FRANKS, Bill

by JESUIT

  “Do you think it’s murder, George?”

  “Oh, yes. On first impressions, that is. The poor bloke appears to have been flagellated but I don’t know if that’s the cause of death.” George paused. “Could be a sex game gone wrong, I suppose. Wouldn’t be the first case, would it?”

  Sampler’s brain was working. “I take it there’s nothing obvious then?”

  “No, Sir – er, Graham. That’s what made me contact you first. It’s tenuous, but it is a kind of link with the other murder.”

  “Just what I was thinking.” Sampler made up his mind. “Okay, George. Do nothing more. Make sure no one enters the scene and I’ll arrange forensics and pathology from here. I’m on my way.”

  “Thanks. I’ll meet you here and take you to the scene. Goodbye.” The line was disconnected.

  Graham called Clive Miller to his office and told him of the latest report. “What do you think, Clive?”

  The Detective Sergeant pondered a moment. “As the Sergeant says, the link is a bit tenuous but, then, that would make three murders and each with no visible signs of what caused the death. If this one has poison in his blood stream, the link becomes a little more solid, eh?”

  Graham nodded his agreement. “I can’t see why our child-killer would turn to an adult but, somehow, I would be prepared to lay money on it that the cause of death will turn out to be poison in the bloodstream.” He began to gather a slim sub-file from the drawer of his desk. This was a brief summary of the two murders at present under investigation, with salient points recorded. He then rang through to forensics followed by a call to the pathology department, giving them the Penn Constabulary address. The two men then left for the short journey to the picturesque village.

  Graham let Clive take the wheel. It wasn’t that he minded driving but he wasn’t keen on motorway journeys, so it was prudent to let Clive take the stress. Under Clive’s expert though rather reckless driving, they made it to Penn in forty-five minutes, despite the congestion on the way out from London.

  On arrival, they were met by ‘Big George,’ who extended a friendly hand to Graham before being introduced to Clive. The two large men eyed each other in some mutual admiration, their bulk being similar. The firm handshake was crisp and dry from both; almost, but not quite, becoming a competition of strength.

  George offered to take the detectives to the scene in his car and this was readily agreed. Leaving instructions with the constable in charge to direct the forensic and pathology teams to the site, the trio moved off.

  Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the beginning of a narrow, natural pathway into a copse, leading to the larger woodland. Leaving the car, the Scotland Yard men followed Flint as he weaved his way through bushes and between trees until they arrived at the death scene.

  Even the two hardened detectives, accustomed to shock, were taken aback at the sight of the naked man, suspended between the saplings, his body covered in long, raking marks, front and back, the blood having congealed in death.

  Graham walked carefully around the body, searching the ground and inspecting the victim with concentrated study. Apart from the flagellation marks, there was no visible sign of a killer blow. The open mouth, with a slightly protruding tongue, showed no signs of poison when, normally, there would be some residue around the lips and on the tongue. Graham knew, instinctively, that this was the work of the same killer.

  The three officers chatted about the possibilities of finding the murderer until the forensic and pathology teams arrived, some twenty minutes later. None of the theories put forward resulted in anything positive. Their only hope at present was that the murderer would have left some clue that would be picked up by forensics. Whoever it was, he had been very careful.

  A further puzzle was the unconcerned leaving of DNA in semen or saliva in the other murder; clearly the person felt completely safe in this. Either that, or he was very stupid – and that was not evident. The careful, but limited, inspection of the body had shown no obvious signs of sexual activity but, as Flint had earlier suggested, a sex game gone wrong could not be ruled out. There was nothing more for the detectives to do, so they wandered to Flint’s car to be taken back to the police station.

  Over a cup of tea, Flint promised to keep in touch over the local enquiries and anything that may arise that might give some clue as to the killer’s identity. House to house enquiries had already been put into motion.

  “I don’t feel that we’ll learn much from house to house,” said Graham. “But, of course, it has to be tried. There’s always the possibility that someone may have seen something.”

