Murdering Ministers (24 page)

“That's very amusing,” Oliver replied cordially, strolling around the table to see what hobby she was really tracking through the labyrinth of the World Wide Web. Filling the screen was a picture of a muscular and well-oiled man wearing only a Santa hat and boots, with a sprig of holly decorating his hairless and worryingly abundant genitals. He seemed to be taking his temperature with a candy cane. Oliver backed away quickly.

“The gay newsgroups are the best,” Elsie continued, starting to download another photograph. “They take better care of their bodies.” She looked up at Geoffrey and let her eyes drift up and down his frame appraisingly. “Why don't you stay, dolly? We could admire the scenery together. There's room on this chair for two, if you stack them correctly.”

“No thank you,” Geoffrey squeaked, edging for the door.

“Suit yourself,” she continued insouciantly, watching the screen. She clicked again, making odd purring noises in her throat, while Oliver and Geoffrey slipped from the room.

***

“Come in, Mr. Swithin. Come in, Mr…er…Angelwine,” Patience Coppersmith was saying. No, no better the second time, thought Oliver, we still sound like the opening lines of a cross-talk act. “Swithin PI” wasn't bad for a solo performance, but despite his near-seduction by a seventy-year-old, Geoffrey had stayed with him for the second appointment, neurotically repeating his desire during the short walk to the Coppersmiths' flat to do some genuine detective work. They had managed to agree that only Elsie had the capacity and flair to mastermind Tapster's death, although since she would require Cedric as her agent on the platform, the Potiphars were unlikely suspects.

The sitting room was a striking contrast to Cedric's lair, with simple decor and well-chosen furniture. The window-ledge and mantelpiece were lined with dozens of Christmas cards, many of them signed in childish handwriting, and a dense, natural fir tree, peppered with elegant white ribbons, almost scraped the ceiling in a corner of the room. From another part of the flat, they could hear odd sounds, like bagpipes being passed through a rusty mangle, and Oliver assumed that Billy was home and practicing his guitar.

“We really didn't get much chance to talk the other evening,” Oliver began. “And so much has happened at the church since then.”

“You're telling me,” Patience agreed, sitting primly on the arm of a chair and fussing with her neat, gray hair. “And I don't have much time to talk even now, unfortunately. I have to go out in about half an hour.”

“Some last-minute Christmas shopping?” asked Geoffrey.

“No, I volunteer at a local hospice. Normally I'm only available for evenings, because I work during the day. But during the school holidays, I like to give a little more of my time, now that Billy's older.”

“Very commendable,” said Oliver.

She brushed away the compliment. “To God be the glory. But since we're a little pressed, let me tell you immediately that dead deacons and jailbird ministers aren't part of our normal Christmas festivities at Plumley Diaconalist. If you're going to include these events in your story, Mr. Swithin, I want to go on the record as saying I believe Paul Piltdown is completely innocent.”

“You can't imagine how he could have engineered the poisoning of Tapster's wineglass?”

“Oh, is that how they think it was done? Good heavens! No, I mean I don't think Paul is capable of killing anyone, not even a vile man like Nigel Tapster. Please don't misunderstand me, I'm very sorry Nigel's dead, and my heart is with poor Heather. But Paul Piltdown was about the only person in the church who seemed to tolerate the Tapsters, despite their challenges to his authority. Since I'm the church treasurer, they trusted me to count the votes at last Friday's deacons election. I couldn't swear to it, but I'm sure I saw Paul's handwriting on one of the ballots for Nigel.”

“You do realize that if Paul's not guilty, the killer's still among us.”

Patience shivered. “Yes, of course, that had occurred to me, and no doubt I'm a suspect, since I was on the spot
and
I was wielding wineglasses myself. I suppose I shall be quizzed again by those silly young policemen, dressed as a pantomime cow this time. And after I've been trying so hard to shut the details of Sunday morning out of my mind. Excuse me.”

She left the room quickly, and Oliver was sure it was not just to see if the kettle was boiling.

“She didn't do it,” Geoffrey declared definitively.

“What make you so sure?”

“She was surprised when you told her how the poison was administered.”

“Could be a bluff.”

“Oh. Well, all right, maybe she did do it. Hey, can I try out some detective's intuition when she gets back?”

“Of course not.”

