by JESUIT
Without arousing their host’s suspicion in any way, it was discovered that the first time he had met the Jesuit was after the death of Debbie. He was quite certain of this, the meeting having been occasioned as a result of the murder and the desire to comfort the bereaved. Graham had hoped that a link could have been made prior to the death but it was no great setback. However, Father McGiven confirmed that Brother Saviour had spoken to Thomas Singleton before his untimely end and that he had seen Thomas to his car afterwards.
“Did they talk again after the meeting here, Father?” queried Clive.
“Only at the car. They chatted for a few minutes and then Mr. Singleton left.”
“How did Mr. Singleton appear to you as he left? Did he seem agitated, or worried at all?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. Quite the opposite I would say. Smiling - relieved even.”
Clive persisted. “Did the Jesuit tell you what they had chatted about, Father?”
“No. I never asked and he didn’t say. Why, is it important?”
Clive smiled. “Just trying to build the picture, Father. It’s possible Mr. Singleton may have given some clue as to whom he was intending to meet,” he continued.
The priest nodded. “Ah, I see. Yes, I suppose that could have been of some importance.”
Graham then spoke. “There was another killing quite nearby, Father.”
“Yes, a young teacher. Terrible business. This is a reasonably quiet area, yet we have had this spate of suspicious deaths and all in the course of a few weeks. I fail to understand it.” He shook his head in disbelief.
“Was he one of your parishioners, Father?”
“Yes, he was a regular at Mass and at confession. I understand he was an excellent teacher, also.” He looked at Graham quizzically. “Is his murder linked, Detective Inspector?” he asked in surprise.
“There are still vital pieces of evidence as yet missing but, yes, I do believe that all the recent killings are the work of one person.”
The priest sank back into his chair. “Oh,” he said quietly. “And you think Brother Saviour may have obtained some knowledge, somewhere along the line, of whom the killer might be?”
Graham shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, Father, that’s what I’m hoping. He has met people directly involved with the victims – apart from Maddigan, that is – and he has a way of opening people up. They will probably tell him things they wouldn’t normally disclose. He could be of great value to us.”
Father McGiven agreed - the Jesuit had an overpowering persona. Answering the unasked question he said: “Mr. Maddigan lived alone. I believe his family live in Cornwall and his body was transferred there for burial.”
“Do you know where Brother Saviour is at present, Father?” ventured Graham.
“No, I haven’t heard from him recently. Is he not in his motor home?”
“Probably, but he has moved from the district and we don’t know where he has gone to. Did he give you any idea of his next destination?”
Father McGiven could only tell them that Brother Saviour would be moving around the country at will, wherever the urge took him. He had mentioned no place in particular.
The detectives finally left, thanking Father McGiven for his time and asking him to contact the Met if the Jesuit got in touch. Again, a link had been established with one of the murders and the presence of Brother Saviour. At this stage it was tenuous, no evidence of any contact between the Jesuit and the victim but the fact that Saviour had visited the parish church of Lawrence Maddigan did, to some degree, tie him in. Also, it was the first the detectives knew that Maddigan had any connection with the Church. It was by now past lunchtime so the pair stopped at a small café as they left Penn to grab a bite to eat.
Almost an hour later, their hunger satisfied, the detectives were on the way to Twyford in the Thames Valley, where they intended to meet up with Father Conway Rafferty, the parish priest at the church of St.Thomas More. It was hoped the priest would be able to throw some light on any connection between the ill-fated Mary Stewart and the Jesuit.
As they arrived at the church, they saw the priest at the church entrance speaking to a few worshippers as they left following an early afternoon Mass. Allowing the people to go on their way, they approached Father Rafferty. He stood in the doorway ready to receive them, wondering who the strangers were.
On introduction, the detectives were impressed by the strength of character exuded by the man. Large-framed, he offered a crisp, warm handshake, the rather rough countenance breaking into a pleasant and welcoming smile. He took the two through to the vestry where he shouted to the ever-present Mrs. Collingwood to bring a tray of tea and buns. She called back that she would be with them in a couple of minutes.
