with two aids ready to take the body away. Sergeant Noble nodded at them as they came in.
“This is Dr. Harlan Toft,” he said, gesturing to a man in his sixties with a head full of white hair, a bushy white mustache and round spectacles. He had a kind grandfatherly face.
“How do you do, Doctor?” asked Frances as they shook hands.
“I’m alive, and that matters,” he said. He shook hands with Florence. “Sergeant Noble asked me to wait until you got here.”
“Thank you, Doctor. What do you suppose at the moment?”
“Looks like natural causes, but with you looking into the Deacon’s murder, I’m not willing to rule out foul play. She was an older woman so heart failure is not out of the question.”
“Do you know how old she was exactly?” asked Frances.
“She was eighty-two.”
Frances looked back at Sergeant Noble.
“Has anything been touched or moved?” she asked.
Noble shook his head.
“My men know better than that. This room, Matilda Walmsley is as we found her.”
Frances nodded. She looked around. The room was as they had left it on Friday morning. A couple of chairs at the back wall opposite Walmsley’s desk. A low table in front with church pamphlets on it and a bible and Sunday Missal.
Walmsley was off to the side of her desk. It looked as if she might have tried to stand up, clutching her chest before she fell over. She lay across the desk, her head and torso over papers, her left hand under her chest and her face facing away from the entranceway. Her waist and legs were perpendicular to the table and bent, her feet turned inwards and her ankles out of her shoes.
Papers were strewn about the front and side of the desk where she lay. Frances bent down to look at the papers. They were mostly invoices and mostly to small businesses in town. What was curious was the amounts were conveniently similar. All between ten and forty pounds. There were three of them. One for Baudin Grocers, another for Ainsworth Meats and a third for Hollins’ Cabinetmakers.
Frances got up and looked at Dr. Toft.
“Do you know when she might have died?” she asked.
He looked at his watch. It was coming on ten thirty. “I would say sometime within the previous two hours. Rigor mortis hasn’t set in yet, though it’s soon to happen I’m sure.” Frances nodded and looked around again.
As Frances looked at the table, Matilda was on the right end of it, in the middle was her typewriter and next to that was a pot with a mug. Frances walked around behind Matilda and went over to the teapot. She took off her other scarf which was around her neck and used it to take the lid off the teapot. Inside was very little tea, but there were a lot of tea leaves inside that had been chopped up. She bent down and sniffed at it. It wasn’t tea but rather mint leaves. They gave off a strong scent. And it was sweet smelling too.
The mug next to the teapot had a third of the golden liquid still left in it. Frances replaced the lid and looked around. Nothing else looked out of the ordinary. There was a bookshelf behind Walmsley’s desk and to the right as Frances looked out over Walmsley’s desk were filing cabinets.
“Where is Father Fannon?” she asked.
“He’s with my constable in his office,” said Sergeant Noble.
Frances nodded.
“You didn’t notice any violence on her body at all, did you, Dr. Toft?”
“None that I can see, though a full inspection will wait until I get her back on my table.”
“Thank you, Doctor, I think I’ve seen enough.”
Dr. Toft and his two men started taking Walmsley’s body and placing it on the stretcher.
“Rigor has started,” said Dr. Toft, looking up at Noble and Lady Marmalade. “I can feel it in her jaw, so I feel fairly certain that death must have occurred around eight and nine o’clock.”
Frances nodded.
“Thank you, Harlan.”
Everyone watched the coroner and his men carry the body out of the room. Noble looked at Frances.
“You fancy this as a murder?”
“I do,” she said.
“And do you have any evidence to suggest the same?”
“Well, if there’s no violence to her body, I’d suggest she was poisoned, and she was fine on Friday morning when Florence and I left and I will assume unless I’ve heard otherwise that she was fine this morning when she came in. As such, we’re looking for a poison, Sergeant, and I’d like to have those tea leaves analyzed.”
Noble nodded at his constable.
“Be sure to take those when we leave.”
“Yes sir.”
“I should also like to speak with the priest and housekeeper if they’re about.”
“I believe they’re both in his office.”
Noble led the way down the hall to the priest’s office at the very end. He knocked and walked straight in.
A tall, slim constable in plain clothes had a notebook out and was writing in it with a pen.
