Murdering Ministers

by Alan Beechey

  Effie’s arrival at Edwardes Square at about three o’clock that afternoon was a welcome diversion for Oliver, Geoffrey, and Ben, who had wasted most of the day trying to think of something interesting to do with their Sunday. Oliver had slept in late, and he had been sulking all morning, because his original plans for the day had not included waking up either late or alone. Ben Motley had not woken up alone, but his current girlfriend—a gentleman to the last, he never used any term less respectful than “girlfriend” to refer to his latest companion, even if he had yet to learn her name—had left early. And Geoffrey Angelwine, who always woke up alone, had been unable to go to his office, because it was closed for the weekend for a combined feng shui ceremony and asbestos removal. Susie Beamish, who, like Oliver and Geoffrey, rented rooms in Ben’s townhouse but who rarely woke up in hers, had already left for work at her latest restaurant, the Generic Café.

  Oliver’s day had deteriorated further, first when Mallard telephoned again for no particular reason, and then when he discovered that Geoffrey, who had gone out early to buy a stack of Sunday newspapers, had managed to fill in just one clue in each of the seven crossword puzzles that Oliver normally hogged for himself. For the true crossword enthusiast, a puzzle that is only ninety-nine percent your own work is like having a wife who is ninety-nine percent faithful, and Oliver had indignantly accused his friend of breaking the truce on practical jokes. But Geoffrey, fending off blows from a rolled-up Observer magazine, had weakly protested that these were all genuine but abortive attempts on his own part to complete just one puzzle.

  Ben had proposed going to the cinema after lunch, but their long argument about which film to see was only terminated by an even longer argument about where to have lunch. They had just finished the sliced banana and Brie sandwiches that an exasperated Oliver had eventually concocted by raiding Susie’s corner of the fridge, when the doorbell rang. Oliver’s utter delight at seeing Effie was rapidly replaced by utter dismay when he saw the misery in her eyes. He whisked her off to the privacy of his room, where she promptly burst into tears and wept for ten minutes on his bed, punctuating her sobs with a brief account of Tapster’s disturbing death.

  “What made you think it was a murder?” he had asked, toying with the gilded corkscrews of her bushy hair.

  “His symptoms,” she gulped. “That physical reaction. Poisoning. Or at least, a high enough probability of poisoning for me to suspect a crime. Most likely strychnine. And such an intense reaction that it had to be a fairly big dose. Which means, since that much strychnine would also be fast-acting, it was administered while he was in the church.”

  “Amazing. Did they teach you that at the Staff College?”

  “I think so. But I read it more recently in a mystery novel. Evelyn Greatheart’s Worth a Guinea a Box.”

  “Really? Ah, the debt the world owes to mystery writers. But did you know that in real life, Evelyn Greatheart was my late great-uncle Henry? Bit of a black sheep, actually, in a family shedding the murky wool by the bagful. There was some business about dallying with schoolgirls that was all hushed up.”

  Effie sat up and grabbed a tissue from Oliver’s bedside table. “Ollie, dear, some day you will tell me the story of your extraordinary family from the day the first Swithin fell overboard during the Norman Invasion, but right now, we’re talking about my day.” She blew her nose, while Oliver muttered a few words of apology.

  “I can’t say I liked Nigel Tapster,” he mused, thinking back to his meeting three days earlier, “but that must be an awful way to die.”

  “It is. Even so, he died fairly quickly, which is a blessing, given the pain he was in. Surprisingly quickly. The spasms can often go on for up to an hour, one after the other, killing the victim through sheer exhaustion. Unless he gets the right treatment. Rigor mortis is instant, so he’s stuck in that contorted position until it wears off.”

  Oliver remembered something. “What if the victim had a weak heart?”

  “I imagine the intensity of the muscle spasms could easily put a strain on it, maybe provoke an infarction. I’d have to ask the pathologist.”

  “Nigel Tapster had rheumatic fever as a child. He told me it had prevented his going abroad as a missionary.”

  “I’d better make a note of that,” she said sadly, reaching for her handbag. She sighed. “Ever the police officer. Thanks for the cuddle, Ollie. I feel a bit better now.”

  Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and her nose was red, and Oliver had never loved her more. He sat beside her and hugged her again.

  “That’s the first time I’ve seen you cry,” he said gently, hoping the comment wouldn’t turn her prickly. “I’m glad I didn’t cause it.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get your turn,” she replied indistinctly, her face pressed against his chest. “I am allowed to have a feminine side, you know.”

  “From where I’ve been sitting for the past four months, every side looks feminine to me. But tell me, what is it about this case that got to you? You deal with murder all the time.”

  Effie sniffed decisively and stood up, walking over to the window. The day outside was dull and uninviting.

  “I’ve never seen anybody die before,” she said quietly, staring out at the untidy garden. “Isn’t it silly? All the bodies I’ve viewed just after their owners departed this life! You get used to it, you insulate yourself from the human emotions. But this is the first time I’ve been there for the death itself.”

  Oliver came up behind her and rested his hands gently on her upper arms. She leaned back, and he kissed her head, pressing hard through the dense hair so that she would feel the touch on her scalp.

  “But I tell you one thing, Ollie,” she said. “I’m glad poor Heather Tapster was spared seeing her husband go that way.”

  “I suppose Paul Piltdown went round to break the news after the police had finished with him.”

  Effie turned around. “Oh no,” she said. “Tish Belfry took Patience Coppersmith round to do the deed. Paul couldn’t do it, because he’s under arrest for the murder. Sorry, didn’t I tell you? Now, where can I get some lunch at this hour?”

  ***

  Susie Beamish worshipped food. The feeling was not mutual, as she should have deduced from her notorious inability to cook, a string of largely imaginary weight problems, and an unbroken record of abject failure as a restaurant owner. Nevertheless, she continued to pursue her chosen career, in spite of all the signs that she’d be better employed in a field as far from the food supply as anyone can get without actually starving.

  Susie had decided long ago that the way to the public’s heart was through its funny bone. (She might have been more successful if she’d taken the more traditional route through its stomach.) And so she had devised a succession of theme restaurants, each with its own joke, such as an eatery exploring Jewish-Indian cuisine, called Kashmir Tochus, and The C-Food Place, which served only foods beginning with the letter C.

  Unfortunately, the fickle eating public regarded each new project exactly like a joke—they groaned the first time and didn’t want it repeated. Since the failure in September of Raisin D’Etre, which served only dishes that included raisins, her friends had been dreading the day when they would receive an invitation to the next opening night.

  But Susie seemed to have learned her lesson. Since themes didn’t work for her, she had deliberately chosen no theme at all. The Generic Café, on Victoria Street, eschewed any suggestion of ethnicity, style, tone, or formality in either its cuisine or its decor. The walls, floor, furniture, lighting, table linen, cutlery, menu, and uniforms were not merely plain, they were aggressively plain, the simplest and most basic she could find. And since Susie’s staff were by now quite adept at keeping her away from the kitchen, the plain food was, for once, edible. “Everything about this place is totally average,” said the Independent restaurant reviewer, and Susie not only took it as a comp
liment, she even considered having the quote blown up and framed.

  The Generic Café was the only place Oliver could think of to take Effie for lunch. Ben had disappeared into his darkroom to work on the pictures he had taken the previous Sunday, but Geoffrey tagged along, partly to hear more about the murder and partly to gaze at Effie, whose preference for Oliver over him he had never fathomed. Effie had repeated her story, picking at a small plate of raw vegetables, the only appetizer she fancied on Susie’s spartan menu. She knew from experience that both men could be trusted with the inside information.

  “It’s an odd experience, seeing it all from the start,” Effie reflected. “The Three Wise Men were the first to arrive.”

  “I thought the shepherds came first,” said Geoffrey. “Who are the Three Wise Men?”

  “My three male colleagues in Plumley CID. They’d been working undercover on the High Street, because of a rash of pre-Christmas shoplifting. Hearing there was a murder in the manor, they shot over to the church without thinking to change out of their disguises.”

