The Priest at Puddle's End Read online

  “This is a wonderful little pub,” said Frances.

  “I like it too. I’m not often here normally, being a spinster, but it’s lovely to come out with my friend for an evening. Even if we are working on a case. Speaking of which, I can’t seem to make heads nor tails of this whole thing yet.”

  Florence looked at Frances hopefully.

  “I know, my dear Flo, this is quite the puzzle at the moment. And I think what’s making things worse is that we aren’t being told the whole truth by anyone.”

  “You really get that feeling?”

  Frances nodded.

  “Yes. For example, why did Peter Bolton suggest something as twisted as the devil working inside the church? And why did Galen Teel turn away from the church at just the moment you might want to come together as a congregation in a difficult time? And then there’s everyone’s favorite suspect, Turnbull, who just vanished in the middle of the night, arguably on the day of or the day after the Deacon’s murder.”

  “How can we dig up the truth then, Fran?”

  “By continuing what we’re doing. Probing, asking questions and speaking with more people. Though I do hope that Chief Inspector Pearce is able to come up with something about Turnbull or even some of his background. That would certainly help.”

  “So what do we do next?”

  “We visit Colin Lewis. We have a lot of questions for him, Flo.”

  EIGHT

  Soured Milk

  SATURDAY morning brought with it the sun but no other clarity about the case. Florence was despondent but Frances knew these sorts of things took time. And trying to solve an old case, what she’d heard being called a cold case, was never easy. She tried to temper Florence’s despondency without buoying her up with unrealistic enthusiasm.

  They were off to see Colin Lewis, who was now carrying on in his father’s footsteps working the family’s dairy farm. It was a short ten minute drive from Florence’s cottage on the outskirts of Puddle’s End. They were greeted by a long wire fence that hugged a dirt road. They could see the house and the cows dotted on the fields and a long dirt driveway. The driveway was closed off by a metal gate. Frances got out and opened it. A sign asked for it to be kept closed so Frances closed it behind Florence and then got back in the car.

  They were greeted by a couple of border collies as they drove up to the house. Off to the side of the house was the milking barn and just off on the side of that was a tractor. A young man in wellingtons and coveralls was breaking up hay into large troughs. He looked at them as they drove up.

  Frances and Florence got out of the red Alvis and were greeted by happy collies eagerly wagging their tails. Frances bent down to pet the dogs.

  “Harry, Gerry,” shouted the man, and the dogs turned away from Frances and Florence and ran off to the man and sat by his side. The man finished up what he was doing as Frances and Florence walked up to him. He nodded at Florence.

  “How can I help you?” he asked.

  A big sign by the entrance gate had read “Lewis’ Dairy and Creamery”.

  “How do you do,” said Florence. “I’m Florence Hudnall and this is my friend Frances Marmalade. We were hoping to speak with Colin Lewis.”

  On the ride up, Frances had suggested that she stop being introduced as Lady Marmalade. She didn’t think it helped and she’d found that some working folk found it pretentious.

  “You’re speaking to him,” said the young man.

  He was of average height with a young looking face, though he must have been in his thirties, with a mop of wavy black hair. He finished what he had been doing and stood and looked at them.

  “I know you, don’t I?” he asked, looking at Florence.

  “Well, you might, I live in Puddle’s End. Have for some time.”

  Lewis nodded thoughtfully.

  “Yeah, that’s right. That’s probably where I’ve seen you from. What do you want?”

  He didn’t strike Frances as a courteous nor warm man. He was an odd sort in both manner and speech.

  “Well, we’re investigating the Deacon’s murder from back in twenty-nine,” said Florence.

  Lewis smirked and it didn’t make him look any more handsome.

  “You are, are you?”

  Florence nodded.

  “Well, I’m not sure why you’re talking to me then. You should be talking to that groundskeeper Turnbull if you can find him.”

  “That’s just the thing. Nobody has seen nor heard from him since the murder,” said Florence.

