Murdering Ministers (28 page)

“Oh yes, at Thripstone Central Diaconalist. This all started more than two years ago, before Heather arrived on the scene, you understand. Nigel began to get up to the same tricks there—attracting a group of young people around him, meeting in his home, claiming a new spiritual rebirth, performing exorcisms on confused adolescents. It all got rather cultlike, and the deacons and church members became very nervous. And then Nigel got a little too close to one of his female followers.”

“Underage?”

“Borderline. Fortunately, no harm was done, and it sounds as if the little minx flung herself at him in a fit of hero worship—if you can see Tapster as a hero—but he showed less-than-perfect discretion. The church used the incident as an excuse to send him packing.”

“And then Heather came back from Brazil, and Nigel switched his affection to someone closer to his own age?”

Foison gave a bray of high-pitched laughter. “Hardly, my dear. They'd already paired up before this dalliance took place.”

“Then why did she marry him?”

“I think dear Heather saw her marriage as a business merger rather than two hearts beating as one. She wants to be the mother of a cult as much as he wanted to be the father, for largely the same reason, minus the sex. Oh, I have little doubt that she read him the riot act about keeping his hands off the youthful merchandise in Plumley—at least in the early stages of their master plan—but it was as much for their credibility as it was for marital harmony.”

A cynic might speculate that Heather Tapster's convulsive outpouring of grief, witnessed by Patience Coppersmith and Tish Belfry, was not so much for the loss of a beloved husband as for the frustration of her hopes for personal power and glory. Would she have reacted differently, Oliver wondered, if she had known about Nigel's impregnation of Tina? And could the Two Witnesses now operate as One? That reminded Oliver of a question he needed to ask Foison.

“Barry, you live near the church. Have you ever seen a young woman with long red hair either at the church or in this area?”

Foison started a little. “Is this some witness you're looking for?” he asked slowly.

“Possibly. Does it sound like someone you know? Maybe someone who was part of Nigel's cult at Thripstone, if you can remember that far back.”

A sudden wave of anger swept across Foison's delicate features. “Oh, I can remember, Oliver,” he said emphatically. “Do you want to know why? Two years ago, I was part of Nigel's cult too, singing ‘Hallelujah' with the rest of them and listening to the gospel according to Tapster, until Nigel's concupiscence and Heather's manipulative ambitiousness could no longer be ignored. That was quite a fall from grace, I can tell you. If it weren't for Paul Piltdown, I think I would have lost my faith entirely.”

He subsided in the chair. Geoffrey reappeared, a broad grin on his birdlike face.

“Barry,” he crowed. “I know your secret.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I know your secret. It wasn't hard to guess, when you've had a little experience as a detective.”

Oliver groaned and covered his face with his hands. Foison hesitated, flitting back and forth between experimental expressions of bewilderment and umbrage. Then he seemed to deflate slightly.

“What gave it away?” he asked ruefully. “I thought I'd been so damn careful about hiding things, knowing I was going to have visitors this afternoon.”

Oliver looked up sharply. Geoffrey walked over to Foison, holding something almost invisible between his finger and thumb. “Here's one of the clues, found on the bathroom floor. The razor in the bathtub was another.”

Foison reached out and took the object. “Very clever,” he said. “Quite ingenious, in fact. You've certainly done better than the police, Mr. Angelwine, although as soon as they arrested Paul Piltdown, their interest in me diminished.”

“Well, you did a good job of covering your tracks, I must say, you sly old dog,” Geoffrey said, punching Foison gently in the back.

“Look, I hate to interrupt this lovefest, but will someone kindly tell me what's going on?” Oliver demanded. Foison and Geoffrey looked at each other with polite good humor, and then Foison passed the object to Oliver.

It was a long red hair.

“What your perceptive friend has discovered, Oliver,” Foison began, while Geoffrey sat down behind him and beamed sickeningly at Oliver, “is that I am a preoperative transsexual.”

For some reason, the smirk vanished from Geoffrey's face and was replaced with an expression of pure mystification. Not noticing, Foison continued his story.