  George finished off his tea and put the chipped mug onto his stained and worn old desk. “I agree but it is all we have at the moment. Don’t worry, I’ll be looking at every statement and, if there’s anything at all, I will spot it.”

  Graham did not doubt that this genial man would not miss a thing. He had every confidence in him and told him so. “One other thing, George,” said Graham, pensively, “Have you noticed any strangers around over these past weeks? It may well be someone from elsewhere.”

  Flint searched his mind, sliding back over the weeks, seeing pictures of faces, vehicles even. New faces? “Yes.” He began, slowly, “There has been one stranger in town.”

  “A known villain?” interrupted Clive.

  “No. Not a villain. Quite the opposite, in fact - a priest.”

  “A priest?”

  “Yes. And not one that you would notice to be in that profession.”

  “Why do you say that?” Graham asked.

  “It was the clothes he wore. Modern. Normal. Well, normal for a younger person. I saw him in jeans, trainers and a T-shirt. At least, the T-shirt had some religious motif on it.”

  Graham pondered this a while. “Did he strike you as odd, in any way, George?”

  George shifted to a more comfortable position in his chair. “Except that you don’t expect a priest to be dressed like that, no.”

  “And did you check him out?”

  “Oh, yes. I had a word with Father McGiven. It seems the man is a Jesuit and on some new mission.”

  “New in what way?”

  “To travel around the globe, dressing in clothes appropriate for the particular area and bringing comfort and advice to people, with special attention to the bereaved.” He shrugged his shoulders. “So the good Father informs me, anyway.”

  Again, Graham pondered before he spoke. “Did he visit Debbie Singleton’s parents?”

  “Only the mother. The dad is married again and lives in Brentford. I haven’t met the Jesuit myself but, from what Father McGiven says, he has an aura about him – a presence.” Flint smiled, embarrassed almost, as if telling some ludicrous secret. “He has the effect on people – even the priest – of bringing God with him!”

  Clive smiled. “Doesn’t sound much like a murderer, then, does he?”

  “The priest also told me that the Jesuit had visited the parents of the little girl murdered a few weeks ago, the Johnsons, following the death of their daughter.”

  “Did he do any good?” asked Graham.

  “By all accounts he worked.” Flint paused, “…. well…. miracles.” The embarrassed smile returned. “After receiving the Jesuit into their homes, they all completely altered. Instead of moping around, mourning, as you could expect, they became bright, cheerful, even. It was as if they had immediately come to terms with the deaths and accepted it. They saw their daughters as being happy in the hands of God.”

  The men exchanged glances. “Have you interviewed this Jesuit, George?” asked Clive.

  “No. I had a good talk to the priest about him and I didn’t see a lot of point in interviewing the Jesuit. It seems that he only arrived here, and in Watford apparently, after the deaths had occurred.”

  “Sounds an interesting character,” said Clive. He drained his cup and placed it on the desk with an air of finality, ready to leave.

  Graham took up the conversation again. �
��He does, indeed, sound an interesting character and I think I would like to meet him. Perhaps he was able to pick up something from the families. We have to explore every possibility; there’s no way forward at the moment.”

  Standing, he motioned to Clive who joined him at the door, as they bade their farewells to George. “I’ll get the forensics and pathology to deliver a quick interim report,” he said as he opened the door. “Then I’ll be in touch and come over to meet the Jesuit, if you can arrange that, George. Okay?”

  George picked up a file from his desk and began to study it. “Okay, Graham,” he said without lifting his head. “I’ll arrange it. ‘Bye. Oh, and nice to have met you Clive.” He continued to look into the file as the two detectives left.

  It was three days before the forensic report was delivered to Graham, together with the report from pathology. Full reports would follow but were expected to take some time. Graham feared the worst. They haven’t found how death was administered! He thought.