  “Not surprising ‘cos he did it, didn’t he? So why’d he hang around then?”

  It wasn’t particularly cold outside, though it was a cool spring day. But if they weren’t going to be invited inside this would be a short conversation as Frances could already feel the cold air nipping at her ankles.

  “Well, that’s what we’re trying to find out. Was it really him?”

  “Of course it was him, that’s what the inquest said.”

  “So you saw him then?” asked Frances.

  He knitted his eyebrows at them.

  “No.”

  “But you were there, weren’t you?” she asked.

  “No, I wasn’t. I was out walking my dog at the time as that Sergeant Potts had inquired about and as it says in his report probably.”

  An older woman, a good ten years older than Frances and Florence, which must have put her in her mid-seventies came out onto the front porch in her slippers and dressing gown and her hair in rollers.

  “Who is it, Collie?” she asked, folding her hands over her large bosoms.

  “Some women from town,” he yelled back.

  “Well, bring them in for tea then, go on.”

  Lewis dropped his head and shook it sadly.

  “Alright,” he said, looking back up at them. “Come on in for tea.”

  Frances and Florence didn’t say anything. It was around ten thirty in the morning and that seemed like a very good time to take some tea. They hadn’t had any since breakfast and that was over two hours ago.

  They followed Lewis in, who took off his wellingtons and put on a pair of slippers that were just outside the door, and walked into a large entranceway. It was a large house, two story and they were shown into the living room which overlooked the front of the house where they had driven up. Lewis sat down in a large comfortable leather chair and waved at Florence and Frances to do the same. Lewis’ mother, at least that’s what they assumed, was nowhere to be seen.

  Lewis didn’t say anything. But he kept staring at them, it was terribly unnerving.

  “You said you’d been out walking your dog,” said Frances.

  Lewis nodded.

  “Did you go into the church grounds at all and see anybody down by the graveyard?”

  “Rover used to like me throwing a ball for him, so we’d do that sometimes, go down into the back of the church and play fetch there. I started down the side of the church throwing the ball and one time it got stuck under the hedges down at the end. I went to get it and heard some noise. I looked up and there were two men arguing down by the graveyard just by the tree. Couldn’t see them very well and the one man was partly hidden by the tree. The other one was definitely the Deacon.”

  “And what did you do then?” asked Frances.

  “Well I left, didn’t I? Wasn’t none of my concern. I walked down the road away from the church past the rectory for a bit. Some time later I came back and I was doing the same. Throwing my ball for my dog when Mr. Bolton told me not to. So that’s when I left.”

  “What time was that?” asked Frances.

  Lewis just shrugged.

  “Didn’t have a watch so I don’t know. Mr. Bolton hadn’t left.”

  The older woman came back into the living room and set a tray on a table in the middle of all of them. She shoved papers and magazines onto one side to make room for the tray.

  “Should be strong enough. Just how we like it,” she said, smiling at Colin.

  “Colli
e’s a good boy for coming back and working on the dairy. I couldn’t do it myself, not long after Nimrod, that’s my husband, died suddenly.”

  “And when was that?” asked Frances.

  “Collie came back in 1935,” she said.

  Frances could see Lewis cringe every time his mother called him by his nickname.

  “Will you call me Colin in company, Mother,” he demanded quite forcefully and angrily.

  “He’s got a bit of a temper just like his father,” she said, looking back at Frances and Florence.

  “I am nothing like my father,” he said.

  The woman ignored him and started to pour tea for everyone into mugs, not asking how they liked it. Then she topped off everyone’s cup with what was obviously cream and not milk.

  “You should ask them how they like it first,” he said. Lewis obviously had a complicated relationship with his mother.

  “Sorry,” she said, visibly upset, “I, I just thought that’s how you liked it.”

  “That’s the problem with you, Mother,” he said, “always thinking and never observing.”

  She smiled sheepishly.

  “I’m afraid this is all we’ve got,” she said. “It’s cream. I know it’s supposed to be milk, but cream is better, isn’t it?”

