by K. M. Ashman
----
An hour and a half later, the taxi pulled up outside St Giles.
‘Can you wait here?’ asked Brandon.
‘Whatever you say, the meter’s running.’
‘Oh come on, Murray, give me a break here, you’ve already got five hundred off me.’
The driver turned and stared at Brandon.
‘Look, Guv,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what you’re into and I don’t want to know but whatever it is, it sure sounds dodgy. If it’s something illegal I could lose my license.’
‘I promise you won’t lose your license,’ said Brandon, ‘you turn that goddamn meter off, drive me around for the rest of the day and I’ll give you five hundred more but that’s it. What do you say?’
‘A grand for a day’s work,’ smiled Murray, ‘I’ve had worse days, I suppose.’
‘Good.’ said Brandon, ‘wait here, I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.’
He left the car and made his way to the church entrance, this time the door was open.
‘Hello.’ he called, ‘anyone here?’ His voice echoed around the empty church and he walked toward the back and called out again.
‘Hello, anyone at home?’
Brandon continued toward the office but stopped dead in his tracks. Before him was part of a bloody footprint on one of the flagstones. His hand crept to his pocket and withdrew his ever-present gun, pulling back on the slide to load the chamber.
He pushed the door open slowly, careful not to expose too much of his body to any hidden gunman. The office was trashed and behind the upturned desk, Brandon could see part of a body. He checked around the room before crouching beside the man. A pool of scarlet spread from the victim’s skull and a nearby discarded candlestick seemed a likely candidate for the attack weapon.
Brandon took in the scene. Something was wrong. This was no vicar on the floor and though he didn’t know him, he seemed strangely familiar. The man’s eyes opened and stared up at Brandon.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Brandon, fishing for his mobile, ‘I’ll get an ambulance. Who’s done this to you?’
The man struggled with a few breaths, coughing up blood as he did.
‘Him,’ said the man, ‘the priest.’
‘The priest,’ gasped Brandon incredulously, ‘why would he do this?’
‘Mortuus Virgo,’ said the man though bubbles of blood in his throat, ‘I didn’t realise…you must stop them.’
‘Who are Mortuus Virgo,’ asked Brandon, his voice rising in frustration, ‘where is India? Come on man, I need some help here.’
The man’s eyes closed as he struggled with his last breaths but as he died, Brandon realised why he had seemed so familiar. This was the man they had been seeking, Jason Venezelos.
He laid the dead man back down on the floor, trying to make sense of the situation. If he was correct and this was indeed the second Venezelos brother, then that trail had just come to an abrupt end. He looked around, searching for anything that would give him any idea where to look next. After searching the room including the drawers and cupboards, he was none the wiser and left the office to return to the taxi. Entering the church itself, he heard someone approaching and froze against the wall but was relieved to see it was the cleaning lady from the previous day. He stepped out of the shadows, coughing to attract her attention.
‘Oh my word,’ said the woman, jumping back slightly, ‘you gave me such a start. I didn’t expect to see anyone here today. Can I help you?’
‘Possibly,’ said Brandon, ‘do you work here?’
‘I do,’ the lady said, ‘I’m sorry, who are you?’
‘I think you had better sit down,’ said Brandon, indicating a nearby pew. He pulled out his wallet and showed her his false ID.
‘Can I ask you your name?’ he asked.
‘Colleen,’ she said, ‘Colleen McNamara. What is this about?’
‘Colleen, in a moment we need to call the police but first I need to ask you some questions.’
‘Why, what’s happened?’ she asked, her brow frowning in concern.
‘I’m afraid there’s been a murder,’ said Brandon.
Colleen’s hand flew to her mouth.
‘Oh my god,’ she gasped, ‘is it Father O’Brian?’
‘Is Father O Brian the priest of this church?’ he asked.
‘Yes, is he okay?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Brandon.
‘But you said…’
‘The dead person is not from around here,’ said Brandon, ‘and there is no sign of Father O’ Brian. But I do need to know some things about him. Can you help me?’
‘I’ll try,’ she said, ‘what do you want to know?’
‘How long have you worked here, Colleen?’
‘About ten years, in all,’ she said, ‘a couple of hours cleaning here and there and I sort the flowers for weddings and funerals.’
‘So you knew Father O’ Brian well?’
‘Not really.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Brandon.
‘Well, he is okay, nice enough if you know what I mean. He says good morning as he passes but tends to keep himself to himself.’
‘Isn’t that a bit strange for a priest?’ asked Brandon.
‘Oh, he’s okay when he’s here but spends a lot of time away from the church.’
‘Do you know where exactly?’
‘I don’t know,’ she answered shrugging her shoulders, ‘we only open on Sundays and for weddings and funerals. I was only called in when needed.’
‘But you must have talked to him to arrange the details of your tasks.’
‘Not at all, I took my instructions from Sister Wendy.’
‘And who is she?’
‘One of the nuns who works here.’
‘There are nuns here?’
‘Sister Wendy comes in every week to meet with Father O’Brian but sometimes others come as well.’
‘How often?’
‘Christmas, Easter, the usual holidays.’
