by Shéa MacLeod
“I saw him,” Rupert said. “I was working in my office. He passed by the window a couple times.”
“Were any of you acquainted with Mr. Blodgett before his arrival at this hotel?” Colonel Frampton asked. Everyone shook their heads in the negative. “Very well. Thank you all. I shall pass this on to the police when they arrive.” The colonel put away his notebook and marched from the room. There was quiet for a moment and then everyone started chattering.
There were a whole lot of people with poor alibis. Someone was lying. Certainly James Carsley was, at least about the argument. I needed to know more about Jeffrey Blodgett. I needed to know who had a motive to kill.
Chapter 7
The Case of the Missing Curate
“NOW THAT’S OVER, WE’RE off to the church. Want to come?” I waggled my eyebrows meaningfully. Lucas gave me a baffled look.
“We just found a dead body, Viola. I don’t think running around ghost hunting is appropriate.”
“Excuse me.” I crossed my arms and shot him a glare. Sometimes he could be a real stick in the mud. “I’m the one that found the body, not you. And what else are we supposed to do? Sit around feeling gloomy? I for one would like to take my mind off things.”
“Dwelling on it won’t help anyone,” Jez agreed, zipping up her lime green jacket. “Although if we stay here, I could read everyone’s Tarot.”
“The church it is,” Lucas said. “I’ll get the car keys.”
“Got them right here.” I dangled the keys in front of his face.
He gave me a fake smile. He clearly knew I was up to something. “Let’s go then.”
The three of us clambered into the car. As we took off toward Chipping Poggs, Lucas said, “All right, what’s going on?”
I quickly told him about our search of Blodgett’s room and Jez finding the prison release papers. Lucas was fit to be tied. “I can’t believe you broke into a crime scene.”
“We left everything as it was,” I assured him.
“And we wore gloves,” Jez pipped up. “So we didn’t leave fingerprints.”
“That makes it so much better,” he muttered, shooting me a look of disapproval.
I ignored him. “The article we found online didn’t say much about the theft, but it has to have something to do with his death, don’t you think? Anyway, we figured we should ask the preacher. He should know more. Plus it’s an excuse to get out of that hotel. Those people are weird.”
Jez snickered. Lucas gave me a sidelong look, but wisely said nothing, instead focusing on the road ahead which was still muddy and half covered in large puddles.
Since it was daylight and had mostly stopped raining, I was finally able to get a good look at Chipping Poggs. It was exactly as an English village should be: wisteria covered Georgian cottages with the odd Tudor building thrown in for good measure, narrow lanes edged with low-walled gardens, and signposts that pointed vaguely in random directions as if school children had pulled a prank and twisted them around a bit.
A person in a yellow rain slicker and green rubber boots strode along the side of the road. I was pretty sure it was the same woman who’d given us directions yesterday. I waved, but she didn’t look up.
The church was built of old stone and half covered in lush, green vines. It looked like at least part of it was medieval, but had likely been revamped sometime in the Victorian era. As was typical of old village churches, it was surrounded by a small graveyard, the headstones poking willy nilly through the grass, leaning as if a gust of wind might blow them over. A giant weeping willow took up half the front yard, softening the place and giving it a dreamy quality. The grounds were surrounded by a low stone wall also covered in vines. To one side of the church, beyond the wall, was a small, matching rectory meant to house the pastor.
Lucas parked in front of the church and the three of us walked up the narrow path between the gravestones. It was wonderfully creepy and oddly soothing. The church door stood open a crack and we stepped into the chill, musty dimness of the old building. Our footsteps echoed loudly on the stone floor. There was no one inside.
Jez glanced around in wonder. “I totally believe this place is haunted. I really need to set up here one night. I bet the readings will be off the charts.”
Lucas grimaced, but didn’t say anything about ghosts. Instead he said, “Wonder where everyone is?”
“They probably leave it open so people can pray or whatever,” Jez said. “Despite the theft ten years ago, this place isn’t exactly a hotbed of crime.”