“Well, gentlemen. What can I do for you?” asked Father Rafferty.
“We are investigating the incidence of several murders in the general area,” opened Graham. “Our inquiries have shown that they are all linked to the same killer and we need to get as much background information as possible.”
The priest eased back into his comfortable chair, “And you feel I may be able to help?”
“Well, Father, any piece of information may be of significance, no matter how small.”
Just then, Mrs. Collingwood entered pushing a hostess trolley silently across the carpet. It bore a pot of tea, sugar and a jug of milk. Laid beneath, on the lower tray, was a full Chocolate Gateaux ready sliced into eight decent sized portions and a plate containing several cream buns. A stack of four small plates and four silver teaspoons completed the set.
“Would you mind pouring, Bertha?” invited the priest as he introduced Graham and Clive to her. Often, when people discover they are speaking to policemen, their expressions fall slightly betraying the suspicion or the natural, if unaccountable fear. However, Mrs. Collingwood simply smiled brightly and poured out the teas, milk and sugar provided in accordance with the men’s preferences. As she left the room, the questioning continued.
“When did you first meet the Jesuit, Father?” asked Graham getting straight to the point.
Thinking deeply before replying, Father Rafferty then informed the visitors of the confessions taken by Brother Saviour, that being the first time he had set eyes on the man. He went on to describe the startling effect the Jesuit had had upon him and also on his housekeeper, the effervescent, Mrs. Collingwood.
Clive began to realise that his boss was not going over the edge after all; the Jesuit seemed to affect everyone, even priests, who are accustomed to people of all kinds, especially those of the Cloth. “Do you know if he had any contact with Mary Stewart, Father?” he asked.
Casting his mind back, Father Rafferty pictured the congregation on the day of the Jesuit’s visit. Through a faint haze, the faces appeared in his vision, one by one, going along the pews to the people dotted around the pews. Yes. Mary Stewart was there. “I recall the lady being in the church, awaiting confession,” he began. “It is possible that Brother Saviour took her confession.” He considered more. “Yes, yes,” he added. “After a while one becomes used to the parishioner’s voices and, on that day, I definitely did not hear Mrs. Stewart’s confession. Therefore, assuming she did enter the confessional, and I see no valid reason for her not to as that was the purpose of her being there, the Brother must have heard her.”
“Can you recall if he told you that he had heard her confession and what she spoke about?” Clive blundered.
Father Rafferty looked from one detective to the other in mild surprise. A patronising smile broke onto his lips as he faced the young man. “No, my son, he did not. We do not discuss what we hear in the confessional box. Not even with detectives!” He chuckled at the embarrassed expression that crossed Clive’s face.
“Sorry, Father. Of course, I should have realised. I’m sorry.”
Graham again took charge. “Father, did the Brother talk of his past at all?”
The priest studied Graham for several seconds. Detective Inspector,”
he said. “Your questions are all about Brother Saviour. Surely you do not suspect such a holy man. If I didn’t know better, I could have thought that he was Saviour not only in name but in person!”
The sincerity of the priest left no doubt about the impact the Jesuit imposed on people. “You don’t suspect him, do you?”
“No, Father, not at all,” lied Graham. Clive half expected his boss to make an immediate sign of the crosss! “He has had contact with the families of the victims and, in some cases, the victims themselves. We must check every avenue and find out what we can. When a lot of small things come together, it is amazing how often a bigger picture is revealed.”
“Yes, of course,” replied Father Rafferty. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to question your professionalism. Everyone to their trade, as I have just demonstrated,” he said, looking meaningfully at Clive.
