20 An Interview

The false clergyman is cornered...

WORDS MEAN DEATH

20 An Interview

Sophia Thatcher was troubled.

She was an honest young woman and she was aware that, being only nineteen years old, there must be gaps in her concept of the world she lived in, and that made her reluctant to put her views forward even though the more she thought about what she had seen the more she knew it was important.

She knew the reputation of the clergyman who, she had long ago decided, wasn’t really a clergyman at all. After all, he didn’t have a church of his own and as far she could tell never went near one. In addition, his reputation wasn’t one a clergyman would be proud of. And there was talk, whispered talk in case he somehow heard and didn’t like it being said, that he preyed on old ladies

But not on middle aged men. She’d never heard that he did that. Which brought her mind to the murder of a man she almost looked on as a friend, one who even encouraged her when she spoke of wanting to be a writer herself, and him a writer too, published and she’d even found a book by him in the library.

That same day she had seen the priest, dog collar and all. He’d been knocking at Mr Hemsworth’s front door, and she’d heard the knocking from her bedroom across the road, through her open window. She’d been at that window, filled with natural curiosity, and Mr Hemsworth had opened the door and the vicar had soon shouted at him, what about she had no idea, he couldn’t be heard being quite so far away. Then Mr Hemsworth had slammed the door in the vicar’s face, and that man had stamped one foot, obviously angrily, and made his way down the side of the house towards its back garden, looking grumpy like vicars never do, as he disappeared from her sight at rear of the house.

That had been about the time Davey (her brother who had put in an unexpected appearance in the Thatcher household ten years or so ago, when she’d been about ten) had been grumbling about going to school. He often did that, did Davey, especially when he was to change into his PE shorts that day and do things like race or run or in any way exercise his rather plump self.

Anyway, back to her mental problems. Should she tell the police, or not? She’d seen the argument, so others must have, and if that nice police Inspector asked around there would surely be some who remembered. And they might even have heard what it was about.

Yes. It was her duty, and she would do it. And the police station wasn’t so far away, and she had the time, the college term not quite started yet.

So she made her way to Brumpton Police Station and asked the officer on the enquiries desk if she could speak to the lady inspector who was in charge of the Dorian Hemsworth murder case because she thought she might have some useful information.

It so happened that Superintendent Peterson overheard Sophia’s request, and as he thought very little of Detective Inspector Bramley or her embarrassingly successful clear-up rate he decided to intercept any useful evidence and mull over it himself.

“I say young lady, I’m responsible for this station and if you have something for the DI I will certainly be happy to pass it on as she is not available at this present moment,” he said in what he hoped was a mixture of a sympathetic and friendly voice.

So Sophia, happy to be speaking to someone who was obviously important and knew what he was doing, explained about her quandary, finishing with “I’m sure he was up to no good, and there was a murder there the same day as he left…”

“Well, thank you for your honesty Miss.. er…”

“Thatcher,” she said nervously, “Sophia Thatcher,”

“And I’ll most certainly pass your observations on to DI Bramley,” he said with a disarming smile.

It was just as well that the desk sergeant had been privy to the conversation because when, a few minutes later Dorothy herself walked in with here DS only a few inches behind her, he was able to recount what he had heard in minute detail.

“I wonder how long it will take the super to pass that choice nougat on,” she queried, and he grinned back, knowing what she meant.

“Right, Ian,” she said to her sergeant when they were back in their own office, “I think it’s time for us to have another chat with Mr Wolf.”

“I’ll fetch him myself, ma’am, and he’d best not try any of his tricks on me or it’ll be him with bruised balls,” he grunted with a wink.

The Reverend Wolf, it seemed, did not require a solicitor for advice and to make sure the questions he was being asked were relevant to the enquiry, the reason being that he knew there were none locally that he trusted. He’d been around the town for long enough to have needed a legal shoulder to lean on more than once, and it was his opinion that solicitors were neither use nor ornament. So when he was fetched (with testicles intact) and escorted into Interview Room 1, he was alone and facing two detectives who he’d already given quite a run around to.

“Well, Mr Wolf,” began Dorothy.

“I beg your pardon, but I’m Reverend Wolf and insist on being addressed as such and no common or garden Mr.”

“There’s no point in trying that one on us,” sighed Dorothy, “We’ve looked into your history and know full well that you were defrocked, what, twenty three years ago, and the reason given was your tendency to befriend old ladies with the intention of inheriting any wealth they might have. I have also discovered that on three occasions the cause of death was so vague as for me to almost certainly assume that you had something to do with it. We also are aware that the charade you insist on parading in front of curious onlookers, with a so-called lady in a wheelchair as your poor wife is also a work of fiction…”

“I married her myself!” he responded, “you ask her and she’ll tell you! After all, she was there! It was a beautiful ceremony with flowers and stuff, and a wedding dress…”

“But nobody qualified to perform it,” sighed Dorothy. “Now come on, Mr Wolf, you might as well drop the fiction you’ve created for yourself. But anyway, that’s not why you’re here. You have been charged with the wilful murder of two men, Mr Dorian Hemsworth and Mr Mike Copperly, on or around the twelfth day of this month. So, for the record, how do you plead?

© Peter Rogerson, 29.01.24

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