A Poisoning in the Pews

I looked again at the selfie. Her name was Jessica Robinson, 28, attractive, happily married and a regular member of my congregation. She never missed a Sunday. She was smiling as if she did not have a care in the world. And yet within a few hours she was dead. Poisoned in the pews.

I should introduce myself. I am the Reverend Marylebone Pocklington-Pugh. For the last three years I have been rector of the beautiful church of St Cyprian’s in the tiny rural village of Pootley Crapington. Although it says vicar on my driving licence in fact I spend about 70% of my time helping the local police to solve murders. I enjoy it and the Bishop seems amenable.

I had actually discovered the corpse in question, which was lucky for me as sometimes the local police officers are a bit slow to get me involved. As usual I had undertaken a quick examination of the body looking for clues and then I rang 999 on my iPhone. Within a few minutes I heard the sound of a police siren. PC Dolittle ran through the church door and started asking me lots of questions. I answered his questions as best as I could. But it just generated lots of other questions in my mind to which I did not know any of the answers.

Back at the rectory I tried a technique that I had used before to get my little brain cells working. Six months previously I had purchased a ventriloquist doll from the department store in Norwich which I used for school assemblies to get the children engaged and interested in my stories from the Bible. The doll was dressed like a monk and I called him Brother Albert. I had given him a cheeky and mischievous personality.

“So Brother Albert, where on earth do we start with this tricky little murder? Do you have any ideas?”

“Well, who are the main guspects?”

Sometimes his pronunciation wasn’t perfect but I was trying to improve my ventriloquism skills.

“Good question, Brother Albert. I suppose Jessica’s husband, Colin. I was never sure about that marriage. Then there’s old Ted the verger, I think he had a soft spot for Jessica but I don’t think he would have ever harmed her. Possibly Harry the landlord of the local pub The Red Lion. There are rumours that he has an eye for the ladies.”

“Did any of them have a galibi?”

“A galibi? An alibi. Colin says he was at home watching the football on TV but nobody can back that up. Old Ted was the only one that we can say was actually near the church at the time but I can’t believe he would ever do anything to hurt her. He doesn’t have a motive.”

“What about Garry?”

“Gary? Oh Harry. At the pub. Dozens of people saw him serving behind the bar.”

“What about you? Did you kill her?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you dirty gastard. You always gancied her. You tried to give her one and it all got out of hand and you wanted to shut her up so you killed her.”

At that point I decided that Brother Albert had got a bit over-excited so I put him back in his suitcase. Sometimes I wondered whether he was developing a mind of his own. Then a thought struck me. Perhaps I could put him to use in the actual investigation. He would become a real partner in my crime-solving escapades. But would PC Dolittle and Inspector Torpid allow me to bring Brother Albert into the police station for an actual interrogation?

A week later I was sitting in interview room B of Pootley Crapington’s police station. Next to me was Inspector Torpid. Across the table was Jesica’s husband, Colin. He was our number one suspect but he was proving difficult to break down.

“I didn’t kill her. Why would I kill her? I loved her.”

“Your wife was poisoned,” said Inspector Torpid, “by somebody who had a good knowledge of poisons and knew exactly which poison to use. You used to be a chemistry teacher before you were made redundant so you are one of the few people in the village who would know how much poison to use and how long there would be till it took effect.”

“Circumstantial. You’ve got nothing on me. No proof at all. Nothing to link me to my wife’s murder.”

It was my turn to quiz our suspect.

“Mr. Robinson, God will be merciful to you but he can’t forgive you unless you take responsibility and ask him to forgive you for murdering your wife.”

“With respect Mr. Pocklington-Pugh, you are a vicar. You shouldn’t be anywhere near the police station. You should be at home writing one of your tedious sermons.”

I was quite upset. I almost said something hurtful but fortunately I had my cat Grantchester, named after my favourite TV series, sitting quietly on my lap and stroked him to calm my nerves.

I looked at Inspector Torpid. He didn’t have anything to say. We had been in the interview room for almost 25 minutes. It was time to bring Brother Albert out from my rucksack.

Suddenly Brother Albert started shouting at the suspect.

“You killed her. You murdered her, didn’t you? She was the only person who knew why you were sacked from that school and she was going to tell everybody in the village to get her own back on you for that dirty affair you had with that colleague.”

Our suspect was quiet but then he started to sob. The tears grew faster and bigger.

“Yes, I did it. I killed her. But I got the strength of the poison wrong. I didn’t mean to kill her. I just wanted to scare her. She kept threatening to tell everyone about the affair. But I came here to make a fresh start. I wanted to forget about my mistakes and build a new life for us here in Crappy Pootlington.”

“Pootley Crapington,” I corrected him. “And Colin, your wish has come true. You can make a fresh start and you can build a new life for yourself now. In prison.”