I agreed. “We should try the rectory. He’s probably having elevenses.” What the British called ”elevenses” had been a delightful find, as far as I was concerned. It was basically a morning coffee break—or tea break, if you were into that—but with a snack, as well.
“I’ll stay here,” Jez said, pulling one of her gadgets out of her coat pocket. “I want to get a better feel for the place. I might even catch something on EMP.”
Once outside I noticed there was a small, wrought iron gate in the wall near the rectory. We made our way through the damp grass and let ourselves in at the gate, which creaked and groaned as if it didn’t want to be bothered. The rectory door opened before we could even knock. A small man stood, neatly dressed in black except for a white dog collar. His wispy white hair only partially covered a pink scalp and little round spectacles made his watery hazel eyes appear big and buggy.
“Visitors! What a pleasant surprise.” His broad smile bunched up his pink cheeks and revealed a small dimple next to his mouth. “I’m Thomas Melton. The vicar of St. Oswin the Good. What brings you to my church?”
From inside came the noise of hammers followed by a loud crash. The vicar winced. “Ignore that. I’m having some work done in my study. Roof leaks. Had to get a couple local boys in.”
Lucas introduced us, leaving out the part about us being writers.
“We wanted to know more about Jeffrey Blodgett,” I blurted.
Father Thomas’s forehead wrinkled into a frown and then smoothed out. “Ah! The theft. That was some time ago, but I think I can help. Come in. Come in. I’ve got the kettle on.”
Yep. I’d been right about elevenses.
We followed him into a small eat-in kitchen. The wallpaper was a faded green with large, pink and red roses which clashed with the orange and gold striped curtain. A sink, stove, and fridge of dubious vintage were along one wall with just enough counter space between to slice a loaf of bread. A narrow table was shoved up against the other wall with a chair at each end.
“Take a seat. I’ll be right back.” There was a great deal of crashing and thumping before Father Thomas returned grasping a metal folding chair. His skin was pinker and shinier than before and he appeared winded, but triumphant. He placed the chair at the empty side of the table and then turned off the electric kettle, which had begun shrieking. As he poured hot water into a tea pot he began to chatter amiably.
“Let me see... It was a good ten years ago now. I’d been vicar here for, oh, five years or so. The former vicar had died, you see. Quite an old man. Eighty-something, I believe. In any case, the rectory was rather worn down at that point, as you can imagine. I don’t think it had been touched since the seventies. The eighteen seventies.” He chortled as he placed a steaming teapot in the middle of the table and turned to collect tea cups from a cupboard above the sink. “Not really, but it was in definite need of some tender loving care. I had been trying to convince the powers that be that it was in dire need of some upgrades when, would you believe, there was a terrible storm. The roof leaked and there was water damage all over the walls and floors in the sitting room and the study. Terrible. Fortunately, it meant that the diocese had to stop dragging their feet and fix the place. Silver lining.”
“How lucky,” I said dryly.
“Yes. Wasn’t it? Although they clearly didn’t do a very good job.” He set milk and sugar on the table along with a plate of chocolate bourbons. “I hope everyone likes biscuits
.” I knew he meant cookies. We both assured him we did. “Now, where was I?” He sank into the folding chair which let out a hideous squeak of metal on metal. I was sure he was going to wind up on the floor, but the chair held.
“You got the rectory fixed,” Lucas prodded.
“Ah, yes. They’d finished the roof and were just starting on the interior.” He poured tea into our cups and waved at the sugar bowl. I helped myself to a large spoonful. “One morning I went over to the church and discovered the door standing wide open. I swear I locked it, but the police said there was no sign of tampering. In any case, some valuable items were missing.”
“What sort of items?” Lucas asked.
“An antique silver communion set, for one. Also, there were a couple of very old Bibles worth a few hundred quid each.” I knew quid meant pound, which was a bit more than an American dollar with the current exchange rate. “And there were some candlesticks which we used for special occasions.”
