by JESUIT
JESUIT by BILL FRANKS www.billfranks.co.uk
J E S U I T
©copyright Bill Franks 2012©
by BILL FRANKS.
The characters in this book are entirely fictitious and not based in any way on
any person, living or dead. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is
purely coincidental and should not be regarded as any person’s real character
or activities.
Some of the place names are real but the events depicted in this book do not
imply that any such action or occurrence took place there.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission, in writing
from the publishers and/or the author.
Acknowledgements.
As always, I must first thank my wife, Jean, for her ever-enduring patience as I wrote this novel. I spent many daily hours working on it and hogging the phone line with my old PC., leaving her to sit alone.
I must also thank Karen for proof-reading, pointing out my mistakes and giving me the benefit of her honest opinions.
Thank you all.
JESUIT
© copyright Bill Franks 2012©
By Bill Franks
The first body to be found is that of a pretty ten-year-old girl.
The way she died is a mystery, the bloodstream being full of Opium.
The girl has not been sexually assaulted and there are no signs of a struggle.
Detective Inspector Graham Sampler of the Metropolitan Police force has the task of solving the case, which becomes even more bizarre as further murders are committed and these are not confined to children.
During the lengthy investigation, he crosses paths with a mysterious Jesuit priest, Brother Ignatious Saviour. Brother Saviour is a truly remarkable man who has suffered hardship and terror in the jungles of the Amazon and who is now on a holy mission commissioned by the Pontiff.
He exerts strange and baffling powers and his influence on the investigation brings Sampler to a decision he has to reach – the most awful and horrifying decision a person can be called upon to make.
CHAPTER ONE
Even at the tender age of ten, it was obvious to all who saw her that Kylie Johnson would grow into a beautiful woman. To those who knew her, a beautiful disposition would be added to the accolade.
The girl’s healthy, dark hair cascaded around a pear shaped face in gently waving pincers ending just below the chin. The lips were already becoming full, the teeth perfectly white and even.
Kylie’s eyes, an enchanting cornflower blue, stared unblinkingly at the clear, early summer sky as an occasional cotton-wool cloud eased its way sleepily across the expanse, reflecting in the glass-like iris.
She was positioned on her back in the warm grass of the meadow, white daises and yellow buttercups swaying in haphazard patterns in the whisper of a breeze. The red of an occasional poppy could also be noticed oscillating in its delicate majesty. A short distance from the town of Watford, in Hertfordshire, it seemed a million miles away from the rush and bustle of any township.
One of Kylie’s legs was outstretched, whilst the other bent at the knee causing the dress to fall back and expose the full extent of her flawless thigh.
Kylie had always loved this dress; it was her favourite. It fitted to her blossoming frame, ending an inch above the knee. The white of the dress was patterned with scores of butterflies; blue, red, purple, yellow, brown.
The small blue was the one she liked best – a Common Blue (Polyommatus Icarus). She didn’t know its commom name, let alone the Latin. Didn’t need to, enough that it was pretty and she liked it.
As if to compliment the design, a real-life, Green Veined White (Oragala Daps), settled on the dress, its wings opening and closing in neutral mode, the antennae probing all directions.
As Kylie lay in the pleasant June warmth, an ugly, squat blowfly buzzed by. It first zig-zagged over her head to a point a few feet beyond and then returned as though retrieving something mislaid. Landing next to Kylie’s left eye, the ugly insect began to check its surroundings for any possible danger. Being satisfied, it walked jerkily over to the sweet wetness of the human eyeball. Another pause and then it walked onto the beautiful eye. Kylie didn’t bother to brush it away.
Dead people do not brush away flies.
CHAPTER TWO
Detective Inspector Graham Sampler was feeling irritable. Before setting out for work this morning, he had grumbled at his wife, Bethany, for, of all things, the milk on his Shredded Wheat being too cool! In all their nine years of marriage, he had never complained about anything she did for him; she would have had every right to tell him to do it himself in future.
The complaint was petty, he knew, and pettiness was not one of his vices. It was this case. It was getting to him.
The death of a young girl, the murder of a young girl, was deeply worrying. Ten years old with her life in front of her and, by all accounts, a happy, friendly child, always anxious to please. Her parents adored her and her schoolteachers delighted in her.
Even at that age, she had been an attraction to many boys, from the age of eight at the lower end to sixteen at the top of the scale. She had been a very pretty child.
Her prettiness was of no consequence to the investigation; a murder requires the fullest, most thorough enquiry no matter who the victim or what the status. But a child? That did evoke strong emotions amongst any investigating officer, no matter how professional he or she may be.
Sampler was a father himself. He had a son, Nathaniel, aged five, who was attending primary school and showing all the cockiness and worldly knowledge befitting a person so mature. Nathaniel wanted to be a policeman like his dad, when he grew up. Or was it a Fireman… or a Doctor…or, yet still, was it an Action Man? It depended largely on what television programme he was interested in at the time.
