Magatha Crispy #2: The Parish Poisoning

Instalment 1

The church fête at St. Michael's was exactly the sort of event Magatha Crispy usually avoided: bunting, homemade jam, and the unmistakable scent of competitive charity. But Constable Whimp had phoned that morning with tremble in his voice, and now she stood at the edge of the village green, watching paramedics load a body into an ambulance.

"That's Arthur Pembleton," Whimp said, consulting his notebook as though it might protect him. "Church councillor for twelve years. Popular sort. Ran the raffle every summer."

Magatha watched the ambulance doors close. "And he just collapsed?"

"Dropped mid-sentence. Right after presenting the winning ticket." Whimp swallowed hard. "Everyone assumed it was his heart. But the doctor—well, she pulled me aside. Said his colour was wrong. Said she smelled almonds."

Magatha's eyes narrowed. Cyanide. In the middle of a church fête.

"Show me the cider tent."

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Instalment 2

The cider tent stood at the far end of the green, its white canvas flapping gently in the summer breeze. Inside, a harassed-looking woman with flour on her apron was defending her table of glass bottles.

"I've been making this cider for twenty years," she protested as Magatha approached. "Same recipe my granddad used. No one's ever complained before."

Magatha picked up one of the bottles, examining the makeshift label. "And Mr. Pembleton—did he have his own bottle?"

"He always did. Bought it first thing, same as every year." The woman's voice wavered. "Said it was the only decent cider in Somerset."

"Did anyone else drink from that bottle?"

"No. Arthur was particular about his cider. Wouldn't share."

Magatha turned the bottle over in her hands. The seal was intact, the liquid clear. If someone had poisoned it, they'd done so after purchase—which meant someone at the fête had known exactly which bottle would end up in Arthur Pembleton's hands.

"Constable," she said quietly, "I need the names of everyone who bought cider today. And I need to see those raffle tickets."

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Instalment 3

The raffle tickets were stored in a biscuit tin under the cake stall—three books of them, perforated and numbered, with carbon copies of each sold ticket. Magatha spread them across the folding table while Whimp hovered anxiously.

"Winning ticket was number 147," Whimp offered. "Mrs. Higgins from the post office won a hamper. She's ever so pleased, though she does feel awkward about it now, what with Arthur—"

"What was the prize for the raffle organizer?"

Whimp blinked. "Sorry?"

"Mr. Pembleton ran the raffle. Did he get a prize? For his efforts?"

"I don't—" Whimp consulted his notebook uselessly. "I don't think so. It was just a thank you in the parish newsletter."

Magatha smiled—the expression that always made constables nervous. "Then why," she said, holding up the carbon copies, "did Arthur Pembleton buy thirty-seven tickets himself?"

She fanned them out: numbers 42, 43, 44—a whole strip, purchased in his own handwriting. And on each carbon copy, the same careful notation: Cash, no change needed.

Thirty-seven tickets. At fifty pence each. Nearly twenty pounds from a man known for pinching pennies at the collection plate.

"Constable," Magatha said softly, "I don't think Arthur Pembleton was poisoned by accident. I think someone wanted him dead. And I think Arthur knew someone was coming for him."

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Instalment 4

Vera Pembleton received them in her spotless kitchen, offering tea with the mechanical politeness of someone operating on autopilot. Her husband of forty-three years lay in the village morgue, and still she remembered to use the good cups.

"Arthur was devoted to St. Michael's," she said, stirring her tea though she hadn't added sugar. "More than he was devoted to me, some might say."

Magatha accepted her cup without drinking. "Mrs. Pembleton, did your husband mention any concerns recently? Any disagreements at the parish council?"

Vera's spoon paused mid-stir. "Disagreements? Arthur didn't have disagreements. Arthur had convictions. Other people had the disagreements." She set the spoon down carefully. "There was business with the church roof fund, if that's what you're asking."

"What sort of business?"

"The sort where money goes missing and Arthur was the only one who noticed." Vera looked up, and for the first time, Magatha saw something other than grief in her eyes. "He was going to present his findings at the fête. Said everyone deserved to know where their donations had gone."

"Do you know who he suspected?"

Vera's gaze drifted to the window, where the church spire rose above the village roofs. "I suspect you'll find out soon enough, Detective. Small villages keep their secrets close—but not as close as they keep their grudges."

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Instalment 5

The church roof fund had been overseen by three people: Arthur Pembleton, the vicar, and a woman named Eleanor Marsh who'd been organizing parish finances for twenty years. Magatha found Eleanor in her garden, deadheading roses with surgical precision.

"Arthur was a good man," Eleanor said without looking up. "Pity about his heart."

"I don't think it was his heart."

The secateurs paused, then continued their work. "The doctor said—"

"The doctor said almonds." Magatha watched the woman's hands—steady, practiced, unhurried. "Someone poisoned his cider. And since Arthur bought his bottle first thing, that someone must have known which one he'd choose."

Eleanor snipped another dead bloom. "Arthur bought from Gladys every year. Same bottle, same time. Everyone knew."

"Everyone knew." Magatha nodded slowly. "Including you."

Now the secateurs stopped. Eleanor looked up, her face unreadable. "I've known Arthur Pembleton for thirty years. We've served on every committee together, balanced every ledger, argued over every budget. If I wanted him dead, Detective, I'd have done it decades ago."

"Then perhaps you can explain why the raffle numbers don't add up."

For the first time, something flickered in Eleanor's eyes. "The raffle?"

"Arthur bought thirty-seven tickets. That's nearly twenty pounds from a man who still wore shoes with holes in the soles." Magatha stepped closer. "Care to tell me what he was really buying?"

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Instalment 6

The vicar's study smelled of old books and older secrets. Reverend Michael Townsend sat behind his oak desk, fingers steepled, looking every inch the benevolent shepherd—except for the sweat beading at his temples.

"Arthur was troubled," he said carefully. "In recent months. He saw conspiracies everywhere."

Magatha settled into the chair across from him. "Conspiracies like missing funds?"

The vicar's smile didn't waver. "The church roof fund is perfectly accounted for. I can show you the books myself."

"I've seen them." Magatha had spent the morning with a forensic accountant, watching him trace figures through ledgers like a bloodhound on a scent. "They're beautifully kept. Almost too beautifully. You see, Reverend, Arthur's copies don't match yours."

Silence.

"The thing about Arthur," Magatha continued, "is that he kept everything. Every receipt, every bank statement, every meeting minute for the past twelve years." She pulled a folder from her bag. "He also kept a diary. And in that diary, he noted something interesting: that you, Reverend, had recently made several large cash withdrawals from the building fund. Withdrawals that don't appear in your books."

The vicar's hands unclenched. "Arthur misunderstood."

"Arthur understood perfectly." Magatha leaned forward. "He bought those raffle tickets as a message. He knew you'd be watching, knew you'd wonder why he was suddenly spending money he didn't have. He was telling you he knew—and daring you to do something about it."

The vicar's face went very still. "That's quite an accusation, Detective."

"Is it?" Magatha rose. "We found the poison in your shed, Reverend. Cyanide, for the wasps' nests you mentioned to Mrs. Pembleton just last week. And we found the empty cider bottle in your compost heap—the one Arthur drank from, with your fingerprints on it."

Outside, the church bells began to toll, marking the hour. The vicar closed his eyes.

"Forty years," he whispered. "Forty years I've served this parish."

Magatha paused at the door. "Then you should know, Reverend, that even God keeps better books than you do."