‘Is that normal, to have nuns come to a church as small as this?’
‘I haven’t given it much thought, really,’ she said, ‘it’s quite nice to have someone to talk to sometimes.
‘Do you know them all?’
‘No, I only really got to know Sister Wendy, though once a year, there are quite a few.’
‘At Christmas?’
‘No, in June, though the dates escape me.’
‘How many?’
‘At least twelve, I suppose.’
‘What do they do?’
‘I don’t know, the church is locked up whilst the service is on.’ She paused, ‘I’m not being much help, am I?’
Brandon took her hands in his.
‘Of course you are,’ he said, ‘you’ve been a great help. I don’t suppose you know the name of the order, do you?’
‘Of course, the order of Santa Rosa,’ she said, confirming what Brandon already suspected.
‘And do you know where I can find them?’
‘No, sorry, though you could ask in St Lawrence’s church in Littlewick Green. I do know they often go there as well.’
Brandon stood up and gave her a card from his wallet.
‘Colleen, I want you to call the police and wait outside for them. When they arrive, give them this card. They will contact me direct. Don’t go in the office, there’s nothing you can do for the man in there, he is dead.’
‘Okay,’ she said, nervously glancing over to the closed door.
‘Right, I have to go,’ he said but as he walked away, Colleen called out.
‘There is one more thing,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’ asked Brandon.
‘It’s probably nothing,’ said Colleen, ‘but I have noticed that after their private service every June, there are flowers left at the foot of Aesculapius.’
‘Aesculapius?’ asked Brandon, ‘who is he?’
‘The Greek god of medicine,’ she said, her face showing great
delight at sharing this impressive knowledge, ‘you know, the statue in the outside wall of the church. You must know about it, it is quite famous.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen it,’ said Brandon, ‘though I didn’t know it was of the Greek god of medicine, I was told it was a Roman goddess.’
Her brow furrowed again.
‘That’s strange,’ she said, ‘you’re the second person to say that in a few days’
‘Who was the other one?’ asked Brandon quickly.
‘A foreign gent,’ said Colleen, ‘had an accent and a good sun tan. Do you know him?’
‘I think so,’ sighed Brandon, glancing toward the back room, where the body of Jason Venezelos lay, ‘so, what is so strange about the nuns leaving flowers?’
‘Well that’s just it,’ said Colleen, ‘they’re not flowers really, just the stalks. Bunches of stalks bent over and tied around the middle. Very strange.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Brandon.
‘No,’ said Colleen, ‘should I phone the police now?’
‘You do that,’ said Brandon and shook her hand, ‘thank you, Colleen, you have been a great help.’
----
Murray was leaning on the bonnet, smoking a cigarette.
‘Find what you wanted?’ he asked.
‘Nope,’ said Brandon, opening the passenger door, ‘come on there’s one more place to try.’
The driver took a last drag and flicked the stub across the road before squeezing his ample frame behind the steering wheel.
‘Where now?’ he asked, as Brandon jumped in the car.
‘St Lawrence church, Littlewick Green, as quick as you can.’
‘Where the hell is that?’ asked Murray.
‘Call yourself a taxi driver?’ Brandon quipped.
‘Bit out of my patch,’ said Murray.
‘Head for the M4,’ said Brandon, retrieving his phone, ‘I’ll Google the postcode.’
‘Bloody hell, it’s just like the sodding Sweeney,’ said Murray, gunning the engine.
----
Chapter 26
England 2010
Brandon slammed the taxi door shut and walked down the pavement toward the town centre. They had sat in a traffic jam for forty-five minutes, the by-product of unseen road works so when the spire of the church appeared in the distance, he decided to walk the rest of the way. Five minutes later, he found himself outside the double doors of St Lawrence.
‘Feels like I’m going in circles,’ he murmured to himself as he entered the church again. Knowing that there was a killer loose, he was much more careful and kept his hand wrapped around the butt of the pistol in his pocket.
There were fewer people in the church this time. Some were sitting in isolation in the pews, wrapped in their own thoughts, while others wandered around the aisles reading the inscriptions on the plaques screwed to the walls or sunk in to the floor. Brandon assumed the role of another tourist and wandered around, making his way slowly toward the vestry.
He paused at the steps before the draped altar, looking up at the figure of the crucifixion looming above him. He jumped slightly as a voice interrupted his reverie.
‘Hello again,’ said the man.
Brandon spun around and looked into a vaguely familiar face.
‘Hi,’ said Brandon, his eyes screwing up slightly as he struggled to recall how he knew him.
‘Sorry,’ said the man, ‘it’s Father Grant, we met yesterday. You were with your lady friend and was interested in the Roman temple.’
‘Of course,’ said Brandon, ‘I didn’t recognise you, without your, um, you know…’ He pointed at the lack of collar around the priest’s neck.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Father Grant, glancing down at his jeans and baggy t-shirt, ‘out of uniform today, it’s my day off.’
‘Oh, I thought you had to wear that stuff all the time.’
‘Not all the time,’ came the reply, ‘did you manage to find your statue yesterday?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ said Brandon. ‘it was fascinating, some sort of Greek doctor, apparently.’