So, as a parent, Sampler could sympathize with the emotions the dead girl’s family were experiencing. He quietly vowed to solve this particular crime, come what may.
Sampler had been pushed into a role, by a high-powered police “think tank,” of investigating the more puzzling murders wherever they may occur within a sixty-mile radius of London. Lack of resources in general in the police force, meant that local police teams had difficulty in spending sufficient time on solving serious crimes in their area, leaving too many unsolved and thus causing unrest among the public. All credit should be allowed for the many that were solved, given the restricted resources, but Joe Public was not the most tolerant.
It had therefore been decided that a designated Detective Inspector of proven quality from the Metropolitan Police Force at Scotland Yard, should be appointed to take on such cases and have the authority to select a small team of men, not more than four, to assist. Sampler had been the one chosen and he had decided to choose just one assistant, the very able Detective Sergeant Clive Miller. The present case had been immediately identified as one that would drain the valuable finances allotted to the local force.
The autopsy had produced little of value, although DNA samples had been found and analysed, from a single stray hair that had been discovered on the dress and shown not to belong to Kylie. There was nothing unusual in the DNA strands; a common strain that could be matched – if the killer was ever apprehended and tested.
A large amount of opium had been found in the victim’s bloodstream and it was ascertained that that was the cause of death. How did it get there? No one believed the child had administered it to herself, and there were no traces at all on the body.
A thorough
examination had been carried out but the only punctures found had been those administered by vaccination prior to a recent holiday with her parents to South Africa.
Even signs of a struggle had been missing from the scene. Signs of activity were evident by flattened grass around the body, showing that two people had been there at the time but nothing to show a fight had taken place. Everything seemed to be in neat order, as if the victim had willingly complied with her attacker. Normally in such crimes, particles of human hair, skin, or blood even, could be discovered under the fingernails but not in this case. The one hair on the dress may yet prove vital but it had led to no known criminal. The whole thing was a complete puzzle.
Sampler read and re-read the statements obtained from parents, teachers, friends, relatives and the local priest, Father Cobb.
He could find nothing that offered help. Most confirmed the general opinion of the tragic victim and no one had a bad word to say about her. Her school friends were all very fond of her and, unusually, there appeared to be no jealousy harboured by any.
Relatives, especially males, had been closely interviewed and privately investigated. Apart from the occasional petty theft or motor offences, all were clean. None had a sexual history, nor were there any signs of illegal pornography hidden away. Searches had been permitted to all their homes, garden sheds, garages and places of work but they had yielded nothing. Sampler had much to do.
The deep misery that pervaded the home of Hugo and Philippa Johnson was a living thing; like a thick fog, to be swept aside if movement was required.
A week had passed since Kylie’s funeral and the home was a shell without her bubbly presence. The couple had blamed themselves, unreasonably, for allowing Kylie to go out on that day. She had wanted to go into the nearby meadow to enjoy the sunshine and pick some wild flowers. Just because this was a nice, quiet village where crime was rarely a factor, they felt their guard should still have been raised. How often was it reported in the Nationals that this child, or that child, had been abducted and found some time later, horribly murdered? It was never one’s own child that was in danger, always someone else’s. Everyone felt deep sympathy for the parents and the victim but still, it wasn’t in one’s own family.
Hugo and Philippa never blamed each other, at least, and they would come to realise that no blame could be attached to them as a unit.
The funeral, through the anguish and upset, was quite beautiful. The vicar, Reverend Michael Gutteridge, had pronounced such lovely, meaningful words, attempting to give hope and some understanding of God’s will. The strains of “Morning Has Broken,” had floated softly over the congregation, causing men and women alike, to sob. Kylie’s uncle, Hugo’s brother, had read out with breaking voice, the emotional words of “Steps.” The sobbing then became more prolonged and audible.
When Philippa threw a single red rose onto her daughter’s coffin, she had felt like leaping on top of it and letting the gravediggers cover her too. She had wanted to bury Kylie in the dress she wore on that fateful day but the police would not release it. It had become a piece of evidence. Instead, she had been buried in her school uniform with the addition of an enamel butterfly brooch attached to a lapel. It was a small blue butterfly, a Polyommatus Icarus –Common Blue. And Kylie would now never know the Latin name.
After the service, the vicar had suggested they have a visit from a person who had just arrived in the village. The man was a Jesuit priest, Brother Saviour, and he came highly recommended by the nearby Catholic clergy. Although the Johnsons were of the Church of England faith, in these days of closer liaison, the vicar had no hesitation in extending the hand of friendship and he thought it might be a good idea that the couple accepts the visit.
Brother Saviour was due at any time now. Philippa had had her misgivings and wasn’t really in the right frame of mind for religious instruction, especially from a man who represented teachings that were alien to her. More than once, she had picked up the phone to ask Reverend Gutteridge to cancel the appointment, but each time she had wavered and put the phone down again.
A knock at the door jolted her from the miserable thoughts once more beginning to take over and she rose from her chair to answer it. Her husband, Hugo, moved ahead, forcing his way through the invisible fog and grasped the door handle.
