The Priest at Puddle's End

by Jason Blacker

  Langdon looked down at his desk for a moment.

  “You don’t say? I’m surprised by that. Well, there you go then, evidence that Harmonie didn’t do it.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Frances.

  “Because I am certain she would have used a tincture. More reliable that way.”

  “But harder to mask the taste of, I’m sure?”

  “Not always. It depends on the concentration you use.”

  Frances nodded and looked at Langdon for a while before speaking.

  “The next question is going to be a difficult question, Cavan, and I apologize in advance for it. But it must be asked. Unfortunately, in these sorts of things, one has to ask the difficult questions. You do understand?”

  He seemed at ease. A man that perhaps hardly ever got flustered. A man who, perhaps, lived with a moral code that kept him on the straight path.

  “Anything I can do to help,” he said.

  “There was another murder last night,” said Frances.

  “Good heavens,” said Langdon.

  Rebecca’s face crinkled into a mask of worry.

  “Who?” she blurted out before being able to stop herself.

  “Before we get to the who,” said Frances, “can you tell me where you were between nine pm and eleven last night?”

  Frances was looking at Langdon.

  “Yes, of course. I was home with my family. We were listening to BBC on the wireless. There’s a delightful new program starting on the twenty-fourth. Just under two weeks from today actually. That wonderful presenter Alistair Cooke is starting his Letter from America.”

  Rebecca nodded.

  “We all like to gather around the wireless after dinner to hear the different shows. Daddy’s very fond of It’s That Man Again, aren’t you, Daddy?”

  Langdon chuckled.

  “Yes, it’s very funny. Those chaps are quite the riot.”

  “So all of you were listening to the radio at that time?” asked Frances.

  Langdon nodded.

  “Yes. It’s sort of a family tradition. When we can, after dinner we gather round. It’s wonderful family time that has given me great joy over the years and a vast collection of memories.”

  Langdon paused for a moment.

  “This murder must have taken place about that time then, I imagine?”

  Frances nodded. She believed Dr. Langdon, and she couldn’t believe that a whole family would conspire to keep a murder secret. Especially a murder of someone they likely had very little to do with.

  “Ask my wife, and Vickie outside if you like. The four of us were home. Listen,” he said, leaning in on the table, “I’m an affable sort. I don’t hold grudges easily and I have no quarrels with anyone.”

  Frances looked from him to his daughter. She could see no shadow of doubt cross either of their faces.

  “I do believe you,” she said. “It was Father Kane Fannon.”

  Langdon leaned back in his chair. Rebecca put her hand to her mouth in shock.

  “Good Lord, that’s terrible news. A man of the cloth. Is nothing sacred anymore?”

  He looked visibly shaken. He looked over at Frances.

  “Poison again?”

  “I can’t say much as it’s ongoing, but no, he suffered a violent death.”

  Langdon put his hands through his hair and slowly shook his head.

  “I can’t believe it. A priest of all people to murder. What sort of vile human does that?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to gather. That’s why we’re here, Cavan. Can you think of any reason why someone might murder a priest?”

  Langdon looked at his daughter and back at Lady Marmalade. He looked up and off to the side. Then he looked back at Lady Marmalade.

  “No, I can’t. I can’t think of a thing. Does this mean that Reverend Thomas is in danger? Our Anglican priest?”

  Frances shook her head.

  “No, I don’t think so, Cavan. This appears to be isolated to the Catholic church here in Puddle’s End. There seems to be something nefarious going on and Florence and I feel that it’s related to these murders and the church. We’ve heard it from more than one person that the devil is at work in God’s house, meaning St. Francis’ Church.”

  Frances looked at him and his eyes got wider.

  “It can’t be,” he said. “No, I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it.”

  He looked off at the side where his bookcase stood, squat and unflinching.

  “What is it, Cavan?”

  He waved his hand about like a bird fighting a tornado.

