The Priest at Puddle's End (A Lady Marmalade Mystery Book 10) Page 6

  Florence shook her head slowly.

  “I’ve a good mind to tell Father just exactly what is going on in Christ’s house.”

  Frances didn’t say anything. She heard the door open again and she could hear the priest's booming voice. He followed Walmsley down the hall into the reception area. He was smiling and dressed in black clothes with his priest’s collar. He shook their hands warmly.

  “It is so wonderful to see you both again. I’m afraid we don’t have service for another three and a bit hours. Florence looked at her watch. It was ten forty-five. Morning mass would have ended at ten and the first afternoon mass started at two.

  “We’re not here for mass today, Father,” said Florence. “If you don’t mind we’d like to ask you a few questions about Deacon Millar.”

  Fannon nodded solemnly.

  “Yes, of course, let’s go to the office. That’s a name I haven’t heard spoken for some time.”

  Walmsley watched them disappear down the hall. Florence followed the priest into his office and Frances followed in lastly. The office was of moderate size. To the left was a desk with a nice buttoned leather chair on the opposite side of it. Beyond that were windows that looked out to a narrow path, it seemed, with hedges on the far side. There appeared to be bushes on the side against the window at roughly its height.

  Father Fannon offered them the two chairs across from his desk and Florence and Frances sat down. He did the same. To his left was a book shelf about half filled with religious books. Behind Florence and Frances was a portrait of Pope Pius XII sitting in a large red chair with full gold vestments looking off to the side with his hand held up as if to bless those outside of the picture frame. There was also a door in the corner of that back wall.

  Father Fannon leaned back and tented his fingers towards the ceiling. He was more somber now.

  “What brings you calling about Deacon Millar?” he asked.

  “Something is rotten in the state of this church,” blurted out Florence.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Fannon.

  “There should be no fornicating on God’s grounds, Father. It is appalling, and especially not amongst cousins.”

  Fannon looked from Florence to Frances and then back again. Frances thought about interrupting her friend, but then having Father Fannon off guard might not be the worst idea.

  “Your housekeeper and your groundskeeper,” continued Florence, “are cousins and they’re fornicating in the shed on His holy ground. They are spitting on God’s holy covenant and laws.”

  Florence caught herself and stopped any further discussion about it.

  “I see,” said Fannon, “I’ll look into it. But can you be sure? Peter Bolton is a married man you know.”

  “I believe we have a reliable witness,” said Florence.

  “Who would that be? Ms. Walmsley? I wouldn’t call her particularly reliable. It’s no secret she doesn’t care for those two and it’s mutual. But good help is hard to find.”

  What surprised Frances was Fannon’s expressions during all of this. You’d be forgiven for thinking that perhaps he might have known about all this sinning going on in his backyard. Or at least he might have been highly suspicious. He didn’t seem like a man caught well off guard. Frances reached over and touched Florence on the knee. She looked at Fannon.

  “I know you will take care of this nonsense if it is in fact happening. Though of course as a visitor here I would be very surprised indeed to learn that such sinful behavior was occurring in God’s house and I’m sure the Bishop would be none to pleased to hear of it either. But I trust that you have this house of worship following God’s teachings to the letter.”

  Fannon nodded but he didn’t say anything. He still kept his fingers tented but he seemed less comfortable. There was a knock at the door. It wasn’t the door they had come in from, but the door behind them.

  “Come in,” said Fannon, then turning to Frances and Florence. “This is my usual time for tea, I hope you’ll join me.”

  Frances and Florence looked behind and in walked who they imagined to be Isabel Slaughter. She was petite and pretty though no longer in the full bloom of youth. She placed the tray on the corner of the table next to Frances.

  “Isabel,” said Fannon, “this is Lady Marmalade and her friend who you might know, Ms. Florence Hudnall.”

  “Good day,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her and bowing slightly not looking at either of them in the eye. She appeared very meek and timid.

  “Lady Marmalade is a sleuth,” said Fannon, “and I’m sure she’ll want to speak with you in a moment about Deacon Millar. Please make yourself available to them.”

  “Yes, Father,” she said, glancing in his direction.

  “That’ll be all,” he said, and she disappeared out of the room just as meek and mild and quiet as a church mouse.

  “She’s been with you a long time?” asked Frances.

  “All of my staff have been with me over twenty years,” he said, “that’s why I’m surprised to hear of these allegations, though you can be certain I will look into it.”

  He didn’t look surprised thought Frances.

  “Isabel has been with me since she was eighteen. That’s twenty-eight years ago. Though of course she’s been a member of this parish her whole life. Same for Peter actually.”

  “He’s been with you since he was eighteen?” asked Frances.

  “Well, yes and no. We had another groundskeeper then. Sadly he passed in 1925. That’s when Peter became our full time groundskeeper. He would have been, uh, twenty-six at the time I believe, but Peter had helped Roger Brogan, he was our previous groundskeeper, since he was eighteen. Peter has also been a lifelong member of the parish.”

  “And Ms. Walmsley’s been with you for twenty years?” asked Frances, knowing that she had been told twenty-two.