The cottage, in which the couple lived, was in a small rural area and was one of several similar buildings all placed in haphazard fashion, roughly fifty yards apart from each other. The picture they depicted was of a typical English village, with their thickly thatched rooves, white or pale-blue painted fronts, covered in various varieties of Ivy, Clematis and such, and surrounded by spacious gardens clad in dozens of colourful flowers. Each was enclosed in either a timber paling fence or a small brick wall, again painted in the colour of the house frontage.
The only concession to modernisation had been the introduction of double-glazing in larger than the original windows. The frames, though, were constructed from solid timber to give a traditional appearance.
Hugo opened the door and, for an instant, became rooted to the spot. The man who stood inside the thatched porch transmitted a feeling of awe; not dread, but humility, as if it were God Himself standing there.
It took several seconds for Hugo to find his voice. “You will be Brother Saviour,” he said reverently, his knees automatically starting to bend. He recovered quickly, hoping the slight movement had not been noticed. It had.“Come in.”
“Thank you, my son,” said the figure in an evenly modulated voice, as he stepped past Hugo and into the small passage. He walked confidently into the front room as though he was familiar with the house, yet this being his first visit. Hugo followed at a respectful distance.
As he breezed in, Philippa took a step forward to greet the stranger. She stopped in her tracks, seeing the fog of depression literally evaporate as though it were a tangible thing. Her mouth drooped and her eyes widened. God had just entered! Instinctively, she dropped to her knees before him, her head bowed and her hands clasped as in prayer.
Brother Saviour put a hand on her head and spoke softly. “Please, Philippa, stand up.” He placed his hands beneath her elbows to assist. “No need for formality. I come to you as a friend; to help; to bring God with me. Please. Stand.”
Philippa got to her feet, instantly feeling rather foolish. Hugo came alongside and placed an arm around her shoulders. They both stepped back from the priest, still somewhat in awe of him. The man was not at all as they had expected. They were envisioning a monk-like figure, late in life, clothed in a brown, woollen habit, full of seriousness and religion.
This man, however, was around 36 years of age, just over six feet in height, average build, suntanned of appearance, clean shaven with startling blue eyes; eyes that showed humour, excitement and kindness. The mouth, in contrast, was a little thin and made one think that a cruel streak could be hidden somewhere in there.
Surprisingly, he was dressed in modern gear: an expensive-looking cotton tee-shirt, light grey in colour with a small ‘Sacred Heart’ motif high on the left breast, a fawn shade of cotton trousers, and wearing Reebok trainers. Even so, through all the modern appearance, the aura of God exuded from him. It was uncanny.
After accepting the offer of a cup of tea, all three sat down together, Saviour in a comfortable armchair and the grieving parents next to each other on the couch, slightly to one side of the priest.
The air of nervousness soon melted as the Jesuit regaled the couple with tales of his past experiences. He immediately told them that he was no angel having served time in his youth for persistent housebreaking and it was when in prison that a Missionary of the Catholic Church, his own forgotten religion, had visited him. After chatting to the Missionary for half an hour, he had requested, and been granted, further visits by the man. At the end of four visits, Saviour had returned to God.
On leaving prison, he had, with much help from the Missionary, taken extensive religious instruction and had later been
ordained as a priest. Not content to simply serve Mass and advise local residents, he had been allowed to join a Missionary with whom he experienced many and varied travels across the world. The sights seen, the people met and the dangers encountered made for a tremendous tale of adventure, gripping the Johnson’s as never before.
Brother Saviour had suffered illnesses such as malaria, dysentery and other fevers but, clearly, had survived them all with no visible effects. At one stage, he had been captured by a remote tribe somewhere in the Amazon and tortured and starved. His friend, the Missionary, had actually been tortured to death, an experience that had left a huge scar on Saviour’s mind. When asked how he had managed to get away, he simplified the explanation by saying: “I got up and walked off while they were sleeping.”
He had also witnessed magic and, surprisingly for a man of God, had not discounted it as rubbish or superstition. Having seen it in real action, he accepted it quite simply as fact.
At the end of the narrative, the Johnson’s spirits had unaccountably lifted; Kylie was by no means forgotten, but the overwhelming grief had subsided considerably.
Brother Saviour then addressed the matter immediately in hand.
“My friends,” he began. “I know you have suffered great sorrow. Probably the greatest sorrow imaginable and I have no doubt you have discarded God at times.” He took in the silence and guilty hanging of heads. “This is quite understandable and God realises it. God loves everyone; each person as the individual they are. He listens, He helps, and He forgives.”
The Johnsons listened in silence. “Try to think of Kylie in a positive light. She was a beautiful child, both in appearance and in soul. This beauty will continue in the Heaven at which she will surely have arrived. She has been delivered to the Lord in her most pure state and she will be happy. Be certain of that; there will be no sadness in her new existence. She will watch over you, her beloved parents, and look forward to the day when you join her.