  Sure enough, although the forensic team had done a thorough job, the only thing they had found was a lash made up from thin stems plucked from the hardy bushes and thorny briars that thickly populated the murder area. They had been bunched together and fastened by strands of dried grass that had been wound around the lower ends to form a handle. There were no discernible prints to be found. This time, not even DNA samples had been left. The enquiry was stuttering.

  Graham then picked up the pathologist’s report and began to read. It seemed, on the evidence, that the victim had been beaten front and back with the makeshift lash but this had not caused death. Surprise, surprise, thought Graham.

  The length and depth of the lacerations showed that the beating had been administered in a heavy and brutal fashion, yet the victim had not appeared to make much of an attempt to avoid the thrashing. It was as if it had been consensual. It may well have been a weird sex game but it had not ‘gone wrong,’ as was the popular phrase; death had been caused by an amount of a lesser-known poison, Gelsemium, found in the bloodstream. Strangely, part of an antidote would have been to use Strychnine! Death would have been quick and painful, paralysis of muscles and choking being contributors. Ah, hence the protruding tongue and bulging eyes.

  Again, the point of entry for the fatal dose was not detected. The examination would continue, with a second eminent pathologist attending, Doctor Francis Wray, who would arrive from Oxford in a couple of days time.

  Graham studied the rest of the report, couched in formal terms, but there was nothing of note. The only links were that the three murders had been committed in the same general area, the manner in which the fatal dosage had been administered was, so far, undetectable and that they had all fallen victim to poison in the bloodstream. It had to be the same killer. The motive, however, was unfathomable.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Brother Ignatious Saviour had driven to the village of Twyford, situated in the Thames Valley district. He intended to visit one or two of the churches in the area, particularly, and first, the Catholic Church.

  Checking the list of priests that he carried, he read the name of Father Rafferty under the heading of Twyford. He pulled into a lay-by to study the details of the priest listed against his name. There was a photograph and a written description of the man, giving hair colour, eye colour, height, weight, complexion, even any scars – of which there were none.

  Aged forty-five, with a service of twenty years, four of them spent at Twyford, he was described as a dedicated and hard-working minister.

  He had held four other posts, all in England spreading from the North, at Carlisle, to the Southeast at Canterbury. There were no ‘misdemeanors’ noted. Obviously, a good man, dedicated to his role in life.

  Ignatious started up the engine and continued on his journey, arriving at the church of St. Thomas More some forty minutes later. At that time, there were no services to be conducted so he walked into the church, noting three or four people in there, praying with heads bowed for whatever their particular purpose.

  Seeing an elderly lady, working robustly with spray polish and a bright, yellow duster as she rubbed and polished the solid oak communion rail set before the altar, Ignatious went over to her and enquired the whereabouts of Father Rafferty.

  The lady ceased in her administrations to take in this stranger. Her breath caught as she surveyed the man, a strange sensation of reverence striking her. Without asking who he was, the woman instinctively knew that this was someone holy. Again, as with others, Godliness had entered.

  “Er…er,” she spluttered. Unable to speak, her throat feeling constricted, she pointed a wavering finger to a point to the right of the altar. “In the…vestry,” she managed to croak.

  “Thank you,” said Ignatious, smiling graciously. “I’ll go through if that is okay.” The woman did not answer, merely nodding her head by way of assent. Another smile and the priest followed the direction indicated until reaching a noticeably polished wooden door – the lady had clearly given it her recent attention. He knocked politely and entered on the word “Come.”

  As he opened the door, he was impressed by the file description of Father Rafferty; it was spot on. How long ago the file had been updated, there was no way of knowing but, somehow, Ignatious perceived, this priest had not changed probably in a decade.

  “Good morning, Minister,” began Ignatious. “I am Brother Ignatious Saviour of the Jesuit corps. I’m sorry to trouble you.”