  “Twenty-two years actually,” said Fannon, correcting her. “She retired in 1924 and moved up here to the country. She likes to keep busy so she’s been volunteering for St. Francis’ church ever since then.”

  “Where was she from originally?” asked Frances.

  “Blackpool, not far from here. She was a secretary at the all girls' school there for all her adult working life. St. Margaret’s Catholic Academy. Quite a famed school for girls, started at the request of the Bishop in 1856 and run by the Society of the Holy Child Jesus who are the Sisters’ version of the Jesuit order for men. It’s been a very successful school since that time and continues to matriculate moral and intelligent women.”

  “I have heard of it,” said Frances.

  Father Fannon stood up.

  “Tea?” he asked.

  “Yes please, milk and sugar,” said Frances. Florence asked for the same. Frances knew there wasn’t to be cream and if there was, then Father Fannon would offer it. He didn’t. He poured milk into each of three teacups. Isabel must have been told by Matilda we were here, thought Frances.

  “I’ll let you add your own sugar,” he said, “that can be quite the art to get right for other people.”

  Father Fannon pushed their teacups to the edge of the table. Frances got up and added sugar, as did Florence. She took it into her hands on the saucer and sipped at it.

  “You were asking about Deacon Millar,” he said, trying to get the topic back on course.

  “Yes,” said Frances, giving Florence more time to compose herself. “How long had he been with you, Father?”

  “Please call me Kane,” he said.

  “So long as you call me Frances,” she replied.

  He smiled at her, and put down his cup of tea.

  “Deacon Millar had been with me since 1920. It was the summer of 1920, though I’ll have to check our records if you need the specific date.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Frances.

  “You know, Frances,” he continued, “the police were very thorough. That Sergeant Potts was a wonderful man, kept this little town of ours very safe. I, like most
who were at the inquest, believe Sergeant Potts that Carbry Turnbull was the murderer. What makes you think otherwise?”

  “I don’t think otherwise,” said Frances, “but Florence has asked me to take a look at it. She’s quite appalled that he hasn’t been found, but perhaps more than that, we’d all like closure with this, wouldn’t we? A motive would help with that.”

  “I can give you motive,” said Fannon, “that’s easy. Turnbull was stealing from us.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I am. I even saw him do it red-handed one time. After mass when all the tithing has been collected we put it in the back of the church where we change and prepare for mass. It is put away in a cupboard under lock and key until Monday when Matilda counts it and takes it into town to deposit. Turnbull had the money out on the table in the back, and he was putting some in his pockets.”

  Frances nodded and sipped on her tea.

  “Naturally, I confronted him about it. He was very apologetic and said it would never happen again. Gave some excuse that his mother was sick. I told Deacon Millar about it and that Turnbull was on notice. He agreed. They had argued about it at one point.”

  “Did you hear what it was about?”

  “Not particularly. Something about Turnbull thinking that the Deacon owed him some money. I asked Deacon Millar about it, and he said that he had offered Turnbull some money to send to his mother but that Turnbull had wanted more. Seemed rather entitled.”

  “How much was he stealing?” asked Frances.

  “On that occasion I caught him with less than two pounds. One pound and some shillings, though I imagine he would have taken more. If I recall, the month after he had left, our collections were roughly ten to fifteen pounds more for the month and continued to be up for the next several months if I recall correctly.”

  “And how much do you usually collect, Kane?” asked Frances.

  “In those years, the late twenties, I should think it was about two thousand pounds a year. I’d have to look at my records to get the exact amounts. Anywhere from one hundred and twenty to two hundred pounds per month were collected I’d imagine. We’re not a large Catholic Community here in Puddle’s End, Frances, the latest I heard was that our numbers were about a thousand, though only a third or so are regular attenders.”

  “So Turnbull might have been stealing ten percent or a little less the month he was here?”

  Kane nodded.

  “That would sound about right. As I recall, our collection income went up by about ten or fifteen pounds per month after he left.”

  “And what about the votive collection money?” asked Frances.

  “He had never touched that from what I could tell. We keep a small lock clasped between the lid and the body of it. There’s never much money in there at any one time and I imagine a screwdriver could pry the lock off, or a good yank would take it from its stand.”

  “And you empty the votive box every evening?”

  “Good Lord no,” said Father Fannon, chuckling, “some days there isn’t any money in there at all.”

  “Sergeant Potts thought you had emptied it every evening.”

  “No, he must have misunderstood. I usually empty it on Sunday evenings. Just once a week.”

  Frances nodded.

  “I see. And so you would have emptied it the Sunday before Deacon Millar was murdered.”

  “Yes. I don’t recall a Sunday when I have forgotten.”

  “And how much is usually collected?”

  “Usually a few shillings, perhaps as much as five shillings on average. I don’t believe I’ve ever collected a pound’s worth of money in a week.”

  “Then there would have been very little money in the box I should think the day after you had emptied it?”

  “You think the votive box was taken that Monday afternoon after Deacon Millar was murdered?”

  “That’s right. It was missing, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s right. And Potts suggested that Turnbull had stolen it.”

  “So how much money do you think could have been in there?” asked Frances.

  “Can’t have been much. Several pence perhaps, no more than a shilling I should think.”

