I’ve been reading quite a few murder mystery novels these last couple of years and have been toying with the idea of doing one myself. Plus, I am a mega-fan of all things Sherlockian.

So this week I thought to myself, why not? Not a whole novel, not yet, but a short story perhaps. And that’s what I’ve done. I’ve written a comic murder mystery short. The thing is, I haven’t revealed the name of the culprit. That’s for you to work out.

So here, without any further ado, I give you…

Death by Teapot

“Final item on the agenda,” said the vicar, “acquisition of a new teapot for the Ladies Luncheon Club.

“Yes, and not before time.” Snapped Mrs Baggley. “The old one has a crack in it and it’s only a matter of time before the thing starts to leak and then where shall we be?”

“Without a teapot.” Said Mrs Windebank, who had a rare talent for stating the utterly obvious.

“Precisely!” Said Mrs Baggley, the most forthright member and chairwoman of the PCC.

“Well I don’t foresee any problems there,” said the vicar with a reassuring smile, “surely there’s enough money from last month’s jumble sale.”

“Have you seen the price of teapots these days vicar?” Mrs Baggley snapped.

“In truth Mrs Baggley, I have not, but it can’t be much more than say ten to fifteen pounds, surely.” He replied.

“Hah!” Mrs Baggley almost spat the word out.

“More than that?” Asked the vicar.

“Oh much more than that!” Mrs Baggley spoke as if she was addressing an errant small child. “A teapot large enough to adequately cater for the luncheon club will cost well in excess of thirty pounds at least. Possibly even forty.”

“Forty pounds for a teapot?” The vicar sounded incredulous.

“Erm… we would like a nice one vicar.” Said Mrs Dunwoody, a timid lady but still always one to speak up, nonetheless. “I’ve seen a nice earthenware one in the shops.

“Yes of course, but even –” began the vicar but Mrs Baggley stopped him short.

“The luncheon club has a reputation to uphold vicar.” She barked. “We can’t have just any old teapot.”

“I realise that Mrs Baggley but funds are in short supply you know.” He said.

“Worrabart t’ jumble sale then?” Said Mrs Wenlock without looking up from her crochet. Mrs Wenlock was a bluff northern lady who liked a nice cup of tea from a proper teapot.

“How much did it raise last time?” Said Mrs Windebank.

“Fourteen pounds and fifty-two pence.” Said Mrs Dunwoody in a quiet voice.

“How come?” Asked the vicar.

“Well, there weren’t too many people there.” Simpered Mrs Dunwoody.

“I know. But every item was fifty pence,” said the vicar, “where did the two come from?”

“I found it on t’ floor outside.” Said Mrs Wenlock, still intensely working on her crochet.

“Ah well, every little helps.” The vicar smiled.

“I dunna think tuppence is goin’ t’ ‘elp much.” Mrs Wenlock’s fingers continued their crocheting without her breaking her gaze.

“Precisely so!” Said Mrs Baggley. “So where is the money coming from then?”

“We could hold a raffle.” Said Mrs Windebank.

“That’s one possibility.” Said the vicar.

“A raffle? A raffle?” Said Mrs Baggley. “In the house of God? That would be a grievous sin vicar, as you yourself should know.”

“I think in the circumstances we could persuade ourselves to let it slide on this occasion.” The vicar sounded nervous but then Mrs Baggley made everybody she came into contact with nervous.

“The congregation won’t stand for it.” Said Mrs Baggley.

The vicar looked at the four women sat around the table. He was in the presence of half of the weekly congregation as it were. The others were old Mrs Bates who was well into her nineties, Eric Stamford who played the organ (badly) and was as devout a man as possible who had served the church faithfully since his youth, Stan Pickles who always brought his Jack Russell, Missy, to the service and often let it bark during the hymns, another old lady of questionable fragrance who refused to give her name to anyone and only came in on a Sunday morning for a warm and then there was himself. That was it. The congregation of St Winifred’s in the Wold. A raffle would hardly cause too much consternation amongst them.