“Alright, Constable what have you got?” asked Noble.
“I uh, was just getting round to speaking with Father about the deceased. Ms. Slaughter says she always made Ms. Walmsley’s tea for seven thirty in the morning sharp. A big pot of it she liked just after she got in.”
“And when did she get in usually, my dear?” asked Frances.
Slaughter’s face was stained with tears and still held the ruddy complexion of deep emotion upon it.
“Between seven and seven thirty, mum. Usually closer to seven.”
“I see, and today?”
“Today it was closer to seven thirty.”
“And she only drinks mint tea?”
Slaughter nodded while she bunched up a tissue in her hands.
“In the morning, mum, she will only drink mint tea in the morning.”
“She never has anything else in the mornings then?”
“No mum, she only drinks mint tea in the mornings. In the afternoon she’ll have a regular cuppa but it’s only mint in the mornings.”
“There were a lot of leaves in that pot, Isabel, did she usually take it that strong?”
“Always, mum. She’d complain if I didn’t put in a large handful or two. In the summer we grow mint in the garden and she doesn’t need it quite as strong then. She says the fresh leaves have a better flavor.”
“And are you the one that buys the herbal leaves?”
Slaughter nodded.
“I do, mum. I pick up a packet from the grocer in town every week.”
“Baudin Grocers?”
Slaughter looked at her quizzically.
“No mum, the grocer in town is called Gary’s. We don’t have a supermarket here, we’re too small.”
“Baudin’s is a chain?”
Slaughter shrugged.
“Never heard of them, mum.”
“I need you to give the constable all the mint leaves to test. You might want to throw in some of the tea leaves as well, just to be sure.”
Frances looked over at Sergeant Noble. He nodded.
“Did she like her tea sweet?”
“Oh yes, mum, she liked it very sweet. Sweeter than me.”
“And give the constable your sugar for testing too. We can’t take too many precautions. You’ll have to do without for now or pick up some more from the grocer.”
“You think she was poisoned, mum?”
“I do,” said Frances.
Slaughter burst into tears and dabbed at her eyes with her tissue.
“You’re quite upset, Isabel.”
“Yes mum, she was murdered.”
“And yet you didn’t care for her very much did you?”
“I liked her fine, mum, she di
dn’t care for Peter and me.”
“On account of what you two were up to?”
Slaughter looked over at the priest who wouldn’t look at her. She then looked back up at Frances before looking down at her lap again.
“Ever since you’ve been around, he won’t have nothing to do with me.”
“That’s good. You two need to get back on the straight path. Now tell me, Isabel, how was Matilda this morning?”
“She seemed like her usual self.”
“She didn’t seem winded or sickly? Pale or out of sorts?”
“No mum, she walked to work like she always did.”
“And when did you find her?”
“I brought her tea for seven thirty sharp. I left and went back at just after nine thirty to see if she was finished and I could take her mug and pot away. I saw her then flopped over like that on the desk.”
“And did you touch anything or move anything?”
“No mum, it was quite the shock. I screamed and ran down the hall to Father’s office here and told him what had happened. He must have heard me for I met him as he was coming out of the office. He went and checked on her and then he came back and called the police.”
“Did you go with him when he checked on her?”
Slaughter shook her head vigorously. She dabbed at her eyes again. Frances turned to look at the priest who looked less confident than when she had met with him on the Friday before.
“Did you touch the body or move anything, Kane?”
“Well, I, er, it was quite the shock. I went up to her and felt for a pulse on her neck. Naturally, I didn’t feel anything. I don’t recall moving anything, no.”
“And then you came back here and called the police straightaway?”
Father Fannon nodded.
“That’s right,” he said. “Isabel was here with me.”
Slaughter nodded.
“You've been getting a lot of cabinetry work done, Kane?” asked Frances.
Fannon looked up at her and furrowed his brow.
“Not lately, no. Not that I can think of. Why?”
“No reason,” said Frances.
Father Fannon looked off towards the far wall and the image of Pope Pius XII.
“Since we left,” said Frances, “do you have any reason to be suspicious of Matilda’s murder?”
The Priest at Puddle's End (A Lady Marmalade Mystery Book 10) Page 11
