Martha’s Dilemma by Penny Luker The small, stone church was off the beaten track, at the top of a gently sloping hill. It was damp, with broken roof tiles and a couple of the smaller windows were patched up with card and plastic. The new part-time vicar, Reverend Beecham, had lost his enthusiasm or maybe his faith, and showed little interest in either the church or the village it served. Martha tried her best to brighten the place up. She’d cleaned and sprayed air freshener to mask the damp odour; then she placed the recently bought, bright yellow chrysanthemums into the flower holders. She felt there was no excuse, not to make St Joseph's a welcoming place, even if the congregation was often limited to five, frail octogenarians. Idly she wondered what would happen to the church when they were all gone. Perhaps Martha had taken longer than usual cleaning the building, as twilight had turned to darkness and the churchyard only had one light at its entrance. She had no reason to rush home and liked to keep herself busy. It helped her cope with life’s challenges. She stuffed the large key into her oversized handbag and retrieved her tiny torch. One thing that could be said about Martha was she was always prepared. The torch’s beam made a misty yellow circle on the ground in front of her, as she made her way towards the entrance. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a black shape on the ground. She shone the dim light onto it and recognised, almost immediately, Reverend Beecham’s body. He was face down on the grass but his head was turned sideways; the back of which was caved in, and a pool of blood seeped into the earth. Martha found she was holding her breath as she stooped down to check his pulse, but she couldn’t find any. She reached into her bag for her large digit phone, when she heard footsteps. It wasn’t clear whether the footsteps were coming towards her or not, but she decided to run, which was not an easy task, even for a spritely eighty-one year old. Soon the churchyard was filled with police, tape and lights.
Martha opened up the building and was sitting on the pew at the back. She was fingering a silver button in her pocket, rolling it round and round. It was smooth at the back and had an anchor on the front. It distracted her while she waited to be interviewed. ‘How ironical that the place was now so busy, when it was nearly empty while Reverend Beecham was alive?’ she thought and almost smiled. P.C. Katy Campbell came and joined her and asked all sorts of questions. ‘When was the last time you saw Reverend Beecham?’ she said. ‘It must’ve been around five, but he was keen to get off and I hadn’t finished my work.’ ‘Was it normal for him to leave you in the church, alone?’ ‘Quite normal. I spent more time here than he did.’ ‘Are you employed by the church?’ ‘No, I’m a long serving volunteer. Must be nearly thirty years I’ve worked here.’ ‘And did you have your own key?’ ‘Yes, he and I both have one and I think there’s a spare, somewhere,’ replied Martha. ‘Would you say he was a popular man? Did he have any enemies that you know of?’ ‘Well popular isn’t quite the word I’d use. I think somewhere along the line he’d lost his mojo. Perhaps I might describe him as a bit depressed, not that he ever said anything to me,’ said Martha. - 36 -