The men from the Met were then given a long and enthusiastic account of Ignatious’s past adventures, dwelling mainly upon the Amazon experience. Even though the story tallied with that told by Father McGiven, it made enthralling listening. However, it seemed that nothing more was to be gained here, so the detectives prepared to leave. Just as Graham was about to terminate the meeting, Father Rafferty dropped the bombshell.
“Strange how we all differ in our particular beliefs,” observed Rafferty, “and have different religious icons, yet they all have one thing in common – faith and belief.”
Seeing the bland faces of his guests, the priest realised he was in danger of going on too long and decided to explain further. He wished to end the chat on a light note.
“When Saviour was with the last tribe,” he continued, “he witnessed many strange occurrences and observed the way the tribespeople practised their particular faith. They believed their Gods were already with them in human form, for one thing. And their view of sexual matters can only be described as primitive although, when one considers it, there is a kind of logic and no one seems to have suffered from what may be deemed loose morals.” He was becoming sidetracked again.
Getting back on track, he told of the strange funeral customs: “They cremated the bodies, Brother Saviour said, using an unbelievable extreme of heat generated by goodness knows what means and,” he chuckled, “to send them on their way to happiness, they put a small bunch of bird feathers in the coffin. Hummingbird feathers.” He chuckled again.
“They even had a special way of placing the feathers. For females, they were put next to the left thigh and for males, next to the right thigh! What this signifies escapes me – feathers with which to fly to their destination, perhaps?” The good Father didn’t realise just how near the truth he was!
The dumbfounded silence that followed this revelation puzzled Father Rafferty. “What…what…what is wrong, gentlemen?”
It was minutes before a dry-mouthed Graham was able to reply. “Oh, er, nothing Father. I was just considering something.” Rising as one, the two men hurriedly made their exit, thanking the priest for his hospitality and also warmly thanking the hovering housekeeper for the drinks and the tasty food.
It was by then approaching evening and time to be getting back to London. However, whilst they were on a roll, they agreed to forego a further meal and travel on to Watford to see the parish priest there.
On the journey, Graham took the opportunity to search through the file summaries to check if the priest’s name was noted anywhere. There was no history of the church listed, simply the name, The Holy Rood, but there, neatly typed under the church name, was “Father Cobb.”
“Not far to Watford,” observed Graham as the car glided swiftly along the motorway. “Thank goodness for the light nights, eh?”
The “hmmpphh” from Clive belayed his concentration. Even on a short stretch of motorway, it was necessary to have one’s wits about them. Even so, the pair could not resist discussing the stunning links revealed by Father Rafferty. Everything in the investigation was at last moving in the right direction.
In a little under forty-five minutes, they were easing along the one-way system of Beechen Grove towards Exchange Street where they would arrive at their destination at the junction with Market Street.
In minutes the impressive sight of The Holy Rood appeared before them, it’s gritty exterior standing proudly in its stature. It was a church, as a church ought to be, welcoming yet aggressively displaying strength and the right to exist, in fear of nothing. Clive guided the vehicle to a spot near to a set of metal railings at the side of the building. Before alighting, he placed the well-worn Metropolitan Police badge on the windscreen to avoid any parking tickets that may be issued by a zealous traffic warden.
At that time, the early evening Mass had been completed and the parishioners had gone on their way soothed by the warmth of their faith.
The detectives met Father Cobb as he pottered around the altar tidying things and placing the various religious ornaments in readiness for the next service. The hospitality offered by the various clergy had, to now, been first-class and Father Cobb’s was no exception. He seemed pleased to receive his guests at the same time wondering what on earth the police could want with him. However, he was always glad of new company.
The men from the Met had never before had as many really good cups of tea and waist enlarging cakes in a single day – and they enjoyed every morsel!
The priest was willing to talk on any and all subjects but, with gentle prodding, the experienced Graham guided him to the main purpose of the visit: the Jesuit. “Oh, yes,” he enthused. “What a remarkable man is Brother Saviour. He has had so many tests of faith for a man of his years; more, probably, than most priests with twice the service. As far as I can gather, he has come through his experiences virtually unscathed with faith in the good Lord above ever-more strengthened.”