  “What were they disguised as?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Effie said quickly. “Anyway, they started taking some initial statements. The ambulance crew turned up, but as soon as they verified that Tapster was dead, I had them keep their distance. Then Spiv Welkin and Tish Belfry arrived with some uniformed constables. Spiv took it from there. The science squad showed up next, but they couldn’t do much until the duty Scene of Crime Officer arrived. In fact, the pathologist beat him to it, reeking of roast beef and clearly pissed off because the head SOCO was late and his Sunday lunch was congealing. He changed his mind when he saw the body. And at that point, it was all suddenly familiar—taped-off crime scene, forensic picking their way around in sterile overalls, flashes going off, Tapster carted away in polythene body bag…. That’s normally where Tim and I come in.” She took a sip of coffee and then spat it daintily back into the mug.

  “I have grown to love Susie Beamish like a sister,” she declared, “but when is she going to learn to make decent coffee?”

  “Are you going to be assisting Welkin?” Oliver asked glumly.

  “I don’t think so. Remember, I’m as much a witness as an investigator. Just like all the others, I had to give a statement, although I was out of the church at the most crucial time, chasing the Amazing Disappearing Tina Quarterboy. But Welkin seemed to be keeping all the fun for the boys. Beginning with Paul’s arrest. Although he’s not actually been charged—he’s detained for questioning.”

  “Let me guess why,” Geoffrey offered smugly.

  “Go ahead,” said Effie, munching on a celery stick.

  “If you’re right, and Tapster was poisoned, it must have been given to him shortly before he died. I mean, it wasn’t as if he ingested it with his cornflakes that morning.”

  “That’s right. Strychnine should work within about ten to twenty minutes.”

  “Well, the only things he consumed in the ten minutes before he died were bread and wine, during the Communion service. So the poison must have been in the bread or in the wine.”

  “Go on.”

  “And since Paul Piltdown passed him both, Paul must have been the killer.” Geoffrey folded his arms and smirked until his small eyes almost disappeared. Oliver considered tipping his friend’s coffee into his lap.

  “And so?” Effie asked.

  “Er, that’s it, actually,” Geoffrey concluded nervously.

  “What do you mean that’s it?” Oliver exploded, attracting odd glances from the diners at nearby tables. He lowered his voice.

  “It doesn’t answer anything,” he went on rapidly. “Did Tapster eat or drink anything else during those ten minutes? If he was poisoned, and the poison is strychnine, can it be administered some other way, such as through the skin? And if it was in the bread and wine, did Paul know it was there? Could someone else have spiked the sacraments? If the plates had been taken up and down the church first, what was to stop another communicant taking the poisoned pellet or glass? When it got back to the platform, how could Paul know which one to hand Tapster? Was the poison really meant for Tapster or was there a different intended victim? Or any intended victim at all—perhaps it was a random act of appalling mischief, and the lot fell on Tapster? Come on, Geoffrey, Inspector Welkin must have had more to go on than that before he arrested Paul!”

  “He didn’t,” Effie said abruptly, stopping Oliver before he was able to voice his opinion of Geoffrey’s higher mental facilities.

  “What?”

  “It happened exactly as Geoffrey said,” she continued airily. “All the witness statements agreed that Paul was the last person to touch the bread and wine before Tapster, so he must have known which was the poisoned glass. Incidentally, we’re assuming that the strychnine was dissolved in the wine. It would be easier to isolate a specially prepared glass than a single piece of bread in a big pile, and the alcohol in the wine would go a long way to masking the poison’s bitterness.”

  “Everything all right, darlings?” cried Susie, bustling into view with a coffee jug in each hand. “Anyone for a top-up?”

  “‘The pellet with the poison’s in the vessel with the pestle,’” muttered a distracted Oliver. “‘The flagon with the dragon is the brew that is true.’”

  “Who are you calling a dragon, you Swithin you?” Susie demanded, although good humor flashed in her chocolate-brown eyes. She elbowed Oliver in the ear and filled their mugs without asking. “This is my special Generic Café brew,” she crowed. It has no caffeine, no special flavorings, and no foul aftertaste.”