“No, it’ll have to be something else.” Continued Mrs Baggley.

“Very well, what about cakes?” Said the vicar.

“Cakes?” Said Mrs Baggley with more than a hint of suspicion in her voice.

“We could sell cakes.” Said the vicar.

“Ooh lovely.” Chimed Mrs Windebank and Mrs Dunwoody at the same time.

“I love baking.” Said Mrs Windebank. “Arnold always says my Victoria sponge is to die for.”

“And my scones are the talk of the Womens institute.” Said Mrs Dunwoody.

“Yes, for all the wrong reasons.” Huffed Mrs Baggley.

“What on Earth do you mean by that?” The hurt was plain to hear in Mrs Dunwoody’s voice.

“Your scones are more like rock cakes.” Said Mrs Baggley. “I nearly lost a tooth on one of them at the fete.”

“They are not.” Mrs Dunwoody tried to defend her scones but the vicar raised a placating hand.

“This is not the time nor the place to discuss an individual’s baking ability.” He said. “We’re here to discuss buying a new teapot.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my scones.” Said Mrs Dunwoody, meaning to say it under her breath but it came out audibly. No-one noticed the tear in her eye.

“Huh!” Was all Mrs Baggley had to say to that.

“Ladies please, can we focus on the matter in hand.” Pleaded the vicar. “Vis-a-vis the new teapot for the luncheon club.”

“Vizzy what?” Said Mrs Wenlock looking up from her crochet for the first time.

“Vis-a-vis.” Said the vicar. “It means with regard to.”

“Thank you vicar but we don’t need a lesson in Spanish.” Mrs Baggley spoke pointedly.

“Erm… it’s French actually.” Said the vicar.

“Even worse.” Snapped Mrs Baggley. “Blummin’ Froggies. Don’t talk to me about them. Where were they during the war? Hiding behind their baguettes, that’s where! Bunch of cowards the lot of them.”

“Actually,” said Mrs Windebank folding her arms, “my grandfather was French and fought in the resistance. He was awarded for bravery.”

“Huh! What with? A string of onions?” Mrs Baggley cackled at her own joke. No-one else did.

“I’ll have you know Dora Baggley that my grandfather was—” began Mrs Windebank.

“PLEASE!” The vicar felt the need to raise his voice. “This is getting us nowhere and I have my sermon for tomorrow morning to write.”

“Well I hope it’s a lot better than last weeks.” Huffed Mrs Baggley.

“What do you mean by that?” Said the vicar.

“All that nonsense about the wise and foolish virgins.” Said Mrs Baggley raising herself up in her chair. “Talking about virgins on a Sunday morning. That isn’t right.”

“It’s from the Gospel of Matthew if you recall Mrs Baggley.” The vicar said in a somewhat self-righteous tone.

“Well, I didn’t like it, that’s all.” Said Mrs Baggley.

“I rather enjoyed it Vicar.” Said Mrs Wenlock focussing on her crochet once more.

“You would!” Said Mrs Baggley who was now atop a very high horse of her own making. “Anything to do with the S word!”

“The S word?” Said the vicar.

“You know perfectly well what I mean.” Said Mrs Baggley.

“I’m not sure I do.” Said the vicar.

“Then let me spell it out: S – E – X!” Said Mrs Baggley.

“The parable of the ten virgins isn’t about sex.” Said the vicar supressing the urge to smile at such a ridiculous notion. “It’s a story about being always ready for our Lord’s return.”

“’Old on a minute,” said Mrs Wenlock, finally putting her crochet down, “are you sayin’ that I’m sex mad Dora?”

“Ladies please!” Said the vicar but he was ignored.

“You always have been Lily Wenlock. Every week at the luncheon club you constantly talk about that Daniel O’Donnell.” Said Mrs Baggley.