Graham disagreed mentally with the view that Saviour had come through unscathed. It was his growing opinion that the Jesuit’s experiences had left permanent scars; indeed, rather than scars, open wounds with the blood dripping onto his unfortunate victims. “Yes, Father,” he said. “I have met Brother Saviour and I must agree, he is a most remarkable person. I have to confess, his presence had an unnerving effect on me, in the sense that my thoughts were frequently confused. That is something I am not familiar with. In my work, it is essential to have a clear mind.”
“Quite,” said Father Cobb. “Even though I am accustomed to speaking with people in the clergy; the Pope himself on more than one occasion, I have to say that I was similarly affected. I can only describe it as being in the presence of God Himself, ridiculous though that may sound.”
Graham then asked if Saviour had spoken in any detail of his jungle adventures and if there was anything particular that he had referred to. Again, the story of the tribes was related with the same startling evidence emerging as from Father Rafferty.
As the priest spoke, his eyes widened and took on a rapturous look. He even joined his hands as in prayer. Clive and Graham exchanged concerned glances. How could a single human being impress his personality on people to such an extent? It was truly uncanny.
On ending his tale, Father Cobb licked his wet lips, lips that were near to salivating. He swallowed hard, his expression now vacant, staring ahead not seeing. It was several minutes before Graham’s three-times repeated question pierced his brain. “When did you first meet Brother Saviour, Father?”
“Er – when? When? Oh, let me see.” He was gradually regaining his full sensibilities now. “I got an e-mail message from Cardinal Patrick O’Leary around about the first of June to advise me of the Jesuit’s visit and he arrived two days later.”
“Can you be more certain of the dates, please, Father?”
Getting up from his seat, Father Cobb went to the nearby desk and consulted the diary that lay there. “Ah, Yes,” he said, thumbing the pages back and forward. “The e-mail was received on the first and Brother Saviour arrived here on the third.” He turned to his guests. “He called merely to introduce himself so did
n’t stay for long – half an hour perhaps.”
“Did he visit you again?”
“Yes. He called again on the fifth and this time he stayed a while. He even took confessions on that day. Over evening meal, he regaled me with his tales of adventure and I could only sit, enthralled. He explained his mission here and I was pleased to see that The Church was moving a little with the times.” He smiled. “The wheels of the Catholic Church mechanism move very slowly, you understand. One change in twenty years is rather adrenalin-pumping!” He chuckled at this observation.
Graham chuckled with him, Clive joining in a little late, not particularly appreciating the humour. “Is that the last time you saw him?” enquired Graham.
“No. He called after the awful murder of the young girl to tell me how he had got along with the poor parents. I had contacted him earlier on his mobile to ask if he would pay the couple a visit. It had been suggested by their vicar, Reverend Gutteridge.”
All this talk of e-mails and mobiles seemed strangely at odds with Graham’s idea of religion. Then it struck him! Mobile? That meant that the missing Jesuit could be reached! “Do you have Brother Saviour’s mobile number, Father?” he asked, suppressing the excitement that tended to overtake him.
The priest went again to the desk. “Why, yes. I have it right here,” he said, opening the diary. He read the eleven-digit number out and Clive jotted it down in his notebook.
Graham rose, followed by his assistant, “Thank you for allowing us so much of your precious time, Father; it is very gracious of you. And thank you for the food, too. I reckon we will have added a few pounds to our weight today,” he laughed.
“Nice to have the company, detective. It’s not every day that I have a visit from the police, let alone the Metropolitan force.” He led them to the door, remaining to wave as their car moved into the sparse traffic and off back to London. The topic of conversation on the way back was, predictably, about the evidence now beginning to build against the Jesuit – the prime suspect. It was eminently clear that Graham’s suspicions had been well founded and that Brother Ignatious Saviour was, indeed, the killer.