  “In fact, no taste whatsoever,” muttered Geoffrey, but the others noticed he waited until Susie had flounced out of earshot to terrorize her other customers. He scooped several spoonfuls of sugar into his mug.

  “Then how does Welkin think Paul got the poison to Tapster?” Oliver asked.

  “He’s working on the notion that the poisoned glass was never on the serving trays. That Paul either slipped the strychnine into Tapster’s glass just before he took it, or that he somehow had a prepared glass in his pocket or hidden under the table, which he palmed off on Tapster at the last moment. We didn’t find anything that would back this up at the crime scene or in Paul’s pockets—stuff like empty packets or pieces of cling-wrap or Sellotape. But I have to say, Paul’s attitude didn’t help his case.”

  “The vicar a bit bolshy, was he?” asked Geoffrey.

  “He was distinctly uncooperative. I had the same sense I had yesterday, when Oliver and I talked to him about Tina’s disappearance. I think he’s hiding something—even if it’s only a suspicion of who’s really behind Tapster’s death. Paul’s just not very good at lying.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Oliver said thoughtfully. “Even if Paul wanted to murder Tapster—and I know they had an argument the other day—why would he do it there and then?”

  “Perhaps it was the only opportunity he would have to pass the poison?” Effie offered.

  “No, he only had to inveigle Tapster round to the manse. You’ve seen how adept Paul is with a kettle and a packet of Jaffa Cakes. Well, not the Jaffa Cakes, maybe. In England, you offer tea to your worst foes.”

  “And it would be a lot easier under those circumstances to prove that Paul did it,” said Effie. “In church, in a Communion service, you’ve got a full deck of deacons to stand in as the unusual suspects.”

  “Tapster had no shortage of enemies on that platform,” Oliver remarked. “Paul and Nigel were at loggerheads over doctrinal issues, apparently. Old Cedric had just been supplanted on the diaconate. Patience Coppersmith feared for her son. Sam Quarterboy feared for his daughter. Only Dougie Dock seems free of any motive, which is a shame, because I’d like to see him locked up for life.”

  “And let’s not forget all the other communicants,” Geoffrey said, warming to Oliver’s flight
of imagination. “Perhaps all the church members ganged up to protect their children from the Exorcist of Plumley. On Friday night, they make Tapster a deacon, thus assuring him of his place at the Lord’s table the next Sunday, when they ritually sacrifice him in full view of the entire Diaconalist congregation.”

  He broke off. Susie had returned to the table, holding Detective Superintendent Mallard by the arm.

  “Look what the cat’s dragged in,” she sang gleefully, indulging her taste for older men and her affection for Mallard in particular by pressing her body against his and leaving several lip-prints on his neck. As always, Mallard handled it stoically, knowing that Oliver would report the encounter to his aunt anyway. He shook hands with Geoffrey and gave Effie a demure off-duty kiss on the cheek.

  “Well, Uncle Tim…” Oliver began, as Mallard pulled a chair up to the table.

  “Don’t!” Mallard growled, glaring at his nephew.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Don’t start with the comments. Why don’t I take a seat, have I got to the bottom of this, is there no end to that. I’m sure you’ve told your friends all about my moment of indignity, and they’re dying to join in, but I don’t want to hear it.”

  “What indignity?” asked Geoffrey, seemingly mystified.

  “I’m not sure what you’re referring to,” added Susie. “Did something happen to your…you know…London derriere.”

  Mallard looked suspiciously around the table. “You didn’t mention it?” he asked Oliver, who simply raised his eyebrows quizzically.

  “Mention what?” Geoffrey demanded.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “No, come on, Uncle Tim, you have to tell us now,” insisted Susie, perching on a chair.

  Mallard lowered his gaze. “Oh, well, it was just something that happened the other evening, on the opening night of my play. I had a slight accident with my costume. I’m surprised Ollie hasn’t described it. Let’s just say…”

  “The audience saw your Bottom!” Geoffrey and Susie chanted together, breaking up into howls of laughter. A couple at a neighboring table left without waiting for their change.