  “No, it’s likely nothing. Mere rumors. I shouldn’t even pay attention to the gossip.”

  “Sometimes, Cavan,” continued Frances, “there is a kernel of truth in rumors. Other times not. Regardless, anything, anything at all that you might have heard could be of use.”

  Langdon leaned back in towards Frances and Florence. He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again. Then he started.

  “These are nasty, vicious rumors. I simply can’t believe them. I won’t. I hate to even give them voice.”

  “Please, Cavan,” said Florence.

  Langdon looked down at the table and shook his head slowly.

  “First the Deacon. Now the priest.”

  He shook his head.

  “It can’t be.”

  He looked back up at Frances and Florence.

  “Maybe it is.”

  He looked up at the ceiling.

  “God forgive me if these hateful rumors I speak are untrue. God forgive us all if they are.”

  Frances looked at him and raised an eyebrow. He looked over at Rebecca.

  “You won’t like this, Beckie. You might want to leave.”

  She shook her head and stood firm.

  “I shall not,” she said.

  “Very well,” he said, leaning back in towards Frances and Florence. “Now bear in mind these are just rumors, but for some years now… I suppose as long as I’ve been here really, there’s been word that… This is incredibly difficult for me to say.”

  Frances smiled at him softly, encouragingly.

  “You must say it, Daddy, if it can help. Go on, say it.”

  “It’s distasteful to even think about. There have been rumors now and then about inappropriate behavior between the clergy at St. Francis’ Church and the children.”

  Florence looked over at Frances with a worried brow. Rebecca looked over at her father with an open mouth and her arms crossed over her bosom.

  “What sort of inappropriate behavior?” asked Frances.

  “I don’t know,” said Langdon. “I never asked. You must remember, these are vile things to say of clergy, of anyone really, but especially men of God. I mean who prays on small children? The worst of us, the most vilest of us. Not those that represent God. I just can’t believe it. I still don’t. I only tell you because you’ve asked.”

  “And you’ve never heard names of any of the children involved?”

  Langdon shook his head.

  “No, like I said. I won’t entertain gossip at the best of times and especially not vile gossip about others.”

  “Who’s been passing around these rumors?” asked Florence.

  “I don’t know. You know how it goes. Like that children’s game of broken telephone. Mrs. Maier I’m sure has tried to tell me of such things, but I won’t engage in gossip, Florence, I’m sorry, I won’t. My wife has heard of it from somewhere. Like me, Edith thinks it’s sour grapes that someone started in mean-spiritedness.”

  “And none of the children you’ve treated have ever shown signs of abuse or other such behavior?”

  Langdon shook his head.

  “No. I don’t treat many of the Catholics as I said. And those I have I’ve never suspected of being mistreated. I’d have done something if I’d known. These are little children,” he said. “I would not let anything happen to them so long as I was aware.”

  “Would you be willing
to give a character reference for either Deacon Millar or Father Fannon?” asked Frances.

  “Well no, I don’t know, didn’t know either of them very well. Just in passing in town and the shops, but both were sincere, cordial sorts.”

  “Forgive me for being blunt Cavan,” said Frances, “but if these rumors have been going on since you’ve been here. Twenty or thirty years, surely during that time you might have thought to investigate?”

  Frances looked at the doctor steadily. He didn’t flinch.

  “Well, when I say they’ve been going on since I got here, I don’t mean to imply that every year the rumor mill churns out more dastardly details of these sorts of things. I only mean to say that occasionally the rumor resurfaces, once or twice a decade. That is all. And what should I do? Really, what should I do?”

  He paused a moment.

  “If I went to the police about every rumor I hear in my offices they’d be calling me the boy who cried wolf. Not only that, how do you even mention something as vile as this without even an inkling of proof? How do you? If I had really thought they were true I would have said something. But I don’t. I only tell you because you’ve asked. Like I’ve said, these are nothing but unsubstantiated rumors. I haven’t seen a shred of evidence to even suggest that anything this horrid is even remotely true.”