“Strangely enough, it all follows from what I was just telling you. My unhappy experiences at Thripstone caused me to take a good, long look at myself, and with help from a psychiatric counselor and spiritual guidance from Paul Piltdown, I determined what I had unconsciously known all my life, that I am really a woman trapped in a man's body. This acceptance of my sexual identity has been the truly transformative experience of my life.”

Geoffrey, who had been shaking his head and mouthing the word “no,” now looked as if he were about to interrupt the tale.

“Er, where are you now in the…sex change?” Oliver asked quickly.

“I prefer the term ‘gender reassignment,'” Foison said. “It's a little less Myra Breckinridge. I'm taking estrogen and I have started electrolysis on my face, although I still need to shave my legs before putting on a pair of pantyhose. That's why there's a razor in the bath, as Geoffrey so cleverly spotted. And for the moment, my glorious hair is merely a wig.”

“So you're already living as a woman for part of the time.”

“Life experience is essential to the process, before I go under the knife.”

Oliver and Geoffrey crossed their legs.

“And I already have boobs,” Foison continued, “thanks to the hormones. I have to be careful what I wear when I'm still dressed as a man. Loose clothes only. Yes, I'm rather proud of my pert little knockers. Do you want to see them?”

He sat up and gathered his sweatshirt at the waist.

“That won't be necessary!” Oliver said hurriedly. Geoffrey looked disappointed.

“Fair enough,” said Foison, leaning back in his chair. “Just don't change your mind when Oona has them. She would slap your face.”

“Oona is your alter ego, I take it.”

“Oona is my future,” he purred. “She's a gorgeous, lithe young redhead who takes no shit from anyone. Quite a contrast to squeaky, effeminate Barry. I have to become Oona several times a week. I often visit Paul Piltdown as Oona, after dark. I was on my way there last Thursday when I saw you and Paul coming along the street and decided it would be better for his reputation if I made myself scarce.”

“I trust my old friend Paul has always behaved toward Oona like a perfect gentleman?”

Foison laughed again behind his hand. “My dear, I can assure you Paul has no interest in Oona whatsoever. And vice versa. Although why bring vice into this?”

“And Oona is going to play the organ at tomorrow night's service?”

“Yes indeed. She's a much better musician than I am. The fluency of touch that Oona liberated at the keyboard, despite her false fingernails, confirmed that I was better off in every way as a woman. I couldn't be the regular Plumley organist as Barry, you see, because the preparation for the transformation kept me away from church too much.”

“You hope the Diaconalists of Plumley will be overcome with the Christmas spirit and welcome Oona with open arms?”

“I hope my fellow congregants won't realize it's me. Not this time. I really want them to judge my organ playing on its merits. There'll be time to see how they react to the transgendering later. With Christian love and tolerance, I trust.”

Oliver nodded and idly wrapped the stray hair from Oona's wig around his forefinger. “Barry, I really appreciate your assistance and your candor. Please be assured that Geoffrey and I will respect your confidence. Before we leave you, however, I have one last question.” He closed his notebook sharply and leaned forward. “Why did Oona paint a biblical quotation on the church door last Sunday?”

On reflection, Oliver had to admit to himself that the question didn't quite have the impact of “Where were you on the night of the twenty-fourth?” or “When did you last see your father?” In fact, it sounded like the sort of ludicrous phrase dished out for one of Dougie Dock's party games, in which one team had to conclude a story with that sentence, while the other was striving to get to “And with a gurgle, Colonel Milkthistle unplugged his toaster and jumped into the millpond.” But the effect on Foison was as electrifying as if Oliver had grabbed the stylish Italian desklamp and shone it into the young man's face. He jumped to his feet.

“How did you know it was her…him…me?” he cried, pacing nervously.

“You were seen,” Oliver told him, remembering his conversation with the retiring Mr. Tooth.

“That's impossible, I looked all around!” He wiped a hand across his face. “Oh damn it, I just confessed didn't I?” he added.

“We're not the police,” Geoffrey reminded him.