  “It’s how I prefer it,” said Frances. “Looks lovely. May I?”

  She gestured towards a mug of obviously strong tea, even through the cream. But Frances was fond of strong tea especially in the morning.

  “Please do,” said the woman.

  Frances took a spoon and added sugar. The woman put three spoons of sugar into a mug and gave it to her son.

  “Just as you like it, Coll…in,” she said.

  He took it from her without appreciation.

  “I’m Frances by the way, and this is my friend Florence who lives in Puddle’s End.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said the woman, “I’m Constance but everyone calls me Connie.”

  Connie was cradling a mug of tea so Florence went for the last mug and added sugar.

  “This hits the spot,” said Florence.

  “So what you brings you out here?” asked Connie.

  “Well, we’re trying to make heads or tails of the Deacon’s murder,” said Frances.

  “That was a long time ago,” said Connie, “didn’t they say the groundskeeper did it? Turnbull, wasn’t that his name?”

  “He wasn’t the groundskeeper, he was just some drifter who the church had shown charity to,” said Lewis.

  “But he did work the grounds, didn’t he?”

  “Doesn’t make him the groundskeeper,” said Lewis.

  Lewis took a big drink of his tea, probably downing a quarter of it.

  “Where’s the scones, Mother?” he said. His voice was less abrasive now but the tone was still inappropriate.

  “Silly me, I forgot them in the oven, they must be ready by now. I’ll go and check.”

  Connie got up and left for the kitchen.

  “Don’t burn them,” shouted Lewis after her.

  “So you came back in thirty-five,” said Florence.

  Lewis nodded.

  “And when did your father pass?”

  “Thirty-three,” he said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Florence.

  “Don’t be,” he said. “He was a bastard. Best day of my life to that point.”

  Florence didn’t say anything to that. Connie came back in carrying another tray of hot scones with butter and jam on the side.

  “Got them in the nick of time,” she said. “Give them a minute though, they’re hot.”

  “I must say, I’ve never had milk so fresh and delicious in a very long time,” said Frances.

  Connie smiled.

  “Nothing like getting it straight from the dairy. Wait until you’ve had a bit of that butter on your scone. It’s practically heaven.”

  They didn’t say anything for a while. Frances and Florence sipped their tea. Lewis kept staring at them.

  “Colin was telling us that his father, your husband passed in thirty-three.”

  Connie smiled sadly and nodded.

  “We’re terribly sorry,” said Frances.

  “It’s a long time ago,” she said. “And he wasn’t the best husband or father, I’m afraid.”

  “Now you’ll admit it, eh?” said Lewis, “all those years thinking and not observing.”

  He looked off, grabbed his mug from a table next to his chair and took another drink. It was likely very close to finished.

  “May I ask what you mean by that?” asked Frances.

  “Nimrod was very strict,” said Connie.

  “Strict, bloody hell, Mother, he beat me senseless any chance he got. He was an abusive alcoholic bastard.”

  Lewis’ tone was getting a bit carried away so Frances didn’t say anything for a while. Connie looked at them and smiled weakly.

  “I’m afraid it’s true, I didn’t stand up to him like I should have. That’s my fault. And it’s affected Colin.”

  She turned to look at him.

  “But I’m glad you came back to help with the dairy. I wouldn’t know what to do.”

  Lewis sat silently in his chair, as stiff and immovable as a statue.

  “We were speaking with Galen Teel at the pub in town. The Flying Blizzard and he said you left Puddle’s End for a while.”

  Lewis nodded.

  “When was that?”

  “I left shortly after the Deacon’s murder. Had enough of this place then, didn’t I?”

  “And where did you go?”

  “Moved around a bit, headed towards London, fancied joining the RAF but they weren’t hiring much and I couldn’t get in. I’ve got a bad ear on my left. So I travelled and worked at dairy farms mostly.”

  “And you only ever had the one child?” asked Frances to Connie.