  “So you don’t believe it at all?” asked Florence.

  “No, no I don’t. Do you?”

  He looked at Florence earnestly.

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore, Cavan. I came to Puddle’s End hoping it would be a tranquil, sleepy little hamlet to retire. I never thought I’d see two murders of men of the cloth, not to mention the others.”

  Langdon leaned back.

  “This is just an anomaly,” he said. But he didn’t say it with the resolute certainty with which he’d been speaking before then. No, his voice had a crack in it of doubt big enough to let his conscience in.

  “I really hate to say this,” said Frances. Langdon turned to look at her. “But I think you might have given us the missing piece. It would give us motive.”

  “Surely you don’t believe this. These are just rumors as Daddy said. Speaking for our priest, Reverend Thomas, he would never do anything like that, and I don’t believe Father Fannon would either.”

  Frances wasn’t sure if she was saying it in order to try and believe it or if she really did believe it before she said it.

  “I understand, dear, this is a truly unconscionable crime if it is indeed the case, and I’m not talking of the murders,” said Frances. “The thing is, I’ve always been skeptical of the ruling forbidding Catholic priests from marrying.”

  “You aren’t suggesting that because of that, the Church elicits deviants?” asked Florence.

  “Not at all, Flo, I’m only suggesting that I don’t believe it’s natural. And if you forbid natural behavior you can sometimes end up with deviance. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “I’ve always admired it frankly,” said Langdon. “A sign that the Catholic priests are focused on their congregation and God. But I never knew how someone could take a vow of celibacy like that for life.”

  “Some can, some can’t and for some I suppose it can pervert their natural feelings,” said Frances. “Who are or have been the Catholic children that you’ve treated?”

  “The Teels, all of them, including the children Harmonie and Holme. Also Colin Lewis when he was younger. Still remains a patient today. The only child I treat currently who’s Catholic and still a child would be six year old Calvin Llewellyn.”

  “We should speak with him as soon as we can,” said Frances. “Do you have his address?”

  Langdon nodded.

  “Vickie will give it to you when you leave.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No, that’s all. As I said, most of the Catholics prefer to visit Dr. Cooney. Most of the Anglicans visit me.”

  Frances nodded.

  “Thank you, Cavan, you’ve been most helpful. We won’t take up anymore of your time.”

  Frances stood up to leave. She shook hands with both Langdon and Rebecca. Florence did the same. Langdon stopped them just as they were about to leave.

  “I do hope you’re wrong,” he said.

  Frances turned to look at him.

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t know how I’d forgive myself for missing it, for not helping if it’s true.”

  “Criminals can be cunning,” said Frances, “and the pedophile more so than the rest.”

  Frances and Florence left.

  THIRTEEN

  Fishers of Men

  “I do believe my world has been shook upside down,” said Florence as they drove towards the Teel residence. “Could it really be what this has all been about?”

  She wasn’t looking at Frances, but she also wasn’t paying much attention to the road.

  “Watch out!” exclaimed Frances as Florence narrowly missed hitting a fence put up eerily close to the road. Florence veered to the right and almost collided with an oncoming car. She slowed down and took a few deep breaths.

  “Sorry, Fran, this whole ordeal has me rattled.”

  “Well, we won’t be of any good if we’re found on the side of the road dead.”

  Florence chuckled.

  “Too right,” she said. She kept the speed slower and her eyes on the road.

  “Back to your question. I believe we must entertain this unsavory idea as the motive behind the murders. I am sure we’ll get greater clarity later when we visit with Turnbull. Bolton told me that he would be happy to open up.”

  “Really?” asked Florence, turning to look at Frances briefly.

  “Eyes on the road please, Flo, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, of course. That’s good news. If Turnbull is willing to be forthcoming then we might get the truth rather than the rumor.”

  “That’s right. And that might shed light on this whole affair.”

