Copyright © 2008 Mathew Johnson. All rights reserved. 

A quiet family man, and the vicar of Saint Mary’s, Timothy Taylor was about to be arrested for murder. Even his wife knew nothing of the secret he had hidden for more than four years. So it came as a complete surprise that Sunday morning when the police stormed the packed church, interrupting Timothy’s sermon.

"Reverend Taylor," Inspector Hammal announced as two police officers led him from the pulpit, "I arrest you for the murder of your lover, Hannah McCall." Mrs. Taylor fainted and the parishioners gasped. Without a word of denial the vicar was led away handcuffed.

For several minutes Timothy waited alone in the interview room trying to avoid his own condemning gaze in the large mirror on the far wall. Finally Inspector Hammal and a female constable entered the room. Sitting across the table the inspector opened a box file. Several moments passed before he spoke.

"So why’d you do it Reverend?"

"I didn’t kill her, how could I?"

The inspector opened a folder. "You were seen throwing something large from the pier in the early hours of Friday morning. As we speak divers are searching the waters. We also found the manuscript of Ms McCall’s next novel, The soul sucking deacon of the seven spires, in your study."

Timothy shook his head. "I know this looks bad but I can explain."

"And can you also explain why a copy of Hannah McCall’s will was found in your filing cabinet stating her entire estate is bequeathed to charities associated to you and your church upon her death. Then can you clarify why we have security footage of certain late night visits by you to Ms McCall’s apartment and why," Hammel flicked through several stapled sheets of paper, "Hair strands found by Forensics, in Ms McCall’s apartment, match your DNA and why the suicide note discovered by Ms McCall’s literary agent has been positively matched to your personal printer." The inspector sat back and smiled. "Where I sit, this is an open and shut case. A lover’s spat where financial gain was obtained through cold-blooded and premeditated murder."

"I didn’t kill Hannah McCall!" beseeched Timothy.

"The evidence appears to differ," the inspector confidently replied.

"I didn’t because she’s not dead."

"Really Reverend? And if she’s not dead, where is she?"

The vicar took a deep breath. "Right here, I-I’m Hannah McCall."

The inspector glanced to the female constable standing at the door, unsure if he’d heard correctly. "Pardon?"

Timothy spoke softly. "I’m passionate about a great many things, my family, my pastoral duties and about my writing."

The inspector leaned back on his chair laughing. "Are you trying to claim that you’re the queen of supernatural horror, you the vicar of Saint Mary’s Anglican Church?"

Nodding somberly Timothy continued. "You must understand such literary leanings by a man of God would be considered unethical if not contradictory by some, by my parishioners. Up until four years ago I managed to keep my leanings secret. I‘d written story after story for my own gratification, although I can’t deny dreaming of someday being published, even writing a cover letter to a publisher and attaching it to my work.

My world turned upside down when my housekeeper, bless her, uncovered one of my manuscripts in my study and posted it believing it to be an important apologetic document defending the faith. At that point my life became a lie. You see my manuscript was accepted. I invented a pen name, the reclusive Ms Hannah McCall and just as well." Timothy slumped in his chair. "The novel became a best seller leading to more books."

"Come off it Reverend," interrupted the inspector, delving back into the box file. "I have publicity photos from Ms McCall’s publicist who said Ms McCall regularly appeared at book signings. Now unless you’re a skilled transvestite as well I can’t see how your flimsy tale can hold water."

The vicar lowered his head staring at the photos of the woman disguised by sunglasses, heavy gothic makeup and a flowing black wig. "Her name was Margaret. She was a homeless person whom I met while helping at a soup kitchen. She had nothing and so I offered her a job. With careful instruction she was able to stand in for Ms McCall on various occasions. Sadly Margaret died from hepatitis, so Ms McCall was forced to become even more reclusive."

Before the inspector could respond with crude scepticism the door opened and in trudged a police officer carrying a large suitcase. "There’s no body inspector, only this and a large number of Ms McCall’s personal effects." Opening the suitcase he laid it on the table and left.

"I couldn’t do it anymore," the vicar sobbed as the inspector examined the wet contents. "The only way I could be free of this nightmarish lie was to kill her off, figuratively of course. So I wrote a suicide note and tried to dispose of her belongings."

"You either have utter contempt for my intelligence or you’re telling the truth." The inspector sat back considering the vicar’s explanation. "Well it seems we don’t have a body as yet but we do have evidence, enough for you to stand and explain yourself before a judge. Take him away."

The female officer took the vicar by the arm leading him from the interview room. Halfway along the corridor she spoke. "I’m sorry you had to lie."

The vicar double glanced at the policewoman. "Hannah!"

"Shsh, Constable Ronan-Taylor." Tapping her ID badge she opened a holding cell door. "Don’t worry, before my shift ends any evidence will have been mislaid. You’ll be home tomorrow." Stepping inside the empty cell she threw her arms around him. "I’d never have been able to remain a constable had anyone found out, and it’s been hard not telling mum, she’d never understand. I promise dad, I won’t be writing anything else, Hannah McCall is dead."