They sat in silence, listening to Billy's attempts to master either “Layla” or “How Much is That Doggy in the Window?” After another minute, Patience returned with a tea tray and with redder eyes than before, followed by a trotting pug with a pained expression. Her stance brought back a memory for Oliver of Tina Quarterboy proudly bearing a tray of cups and saucers into the manse living room, the only time he had ever seen the missing girl. It was hard to think of the skinny, gauche adolescent in any kind of sexual liaison with Nigel Tapster, and he felt ashamed for the explicit image of the entwined, naked couple that sprang unavoidably into his mind. He shifted some magazines on the coffee table to make room for the tray.

“Ms. Coppersmith, is Tina Quarterboy in your class at school?” Geoffrey drawled.

Patience paused, milk jug in hand, and gave Geoffrey a puzzled look. He smirked. “You're probably wondering how I guessed,” he continued lazily. The dog stopped investigating the skirting boards and gazed at him adoringly.

“I'm actually wondering who's been giving you the wrong information,” she replied, pouring dribbles of milk into the cups.

“Ms. Coppersmith is a head teacher, Geoffrey,” said Oliver, glaring balefully at his friend, “and at a junior school, not a senior school.”

“That's right,” Patience confirmed. She handed Geoffrey a cup of tea, but the pug chose that second to leap into his lap and parade cautiously over his stomach.

“Ah, I see T'Pau has taken a fancy to you, Mr. Angelwine,” she said. “I'll leave your tea on the coffee table.”

She continued pouring, her actions the same as Tina's at the manse that time. But wait—where did Oliver's memory of Tina pouring tea come from? The girl had certainly brought in a tray and coffeepot, but
Paul
was the one who had poured the beverages, “played mother,” as the expression goes. That was it! When he and Effie had visited Paul, the day before the murder, the minister had used that same expression of Tina. But he had described an event that hadn't actually happened. And then he pointedly linked this to her being cast as the mother of God in the Nativity play. Dear Lord, had Paul been sending signals all along—consciously or otherwise, but probably consciously—of what he could not permit himself to utter? Then what else had he talked about that day that may have revealed what he knew of Tina's whereabouts, the father of her child? Confession, Jaffa Cakes, mother hen—there was that maternal metaphor again, anyway.

“Billy must be disappointed about tomorrow night's carol concert,” Oliver commented. T'Pau had begun a slow ascent of Geoffrey's rib cage.

“Why?” asked Patience, smiling indulgently at the pug.

“Well, I imagine the whole thing's off, what with the murder and the arrest and so forth.”

“On the contrary. Sam Quarterboy went to see Paul in the police station last night and brought back the message that the show was to go on. And Paul fully expects to be up in the pulpit, welcoming the Lord of Christmas.”

Another message to the murderer, Oliver assumed, unless Piltdown assumed he would have made bail by tomorrow evening.

“I've just seen Cedric Potiphar and he didn't mention this.”

“Well, poor Cedric's not a deacon at the moment, so perhaps Sam hadn't called him,” Patience replied kindly. “And even if he had, there's a chance that Cedric may have forgotten. We're none of us as young as we used to be.”

“But what about the music for the service? Surely Heather Tapster's not up to performing?”

“No, she was utterly devastated by the news. I know how I felt when Billy's father was taken from us. I just thank the Good Lord that Heather wasn't there to see Nigel die.”

“So with Heather unavailable tomorrow evening, who's going to play the piano for the carols. And for Barry Foison's Nativity play?”

“A friend of Barry's, called Oona. She's actually an organist. So's Barry, incidentally, but he says this Oona is a better musician. They're going to awaken the church organ from its long slumber for the occasion.”

“If Barry's an organist, why hasn't he been playing for the church?”

“Because his job sometimes takes him out of town on Sundays. So when Heather Tapster turned up and offered her services as a regular pianist, she seemed a Godsend.” She was unable to conceal a slight wince.

“When you went with DC Belfry to break the news to Heather, did she tell you why she left the service before the Communion?”

“The Tapsters had planned to have some of the young people round for lunch. I know Billy was going. I suppose the service was running a little long and Heather went home to start the meal.”

“Have you seen her since Sunday?”

Patience shook her head. “I believe the young people in her group have rallied round.”

“Billy, too?”