“Was it the workmen?” I asked. I knew what Simon—the storyteller down at the pub—had claimed, but I wanted the vicar’s take.
The vicar beamed at me as if I’d said something particularly brilliant. “That’s what everyone thought at first. But then I discovered my curate was missing. He’d only recently arrived. Quite a young man. He seemed so stable though. Such a lovely boy. He was obsessed with old buildings and secret passages. He was acquainted with the family up at the manor house and often spent time there.” He frowned as if lost in thought. “In any case, the police decided he must have gotten tired of his duties and run off with the goods. The family was horrified. Insisted that he would have never done such a thing, but...” the vicar shrugged.
“Where does Jeffrey Blodgett fit in?” I asked.
“He was one of the men working on the interior repairs here at the rectory. Initially, he was cleared because everyone believed the curate did it and there was no evidence to prove otherwise. But, you see, about a year after the theft, Jeffrey Blodgett was caught trying to pawn some pieces from the communion service. He was convicted of the theft and sentenced to prison. The police tried to get him to reveal the whereabouts of the missing curate, but he refused. Instead he served his time and eventually was released early on good behavior.”
“We heard something of this story down at the pub,” Lucas said.
The vicar sighed. “Simon does like to tell the tale. Well, he is right in that the curate was never found. He didn’t use his passport and he didn’t sell any of the other stolen items. The police assume that Blodgett and the curate were in on it together, but that Robbie—that’s the curate—used fake documents and escaped the country leaving Blodgett to get caught. I got a call about a month ago letting me know that Blodgett had been released from prison.”
“But why would he come here?” I asked. “Surely he’d want to stay away from the place he’d robbed.”
The vicar shrugged. “Who knows the inner workings of a man’s soul? Perhaps he felt guilty and wanted to make amends.”
Lucas and I exchanged glances. Based on what we’d seen of Blodgett, he wasn’t the guilt-ridden type.
I had a sudden inspiration. “Maybe he hid the rest of the loot somewhere here in the village and that’s why the police never found it. He could have come back to get it.”
“That could very well be,” the vicar admitted. “It’s certainly a possibility.”
There was another loud crash. A freckled face topped by a wild thatch of ginger hair popped around the corner. “Ah, vicar, could you come in ‘ere a moment?”
The vicar set down his tea. “If you’ll excuse me?”
“Sure,” Lucas said.
Curiosity may have killed the cat, but I found it as tempting as catnip. I got up from the table, ignoring Lucas’s scowl at my interference, and slipped after the vicar and the repair man. I wanted to see a rectory study for myself. And I wondered what it was that was so urgent that vicar had to be pulled away from his guests.
“Oh, dear,” the vicar murmured, stopping dead in the doorway to his study.
“Right?” muttered the repair man.
A second man stood in the room, scratching his head. “It ain’t right.”
“What is it?” I asked trying to peer around his shoulder.
He attempted to push me back. “A young lady shouldn’t be seeing such a terrible thing.”
“Nonsense.” I was hardly a “young” lady anymore, having passed my fortieth birthday some time ago. I shoved past him into the study and stopped dead. A wet stain spread across the ceiling and down one wall. Where it had soaked into the wall, the sheetrock had crumbled. The workmen had clearly been in the process of cutting that section of the sheetrock out to replace it. Beyond that wall were the desiccated remains of a human body. Around its neck hung a stained dog collar.
“Crikey heck,” I muttered. “It’s the missing curate.”
Chapter 8
No Such Thing As Coincidence
“YES, DEFINITELY DEAD.” Lucas’s voice was a low rumble as he spoke to the police on his cell phone. “We suspect it’s the curate who went missing ten years ago, though you’ll want to confirm with forensics.... Yes, dead for several years, I expect... I can send some pictures.... Uh, huh....”
“Here, how about a nice cup of tea, Father Thomas,” I said, forcing my voice to sound cheerful. The vision of the curate’s dead body kept dancing in my head. Somebody had obviously killed him and stuck him behind that wall. Probably the very night he went missing. I remembered old Simon’s story and wondered if the theft and murder had something to do with the “ghost” Mrs. Tillicum claimed to see ten years ago.
