A Lesson in Evil

From the journal of Rev. Stanley Sims:

I’ll never forget the day that the shapely Widow Jones (head of the local finishing school to boot!) turned up at the Vicarage, her face a ghastly combination of womanly passions and running mascara, sobbing like a bint!
“My dear girl,” I consoled, ushering her into the parlour, “do sit down! Whatever can be the matter?”
“Oh, Father Sims!” the creature cried. “I have run all the way from Radcliff Hall. I don't know what's gotten into the girls - they're all behaving most queerly. I was lucky to escape! Oh my, I fear that this time I am truly damned! Please, I must speak with Father Beckett immediately!”
“Tsk, tsk! Let’s not have such heady talk on such a fine morning!” said I, pouring her a cup of sweet Indian tea. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and we’ll see if I can’t quell your distress. I’m afraid that Father Beckett is rather busy at the moment.”
At this news, the Widow Jones took on such a lamentable wailing and moaning that I had no choice but to scurry off to the study at the top of the house (receiving a chalky kiss of gratitude on the cheek for my efforts!) where Father Beckett had been holed up for the past two days and nights. I was loathe to disturb that fine man, knowing full well that he was working on the coming Sunday’s sermon, when he planned to address a controversial new pamphlet which he had recently published to much clamour and excitement. Lord Love a Duck: The Church’s Changing Attitude to Bestiality was causing quite a stir in our small rural community, and my good friend, Father Beckett, felt it his duty to clear up a number of misinterpretations before things got totally out of hand in the village.
“Beckett, old chap,” I ventured, knocking on the heavy wooden door, before tentatively opening it a crack and peering into the dark confines.
“The Widow Jones is downstairs, I presume?” asked Beckett wearily, looking up from his desk.
“Heaven’s above, Beckett! How could you possibly –”
“I received this telegram a little over an hour ago,” he said, holding up the ill-fated wire. “It’s from an old acquaintance of ours. You will no doubt recall The Case of the Agnostic Head Tutor?”
I shuddered involuntarily with terror at the memory. “Oh the horror! The horror! Surely we witnessed that rascal perish before our very eyes, along with his Radical views?”
“If this mess,” he gestured at the paperwork laying strewn across the desk before him, “has taught me anything, it’s that nothing is ever that clear cut. I expect the Widow has some explaining to do…Come, Sims, I do believe that it is time we took to class…”

To Be Continued...