  “What are you hoping to get out of the Teels?” asked Florence.

  “Not sure, Flo, but I might like to ask them about why they left the church when their children were young. I think Holme must have been around ten and Harmonie eight. I wonder if it’s all related?”

  “Are you suggesting that Galen Teel might have murdered the Deacon?” asked Florence.

  “Not at all, Flo, I’m merely curious if Galen had any suspicions about inappropriate behavior and that’s why he removed his children from the church’s reach.”

  They reached the Teels' residence and Florence pulled up outside the front entrance. It was one of the larger homes in the area on a large tract of land that dipped into a valley. The view was expansive and carried for miles on a good day. And today was a good day for the sun was shining and one could see for miles. Pity, thought Frances, that she couldn’t see into this murder quite as clearly.

  The front of the house was bordered with neatly trimmed hedges on both sides of a wooden fence. Florence and Frances opened it up and walked in. The lawn was green with ample well-cared-for bushes and flowers lining up both sides of the path to the front of the house. They were trimmed and well-cared-for, including the sparse and few belladonna plants which weren’t all that attractive even when in full bloom. Just off to the right as you walked up to the house was a bird tree. A black lark was eating food from a feeder attached to it. He saw them as they came up the path and flew away.

  Frances stepped off the path to admire it. It sat about eye level on a thick pole. On the side closest to the path was the tube attached to the side of the birdhouse that fed bird seed into a small dish where the lark had been eating. The front of the birdhouse faced the road and had a small entrance cut out at the bottom. It was roughly eight inches high in a beautiful, well oiled dark brown wood. The roof sloped downwards towards the front. The tube on the side was nailed onto the frame of the birdhouse on either side through a metal band that hugged the tube top and bottom.

  Frances couldn’t te
ll how the rest was attached. Perhaps glue and nail for the six sides making up the box. All four sides of the birdhouse were a well oiled and dark brown. The back had two little dots in the wood about midway that looked like two small eyes. The top of the birdhouse seemed to be of a different wood. Slightly lighter in color. It was home made, that was certain. It was old too, it looked to Frances like it might have sat in that front yard for many years, feeding and housing birds.

  “Do you like the birdhouse?” asked Florence, waiting for her friend on the path.

  Frances turned and walked back towards her friend.

  “I like the birds that come to the birdhouse more,” she said. “I do believe that was a black lark we just saw.”

  Florence nodded and smiled.

  “Quite a handsome chap he was, wasn’t he?”

  “Not coincidentally,” said Frances, “some think that the saying, ‘for a lark’, which as you know means for fun or frolic or carefree adventure, might come form that very bird named the same. If you’ve ever watched them, Flo, they do indeed like to frolic and flit about.”

  “I didn’t know that,” she said.

  They reached the rusty red colored front door and Frances used the door knocker to knock. It wasn’t long before the door opened and they were greeted by the friendly face of Harmonie Teel.

  “Lady Marmalade, er, Frances and Mrs. Hudnall, or um, Florence,” said Harmonie. “Please come in.”

  “Thank you, dear,” said Frances.

  Harmonie turned her head down the hallway.

  “We have visitors, Daddy. It’s Lady Marmalade and Mrs. Hudnall.”

  “I’ll be right there,” he said. They couldn’t see him.

  “Would you like some tea?” asked Harmonie.

  “That would be wonderful,” said Florence, “we’re quite parched, aren’t we, Fran?”

  “Quite.”

  Harmonie led them into the seating area of the lounge. The furniture was expensive and new and the trinkets as well. A large Persian rug ran across most of the length of the lounge.

  “Please have a seat. I’ll go and get the tea ready and be right back.”

  Frances and Florence sat down in two identical wingback chairs with firm and ample upholstery. Original paintings dotted the wall. Frances thought she recognized the large painting of the Teel family, painted as they sat in this very same lounge, as being done by Meredith Frampton.