  “Yes, Fran, I can call you Fran, can’t I?” Frances nodded. “We wanted more but Nimrod thought I wasn’t able to.”

  “And it’s a godsend you weren’t,” said Lewis.

  “Yes, he’s probably right about that.”

  “So you came back to help on the farm here?” asked Frances.

  Lewis nodded.

  “Was it left to you in your father’s will?”

  “Ha! A will, you haven’t been listening, have you? The man was a bastard. An alcoholic and never knew how to account for money. We lived mostly in poverty most of the time he ran this place. Now it’s making money, isn’t it, Mother?”

  Connie nodded.

  “Colin really has an eye for business. Nimrod never knew how to run a dairy, not really. And well, like Colin says, he drank most of it away or frittered it on things here and there.”

  Colin grabbed a scone and tore it in half. Steam danced from each half. He slathered a thick pat of butter on each side and dolloped on some jam. He put the plate of scone on his lap and drank the rest of his tea.

  “Spring here on the farm is our busiest time. I’m going to get going in a minute.”

  “We’re still just a small local dairy, but Colin’s managed to double the herd doing it all by himself.”

  “Do you have plans to grow it further?” asked Florence.

  “No. This year or next I plan to sell it. Move away from this godforsaken place and take mother to a small community and buy a pub.”

  “You don’t like it here?” asked Florence.

  “Never have. Had nothing but violence and anger associated with this place. Got in trouble as a kid, seen too much of the dark side of things for my liking.”

  “We heard you got into fights in school,” said Florence.

  “Very few of them did I start myself. But I know how to finish them. Had bad acne as a kid and got teased by that and my alcoholic father.”

  “Getting back to your walk with Rover in twenty-nine,” said Frances, “because I know you’ve got work to do. Did you see anyone else there around that time?”

  “Yeah, saw Mr.
Teel coming up from the rectory as I was coming back from my walk. He said hello but I wasn’t very friendly back then. He caught up with Ms. Walmsley and they walked for a bit, then he turned off. There were some others coming back from work and such but I don’t really remember them very well. Only Mr. Bolton, Mr. Teel and Ms. Walmsley.”

  “I wonder why he’d be walking down by the rectory?” asked Florence, mostly speaking to herself.

  “You’ve got the wrong idea,” said Lewis, “Mr. Teel’s not like that. One of the kindest men you’d meet. There’s a path that goes down the side of the rectory between the church and the rectory, on the other side of the hedges that leads out to the meadow beyond. That’s the best way to access it.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Florence.

  “And he didn’t seem like a man who’d just murdered anyone,” said Lewis.

  “How was he?” asked Florence.

  Frances took a scone and broke it up on her plate. She looked at Florence and Florence nodded. She broke one up for her friend and added butter and jam to each side of each scone.

  “He was very calm, very friendly like he normally is. I’ve known a lot of violence,” said Lewis, “and it does things to the body. You get worked up. They say it’s the adrenalin. People are always agitated afterwards. Mr. Teel was nothing like that. It was Turnbull if it was anyone.”

  “You sound very sure,” said Frances as Florence picked up her scone and started eating it. Lewis had stuffed a whole half into his mouth and was chewing it. He didn’t say anything for a moment as he chewed.

  “Well, it’s what the inquest said, isn’t it? He was an odd man, never said a word to anyone so I’ve been told. Never said nothing to me. Mind, I wasn’t at the church all that much.”

  “Why is that?” asked Frances.

  “He didn’t like it. Sunday School and all that. Not hard to see why. I tried to get him to go when he was a boy but he didn’t like it and Nimrod wanted him working on the farm.”

  Lewis stuffed the other half into his mouth and nodded. He chewed for a while.

  “There’s something not right with that church,” he said.

  Florence chewed a small piece of her scone. There was nothing quite like having fresh butter straight from the farm.

  “You’re right about the butter,” she said. “It really is special to have it so fresh.”