“I know, I know,” Foison replied distractedly. “But I shouldn't have done it. Doesn't it come under the heading of obstruction of justice?”

“That depends on why you painted it,” Oliver observed, remembering the analysis of the prophecy. “Was it meant as a threat against Heather?”

“Good heavens, no! Is that what the police thought?”

“Either that or the opposite—a defiant prediction of Nigel's resurrection.”

Foison stopped, aghast.

“I never thought of that either,” he stammered.

“Then what was it supposed to mean?”

“It wasn't supposed to mean anything,” Foison said with exasperation. “It didn't really matter what it said. What mattered was that it was there. I thought the police would assume the murderer had painted it, as a crazy reference to the notions that Nigel and Heather had about themselves.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Foison frowned, as if the explanation should have been unnecessary. “Because if you thought the murderer was still loose, you'd know that Paul wasn't guilty. I did it to help him. I know Paul. He didn't kill Tapster.”

But did you? thought Oliver. Although at the end of his day of detection, he was still too polite to ask. And too confused to know the answer.

***

They arrived back at the police station at six o'clock and took their former seats in the waiting area. Effie came out to meet them, and Oliver went over the additional information he had gleaned that afternoon, although he confessed that none of it had brought him closer to identifying the murderer.

“Look, Ollie,” Effie was saying, “if Paul is innocent, then one of the people you interviewed is lying to you. Which one?”

“I have no idea,” Oliver admitted. “If pressed, I'd say they were all telling the truth. Even if we had to prod a bit to get it. Congratulations on that, Geoff, by the way.”

Geoffrey acknowledged Oliver's compliment with a distracted grunt. His attention was riveted on the door that led to the CID section in the hope that Tish Belfry would make an entrance.

“What happened?” asked Effie.

“Oh, after my warning Geoff to stay away from the amateur detective stuff, he defies me completely and discovers the elusive Oona lurking in Barry Foison's bathroom. It was utterly brilliant.”

“Well done, young Angelwine,” Effie said generously.

Geoffrey grunted again, but seemed unwilling to pursue the conversation.

“Any progress on the Tina Quarterboy front?” Oliver asked.

Effie's face fell. “Nothing came out of this morning's house-to-house around the church. I've circulated Tina's description to the doctors and hospitals in the area, in case her pregnancy drives her to seek medical treatment. But I'm beginning to think we won't see that young lady until she decides to come home of her own accord. I just hope, wherever she it, that she's getting the right nutrition for herself and for her baby.”

“Are you working tonight?” Oliver asked quietly. “I could ditch the Angelwine and we could have a nice romantic supper.”

Effie leaned closer to him. “I can't get away just yet,” she answered, “but I'm off tomorrow afternoon until the day after Boxing Day. I know you're going down to your parents for Christmas. Will I see you before then?”

“I thought I'd go to tomorrow evening's carol service at the church. Will you join me?”

“It's a date,” she said, kissing him swiftly on the nose. Oliver watched her walk away, appreciating the rare opportunity to view her from this angle.

“Ollie,” said Geoffrey softly.

“Yes.”

“Can I confess something?”

“You mean that you had no idea Barry Foison was a transsexual?”

“That would be it, yes.” He smiled weakly. Oliver patted him on the arm.

“Well, what did you think when you came bounding out of the bathroom, brandishing a hair and shouting ‘Eureka!'?” he asked.

Geoffrey sighed. “I thought his big secret was that he was secretly living with a woman out of wedlock. I imagined the hair was hers. And what would a man want with a razor in the bathtub?”

“Lots of men shave in the bath or the shower. The water softens their bristles. Someday, when you start shaving, you'll appreciate that. No, if you want to check on the number of people in a household, count the toothbrushes.”

He checked his watch. Too late now to go shopping for Effie's Christmas present. He would have to purchase it tomorrow and give it to her at the carol service. There would be time now that his day as a detective was officially over—unless he hit upon the solution to the baffling crime in the meantime. “Shall we go home?” he asked wearily.