“I like ‘is singin’.” Said Mrs Wenlock.

“And the rest.” Said Mrs Baggley. “Two weeks ago I heard you telling poor old Mrs Bates about how you thought he had the loveliest smile and you wished he’d give you one. Deny that if you can!”

“That dunna make me sex mad though, does it?” Mrs Wenlock was filled with indignation.

“I hardly think that this is the time for us to talk about Daniel O—” said the vicar before being rudely interrupted.

“Wanting someone to give you one does!” Said Mrs Baggley.

“I meant one of ‘is smiles ya dizzy old mare.” Said Mrs Wenlock.

“Don’t you call me names Lily Wenlock or I shall take steps.” Said Mrs Baggley sounding utterly affronted.

“I wish you would take blummin’ steps an’ clear off somewhere else.” Said Mrs Wenlock.

“Well that’s a fine thing to come out with I must say.” Said Mrs Baggley, her face going a strange shade of tartan.

“Did you hear that Vicar?” Mrs Baggley pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’m not staying to be insulted. Either she goes or I do.”

“LADIES, PLEASE STOP THIS!!!” The vicar raised his voice louder than any of the ladies could ever recall. “How did we get from wanting to purchase a new teapot for the luncheon club to arguing about cakes and the French and… and the S word?”

All the ladies looked shamefaced and each to a woman stared downwards.

“Now let’s all show a little decorum and get back to the matter in hand, please.” The vicar was vexed and they knew it.

“Sorry vicar.” Said Mrs Windebank.

“Sorry vicar.” Said Mrs Dunwoody.

“Aye, an’ I’m sorry too vicar.” Said Mrs Wenlock.

They all turned their gaze onto Mrs Baggley who sat stern faced with her arms tightly folded across her bosom.

“Anything you’d like to say Mrs Baggley?” Said the vicar.

There was a silence that lasted about eight seconds but felt to the vicar more like eight minutes.

“So where’s the money coming from for this teapot then?” Said Mrs Baggley at last.

“The vicar mentioned a cake sale, I believe.” Smiled Mrs Windebank.

“That’s right.” Said the vicar. “Surely we can raise forty pounds selling cakes. We could get a stall on the market on a Tuesday; the council won’t charge us for it, and we could all take turns in manning the stall.”

“Sounds like a wonderful idea.” Said Mrs Dunwoody.

“Well I’m up for it.” Said Mrs Windebank.

“Count me in vicar.” Said Mrs Wenlock. “I’ll knock up a fruitcake an’ an apple pie or two.”

There was another silence that was eventually broken by the vicar.

“And yourself Mrs Baggley?” He said.

“Only of I can have full say on what cakes we sell and for how much.” Said Mrs Baggley, after what felt like an eternity.

“Why should you decide?” Said Mrs Dunwoody.

“I’m the chair of the PCC.” Said Mrs Baggley in a most matter-of-fact way.

“That’s no reason why you should—” Mrs Windebank began but her voice was suddenly interrupted by the sound of the organ outside the vestry.

“Ah,” said the vicar, “It’s Eric, he always practices at eleven on a Saturday morning, he’s just tuning up.

“Well we can’t sit here and have a discussion with that racket.” Said Mrs Baggley.

“We have over-run the meeting time.” Said the vicar. “All those in favour of a cake sale raise your right hand.”

Three hands shot up straight away, Mrs Baggley’s hand was slowly raised.

“It’s agreed then.” Said the vicar. “We’ll discuss the ins and outs of the sale at the next meeting.”

“And what are we going to do before then vicar?” Said Mrs Baggley, her voice rich with sarcasm.

“How do you mean?” Said the vicar.

The sound of Eric tuning up had ended. Soon he would be hammering stoically away at the keys with tomorrow’s hymn list in front of him.