  “That hardly seems worth the effort,” said Frances.

  “It could have been a spiteful sort of thing,” said Fannon.

  Frances nodded and took another sip of tea.

  “Tell me about Deacon Millar,” said Frances.

  “What would you like to know?”

  “How did he come to serve here?”

  “That was the Bishop’s idea. Said we needed another member of the church to care for the flock. These aren’t the sorts of things I have much say in.”

  “Matilda said he came to you from Blairgowrie. St. Nicholas’ Church, I believe.”

  Father Fannon shook his head.

  “No, that was his first assignment. He came to us from St. Agnes’ Church in Alnwick. Before that he was at St. John Bosco’s in Inverness and before that was St. Nicholas’.”

  “That seems like quite a few churches in a short amount of time.”

  “Not necessarily. It can be hard to find the right fit for the Deacon or priest with the church,” said Fannon. “Additionally, it all depends on the needs of the church. We are placed where we are needed to serve as God’s disciples.”

  “Then you’ve been most fortunate to be here all these years,” said Frances.

  Fannon nodded his head.

  “I have been very blessed. I have been here since 1910 actually. It’s wonderful to be able to see the congregation grow and evolve, have children of their own. Before that I spent almost twenty years doing missionary work in India. Delightful people.”

  “You know, Father,” said Florence.

  “Kane, please Florence, call me Kane,” said Fannon.

  “Thank you, Kane. In my experience I have never come upon such a small church to have both a priest and a Deacon.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean?”

  “Well, it just seems odd that Deacon Millar would have been sent here rather than a larger church.”

  “Yes, it is unusual, but not uncommon.”

  “Did you ever ask the Bishop about it?” asked Florence.

  “No. It was my understanding that a smaller community might help Deacon Millar grow a deeper understanding for his pastoral work.”

  “And what does that mean exactly?”

  “Well, I suppose it means that the Bishop thought highly enough of me to mentor the young Deacon to find a deeper purpose to his calling.”

  “Do you think he was dissatisfied?” asked Florence.

  “Florence, you’re putting words in my mouth. I am simply trying to offer you suggestions for your probing questions. Deacon Millar did not seem dissatisfied here and I had no reason to assume as much was the case elsewhere.”

  “You were quite happy with his service to the parishioners then?” asked Frances, trying to get back on track.

  “Yes. Though to be fair, this church does not require onerous work. Like I’ve said, we’re a small community and with that comes a certain discipline to the work we are called upon to do.”

  “Discipline?” asked Frances.

  “To put it another way, we don’t have the same social problems that you might have in London for instance. The worst we get usually, is young boys hitting cricket balls into windows. Not much violence or other terrible crimes.”

  “I see.”

  “So the work we do, Frances, is fairly mundane. Run of the mill sort of stuff. Weddings, baptisms, First Communions, Christian fellowship for both men and women. There’s a bible study tomorrow morning for women for instance.”

  “We heard,” said Frances.

  “Yes, our pastoral work is likely easier I should say, than perhaps Father Albert Addison’s work is at Sacred Heart in Blackpool.”

  Frances sipped tea as did Florence and Fannon. Outside seemed still sunny. The hedge on the opposite of the wind
ow behind Fannon was a bright green. She had been green once upon a time. Though that seemed like centuries ago.

  “Do you know if Deacon Millar knew Carbry Turnbull?” asked Frances.

  “Yes, he did. He knew him as a young boy at St. Nicholas’ Church in Blairgowrie. Didn’t keep in touch with him after they both left Blairgowrie, in the same year I believe. Millar seemed quite surprised when Turnbull arrived here in the summer of twenty-nine.”

  “Did you ever find out why Turnbull came up here to Puddle’s End?” asked Frances.

  “No. I never asked him. Millar said it was coincidental. The man was a drifter as you might know.”

  “Would you ever have considered him a violent man?” asked Frances.

  “Who? Millar or Turnbull.”

  “Turnbull.”

  Fannon shook his head and shrugged slightly.

  “No, I wouldn’t have thought so, but then one never knows, does one?”

  “You never saw him have a violent outburst?”

  Fannon shook his head again.

  “No, I didn’t. He was very quiet, almost sullen. Never said so much as yes Father, no Father. The only incident I recall was their argument I overhead.”

  “You never saw Turnbull physically threaten Deacon Millar?” asked Florence wanting to get into the questioning. Fannon turned to look at her.

  “No, nothing like that, Florence. It still remains quite a shock to think about. I would never have imagined such a thing.”

  “But you agree with the inquest and the police that Turnbull is the murderer?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course, it seems quite likely.”

  “But what would the motive be?” asked Florence.

  “Well, that’s just the thing, we don’t know, do we? One could guess, perhaps they had an awful falling out. Perhaps Deacon Millar was asking Turnbull to leave…”

  “But he hadn’t told you that, had he?”

  “No, but it was his prerogative.”

  “What about Bolton and Slaughter?” asked Florence. “Matilda tells us that the two of them don’t seem to take to orders very well.”

  “The church is a sanctuary for wayward youth and the unfortunate. I have made it my ministry to help those who have not been blessed by fortune or God’s grace.”