  Father Rafferty swung around from his desk, on an ancient wooden swivel chair, where he had been preparing the sermon for Sunday’s service. He was to speak on the subject of neighbourly love, expounding the virtues of selflessness and the giving of aid and moral support to friends, neighbours and relatives. He would also be including strangers, though with caution.

  Ignatious recognised the expression on the good priest’s face, the one that showed an amazed awe. He was so accustomed to the effect that he had become to feel a real holiness about himself. He extended a hand in greeting to the seated man, feeling a warm crispness in the grip.

  Father Rafferty stood, at last recovering from the immediate impact of the Jesuit, and shaking the strong hand proffered. He, too, liked the firmness of the handshake, confirming his long-held belief that a lot could be drawn from the simple, timeworn greeting.

  “Hello, Brother. What brings you to this part of the world?” he asked.

  Ignatious told him briefly about his mission within the new role the Holy Pope himself had ordered, and that he was here today to seek out anyone who may benefit from his brand of counselling. He also offered to hear confessions and, if required, administer Holy Communion on the Sunday.

  Father Rafferty was delighted with the visit and the intriguing mission. No doubt there were several parishioners who would benefit from a meeting with the Jesuit. He immediately invited Ignatious to stay for a light lunch and evening meal, giving them a chance to talk.

  Ignatious readily agreed. He looked forward to a decent meal, which he felt certain the priest would be able to offer - prepared and cooked by someone else, of course, - perhaps the industrious lady earlier encountered. Father Rafferty led the Jesuit through a connecting door and into the recently built accommodation attached to the church.

  Salad sandwiches were soon provided for lunch and they were, indeed, supplied by the cleaning lady, who turned out to be a Mrs. Bertha Collingswood, personal help to the good Father, who sorted his mail, cleaned, laundered and cooked for him.

  A widow, she had lived through a childless marriage to Kenneth, who had died from cancer of the bowel two years ago. Although she’d dearly wished for children, she had enjoyed a mostly happy life with Kenneth, none-the-less. Her memories remained with her and helped to sustain, as did the work she happily carried out for the priest, free of charge. She would be preparing the evening meal, pleased to have a guest, especially one such as this.

  The parish priest quickly warmed to the Jesuit, still bathed in the ‘glow’ of the holy ma
n, and suggested he take some confession this very afternoon. The confessional times were posted as being from 2pm to 3.30pm, and there were usually a reasonable number of people attending, normally around twenty or so in total. Ignatious graciously accepted the offer.

  At five minutes to two, the priest escorted Ignatious into the church where they observed a gathering of around a dozen people knelt in the pews awaiting confession. As always, women outnumbered men; on this occasion there were nine females and only three males. Of these, there were five schoolgirls and one schoolboy. It wasn’t as though women sinned more than men, it was more a case that women were more open with their sins and problems and were also able to admit to themselves that they had transgressed. Males seemed more obstinate and ready to pretend that any sinful behaviour was not really sinful.

  “Parishioners,” Father Rafferty announced to the smattering of people. “I would like your attention please.” His words echoed around the spacious building, the design accentuating the acoustic value.

  “I would like to introduce to you an eminent visitor to our humble parish.” Ignatious cast a sidelong glance at the priest at the description of ‘eminent.’ “He has travelled the world to spread the word of God, visiting many unknown and dangerous areas in the past, being undaunted by his task. A Jesuit priest, he is named Brother Ignatious Saviour. The name Ignatious is a truly venerable one, being the name of the founder of that fine and dedicated branch of Catholicism. The good Brother has graciously offered to take confessions this afternoon and you may visit him in confessional box two. I urge you to attend for his special brand of advice whilst receiving the Lords penance.”

  Father Rafferty then raised his arms wide and pronounced: “Go in peace and may the Lord God bless you all.” With that, he turned to Ignatious, smiling. “Please, Brother, take booth two; I will take booth one as is my usual custom,” he said in a whisper, the words carrying over the intently listening congregation. The men of God walked briskly to their respective confessional boxes and closed the doors.