Murdering Ministers (16 page)

Effie looked up at Piltdown and shook her head.

***

Dying casts a spell. Death breaks it.

Once the soul leaves a body, the watchers remember to react. Piltdown breathed some words into the pulpit microphone about leaving the church, offering the manse and his services. He could not be heard above the rapidly growing noise of the young people wailing, some almost hysterically. Sam Quarterboy sat heavily on a pew and muttered a prayer. A woman communicant fainted and two others ran to help her. Dock walked away, wiping his eyes. Barry Foison made a move toward the Communion table.

“What are you doing?” Effie asked, still kneeling by Tapster's head.

“I'm going use the tablecloth to cover him up.”

“No,” said Effie sharply. “Stay off the platform.”

“We can't leave him like that,” said Foison wildly. “It's not right. Can we close his eyes, at least?”

“Perhaps it's better if we all go,” said Piltdown, who had descended from the pulpit, skirting the platform. “Let's assemble in the manse. The ambulance will be here shortly.”

“No,” said Effie again, placing another call on her telephone. “You're all going to have to wait here.” She stood up and clapped her hands.

“Listen to me, please,” she called. “I'm Detective Sergeant Strongitharm of Scot—of Plumley CID. Many of you know that already. It's very important that nobody leaves my sight until my colleagues arrive. Then we'll take statements. You can go and sit in the pews at the back of the church, if you like, but don't go through the curtains.”

She turned to Foison, who was staring at her open-mouthed. What nice teeth, she thought illogically. “Find a towel or something to cover his face, if you like, but don't touch anything on the platform or in the immediate area. Where are you going?”

She addressed the remark to Troy, Michaela's boyfriend, who was heading for the door to the rear of the church. “I need to get to the bog,” he said weakly. “I think I'm going to throw up.”

“Find a quiet corner of the church and be sick there. I'm sorry.” Effie heard a voice on the telephone and asked for Welkin.

“Effie,” said Piltdown firmly, above the growing murmurs of protest that had joined the dull sobbing, “this is all happening so quickly, but don't you think there's a chance you're overreacting? If you let me take these people into the manse, I can say some prayers and give them some tea.”

“No,” she insisted, hearing the distant ambulance siren. “This is a police matter now.”

“What makes it a police matter?” he demanded. “Poor Nigel must have had a seizure or something. Now, we've got some very confused and upset young people here. Keeping them in the same place where they witnessed Nigel's death, in view of the body, for God's sake…Well, it's only going to make this worse. I insist that you let me take them out.”

“This is a police matter, Paul,” she said calmly. “And this church is a crime scene. And I'll tell you what makes it so: the likelihood that your new deacon, Nigel Tapster, has just been murdered.”

“You can't be serious!”

“Does it look like I'm joking?” she replied. At that moment, Santa Claus ran into the church. Followed by two more.”

***

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 compliment, 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.”