The workmen had left in a hurry, headed across the green to the pub. Not that I could blame them. I wouldn’t mind a stiff drink myself.
“He didn’t steal anything, did he?” The vicar’s voice was plaintive as I set a cup of hot tea in front of him. I’d added plenty of sugar and a splash of whisky I’d found at the back of the cupboard.
“No, I don’t think he did.”
“Poor Robbie.”
I sat down across from him and patted his hand. “Tell me about Robbie.”
The vicar sighed. “That’s what we called him. Robbie. But, of course, his name was Robin.”
Of course it was. Only the British would call a boy Robin instead of a perfectly respectable Robert. “I’m guessing Robbie caught Blodgett stealing from the church. Blodgett killed him and then walled him up in your study. Since it was under construction, nobody was the wiser.” I frowned. “But how did you stand the smell?”
He blanched. “Smell?”
“Yeah. It would have stunk something awful.”
“I don’t smell too well, I’m afraid. Hyposmia, the doctors call it. Had quite a few sinus infections as a child, plus old age, you know. I wouldn’t have smelled a thing.” He took a sip of the tea and sighed a little. “It would explain why Mathilde quit, though.”
“Mathilde?”
“She was the cleaner for both the church and the rectory. French. Annoying woman. She quit about two months after the theft. Claimed she couldn’t stand the state of the place. She thought I was hording food or some such. Frankly, I thought she was mentally unbalanced, but now...” he shrugged.
“Didn’t the new cleaner notice?”
“About that time I had a bit of a fall. Broke my hip. Was in convalescence for six months. Then took a sabbatical for another six to fully recover. During that time, the rector from Upper Malby took over, but he didn’t live here. The place was empty almost a year. When I returned I hired Mavis here in the village. Lovely woman, but nearly as old as I am. Still, she does an excellent job and she’s never complained once.”
Likely by the time Mavis had taken over, the body would have decomposed enough to stop smelling. She might have never noticed. Maybe a lingering odd odor she couldn’t place, but nothing suspicious.
Lucas reentered the kitchen, tucking his cell phone away. “The police still can’t get throu
gh. I’ve sent them pictures and a video and they’re fairly certain we’re correct about it being the curate, based on time frame. Since it’s been there so long, they’re not in a hurry.” He glanced down at the vicar who’d buried his face in hands. Lucas lifted an eyebrow as if to ask if the vicar was okay. I nodded. “Anyway, we’re to find you somewhere to stay,” he said to the vicar, “and lock the place up tight until the crime scene investigators can get here and process the rectory.”
The vicar nodded. “I can stay with Mavis. She has plenty of room and is a very good cook. Plus she lives just across the way so we can keep an eye on the place.” He sighed heavily. “I suppose I should go pack.”
“I’ll come with you,” Lucas said.
They disappeared down the hall and I could hear the low rumble of their voices as they climbed the stairs to the second floor. Poor vicar. I couldn’t imagine how he must feel. I was certainly a little shaky.
I dialed Cheryl’s number and waited until she answered sleepily. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Three in the morning?”
There was a pause. “Close. What’s up? Did someone die?”
“You have a suspicious mind,” I said. “But yes. Two someone’s, actually.” I quickly told her about Blodgett and about finding the curate.
“Only you would go on vacation and find a bunch of dead bodies. Leave it to the police, Viola.”
“I would, except they’re stuck on the other side of the flood.”
She groaned. “Figures. Just be careful, okay?”
“I will. How are things back home?”
“Do you know what that Bat did to me?”
James “Bat” Battersea was Astoria’s hottest police detective. And I mean that in both the looks and the ability department. Bat had been crushing on Cheryl as long as I’d known him, but Cheryl was either playing deliberately dumb, or she was just unaware. I’d never been sure which. Even a brief date during Valentine’s Day hadn’t straightened things out. I was beginning to think it would take a miracle.