“The next meeting is in a months’ time.” Said Mrs Baggley. “What if the crack in the teapot gets worse by then and the useless thing breaks? Someone could get scolded. Think about that, eh? What if that happens. I don’t know about you but I don’t want that on my conscience.”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake!” Said Mrs Windebank suddenly expostulated whilst standing up and clenching her fists. “I’ll buy the bloody teapot myself!”

“Ooh, I never heard such language in church in all my life.” Said Mrs Baggley but before she could say anymore Mrs Windebank hurried out of the room with a tearful apology.

“I think we should all go home now and calm down.” Said the vicar.

“Well I, for one, am not using that dangerous teapot anymore.” Said Mrs Baggley. “And you can put that in the minutes for all I care.” And with that she jabbed a finger towards Mrs Dunwoody who had been taking the minutes right up until the teapot debacle.

“It’s rude to point.” Said Mrs Dunwoody. “My mother always told me to never—” Began Mrs Dunwoody.

“Your mother spent most of her time in the Dog and Duck so what did she know about manners?” Mrs Bagley cackled.

“I don’t think there was any call for that.” Said the vicar.

“And I’m not wasting anymore of my Saturday in here.” Said Mrs Baggley. “Good day Vicar, see you in the morning. I’ve a good mind to report you to the bishop for letting this meeting get out of hand.”

The three remaining members of the PCC watched her go, Mrs Dunwoody brushing a tear off her flushed cheek.

“Full o’ ‘ot air is that one, dunna you worry Vicar.” Said Mrs Wenlock with a reassuring smile.

“My mother was no drunk.” Sniffed Mrs Dunwoody.

“It’s alright lass.” Said Mrs Wenlock. “Dunna cry. Dora Baggley ‘as allus ‘ad a big mouth on her.”

“I think perhaps we should all go home now and try and forget about this whole teapot business.” Said the vicar.

“I shouldna worry abart t’ teapot Vicar,” said Mrs Wenlock. “If Emily Windebank sez she’s going t’ buy one then rest assured she’ll be as good as ‘er word.”

“Well she will be reimbursed for every penny.” Said the vicar. “Even if I have to give it her myself. Now, I’m going to say a prayer and close the meeting.”

The vicar offered up a short prayer asking for peace between the PCC members and forgiveness for one and all. He finished the prayer with a request for the new teapot to be suitable to everyone and for the matter to be put to rest.

The two ladies both said “Amen” and got to their feet and made towards the door.

“She wants blummin’ sortin’ out does that Dora Baggley. For two pins I’d swing forrer meself.” Said Mrs Wenlock to Mrs Dunwoody.

“She’s so cruel,” replied Mrs Dunwoody, “I think I actually hate her. It’s a horrible thing to admit but I sometimes wish she were dead even.”

The door closed behind them and the vicar exhaled a long, drawn-out sigh.

After closing his eyes for half a minute he got up and walked to the door himself and into the church. Eric was now attempting to tackle Nearer My God to Thee with only limited success. Eric had recently had a new hearing aid but unfortunately had no ear for a tune and as many wrong notes as right ones always emanated from the organ.

The vicar smiled as Eric’s fingers continued to torture the hymn. At least Eric was doing his best. He always put the good of the church above everything else. A lovely, kind and gentle man but a poor organist, but God please bless the dear fellow for trying.

He smiled to himself again and set off to the vicarage to write his sermon.

Dora Baggley’s body was found on the path leading to the church door the following morning. She had gone to unlock the building at eight o’clock sharp as always but, unbeknownst to her, had been followed. She was face down on the ground in her Sunday best.

When the police arrived they found that Mrs Baggley had been killed by a violent blow to the head and that scattered around her body were many broken pieces of a large and heavy earthenware teapot, which, it seemed, had been the instrument of her untimely demise. The spout of the teapot was snagged in Mrs Baggley’s wiry, grey hair.

After investigating, the police arrested the wrong person.

But can you tell whodunnit?

The clues are there.

Answers in the comments please.