There was a pause. “Not yet,” she said. She couldn't avoid the hint of triumph and relief.

“How is Billy?” Oliver asked. “His experience the other day must have been quite terrifying. And I know Nigel Tapster was fond of him. Has he talked to you about his feelings?”

“He's a boy, Mr. Swithin,” Patience answered ruefully. “Rapidly becoming a man. These days, he wouldn't dream of talking to his mother about his feelings. I've made it clear that I'm here whenever he needs me, but he's been in his room playing that guitar almost constantly since Sunday. He's strong, though. With no father for many years, he's had to be.”

Strong enough to see through the wiles of father figure Nigel Tapster, eventually? Or did ceding his credulity to Tapster relieve him from the pressure of being the premature man of the house? If so, how was he handling the murder?

T'Pau was now planted firmly on Geoffrey's sternum, staring into his face with her dark, fish-like eyes and dribbling onto his tie. He looked around in mild panic, not wishing to touch the panting beast.

“Oh, she really likes you!” exclaimed Patience. “They can sense the animal lovers, don't you think?”

Oliver didn't respond, remembering Geoffrey's acute phobia of horses and wondering if it would migrate to smaller animals. Geoffrey had already had one painful encounter with a frightened ferret, which Oliver had rescued from an animal rights activist, and his subsequent refusal to share a house with the mild and affectionate beast had forced Oliver to give up several days of writing while he found a good home for it with a ferret enthusiast.

“So it's going to be an electric guitar and pipe organ duet for Barry's Nativity play?” Oliver mused. “That's a long cry from Benjamin Britten's
A Ceremony of Carols
, which the choir used to perform at my family's church every Christmas.”

Patience shifted in her chair slightly and tugged at the hem of her skirt. “Yes, that's a lovely piece, but we couldn't possibly perform it at a Diaconalist Church.”

“Hard to find a Diaconalist harpist? Heaven must be full of them. Or is it the bits sung in Latin? Hitting a little too close to Rome?”

“It's not that,” she said uncomfortably. “It's a shame, but, you know, Britten being the way he was…”

What? A pacifist? A conscientious objector? Tonal? The penny dropped. “Gay?” Oliver ventured.

“Well…homosexual, yes.”

“Surely that's no reason to disapprove of the man or his music, not in this day and age?”

“The Bible is quite clear on this,” muttered Patience primly. “‘Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind: it is abomination.'”

Oliver turned to Geoffrey, who was slumped almost horizontally in his armchair and seemed to be frozen in a stare-down contest with the drooling animal on his chest. He shrugged slightly, signaling his unfamiliarity with the reference. T'Pau didn't seem to think the worse of him for this admission of ignorance, even when Geoffrey repeated the shrug several times in a vain attempt to dislodge her.

Oliver decided this was not an appropriate occasion to discuss how fundamentalism became oddly selective as it navigated the less-traveled byways of the Pentateuch. But he was disappointed that of all the church members, it was this pleasant and intelligent woman who had voiced a streak of official intolerance. He hoped Paul was as prudent as he'd implied. Oliver glanced again at the questions scribbled in his notebook.

“A young woman with long red hair was seen in the area of the church after the murder. Any idea who she might be?”

Patience shook her head.

“I wonder if Billy knows,” Oliver continued, half rising from his chair. “May I ask him?”

“I don't see why not. But I don't imagine he'll tell you anything you don't already know.”

“I'll come too,” Geoffrey called weakly. The dog, sensing the competition for his attention, licked his chin wetly.

“No, no, you stay here and keep Ms. Coppersmith company,” Oliver replied from the doorway. “We don't want to disturb little T'Pau.”

The sound of the guitar led him to a door decorated with pictures of rock groups torn from magazines. Knowing that a knock would not be heard, Oliver pushed the door open gently. Billy was sitting on his small bed, an untidy island rising from the discarded clothes, electric cables, and other debris of youth scattered over the bedroom floor. As he leaned over his guitar, his vest hung loose on his thin body, revealing pimpled shoulders. Watching the teenager's fingers moving rapidly over the fretboard confirmed Oliver's suspicion. Although the cheap amplifier distorted the sound, Billy was simply practicing pentatonic scales, repeating the same patterns mechanistically and leaving too much of his mind available for other thoughts. He saw Oliver and stopped playing.