‘Some think so,’ said the Priest, ‘though ask any local and they will tell you it is the white lady. Anyway, how’s your research going?’
‘Research?’
‘Your project,’ said the priest, ‘how is it going?’
Brandon spotted an opening.
‘Excellent,’ he said, ‘there seems to be a very strong religious influence around here.’
‘You could say that,’ said the Priest, ‘though our congregations are very old and very small these days.’
‘I thought that Christianity was undergoing a bit of a comeback?’
‘Well, if you’re into rock bands and happy-clappy Christianity, I suppose it is but it’s not my cup of tea.’
‘You’re a bit more traditional, I take it.’
‘It’s what the people expect around here.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed,’ said Brandon looking around, ‘I’ve even seen a few nuns walking around the village.’
‘Really?’ asked the priest, ‘that’s unusual for this time of the year.’
‘Oh, I thought they were based in this church.’
‘Heavens, no,’ said father Grant, ‘we are far too small. We often get visitors but have no permanent nuns, though we do have volunteers from the local convent occasionally.’
‘I didn’t know there was a convent around here,’ said Brandon, ‘what order would that be?’
‘Santa Rosa,’ said the priest, ‘a very old order, I’m led to believe.’
‘May be worth interviewing them,’ said Brandon, ‘perhaps you could introduce me?’
‘I doubt it,’ said the priest, ‘they keep themselves to themselves and are very secretive.’
‘What’s there to be secretive about?’ asked Brandon, ‘I thought the church was modernising.’
‘Let’s just say that some would rather cling on to the old days,’ said the priest.
‘Sounds fascinating,’ said Brandon, ‘I’d really like to meet one of them if I could.’
‘It would be a waste of time,’ said the priest, ‘they are a silent order.’
‘What, they don’t speak at all?’ asked Brandon, thinking of what the cleaner had said about her conversations with Sister Wendy.
‘They do sometimes but only out of necessity. They certainly wouldn’t consent to be interviewed.’
‘Do you mind if I try?’
‘Nothing to do with me,’ laughed the priest, ‘but I think you are wasting your time.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Brandon, ‘are there any here at the moment?’
‘No, sorry, they are in retreat.’
‘In the convent?’
‘Yes, the Mother Superior passed away this week. Very sad.’
‘And where is the convent?’ asked Brandon, finally getting to the crux of the matter.
The priest paused for a few seconds.
‘Do you know what?’ he said after a while, ‘I can’t really say. I’ve never thought about it before but I don’t really know where it is. Never had the need to I suppose, I’ve only been here a couple of years myself.’
‘No idea at all?’
‘Oh, I know its somewhere near the old Roman temple but I couldn’t give you directions.’
‘Never mind,’ said Brandon, ‘probably a waste of time anyway.’ He spent another few minutes making small talk with the pleasant young priest before making his excuses and leaving. The taxi was waiting outside the gate and Murray watched him stride down the path.
‘About time,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d done a runner.’
‘Why would I do a runner?’ answered Brandon, ‘you’ve got a grand of mine in your pocket and I’ve still got five hours left on the meter.’
‘Meter’s off,’ said Murray, ‘remember?’
‘You know what I mean,’ said Brandon, climbing into the car.
Murray got into the driving seat and started the engine.
‘Wher
e to this time, 007?’ he asked, sarcastically.
‘Weycock hill,’ answered Brandon.
Murray looked at him through the rear view mirror with mild amusement in his face.
‘Oh for god’s sake,’ said Brandon, reaching for his phone, ‘just drive northward out of town, I’ll get a location from the web.’
‘Good things them interwebs,’ said Murray, gunning the engine, ‘might be getting one myself, soon. Suppose I could get a good one for a grand.’ He smiled into the mirror but though Brandon glanced up, he didn’t bite.
‘Just drive,’ he said as he waited to get a signal on his phone.
‘Roger dodger, 007,’ said Murray pulling out into the traffic, laughing at his own joke as he went.
----
Chapter 27
London 2010
When the taxi arrived at Victoria station, the stranger led India past the entrance to the steps of a beautiful house with an imposing entrance.
‘Where are we going?’ asked India.
‘Somewhere safe,’ said the man, breaking the relative silence he had maintained throughout the taxi ride.
She followed him up the steps and watched him swipe a card across a magnetic reader, to disengage the lock and they walked into an imposing hallway with a gated lift at the far end. India looked around in awe. Having seen the man use the modern swipe card, she had half expected to see a modern interior but what she walked into took her breath away. It was as if she had stepped back in time.
The décor was straight out of the thirties, with walnut panelling and lush carpets soft beneath her feet. Above her, several levels of landings circled the spectacular hallway and the biggest chandelier India had ever seen, hung dramatically from the ceiling high above.
‘Wow,’ said India, ‘what is this place?’
‘Do you like it?’ asked the man, allowing himself a quick glance around, ‘it is rather quaint I suppose.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ said India.
‘We like it,’ said the man.
‘Who’s we?’ asked India.
‘All in good time. Please, come this way.’ He walked past the stairway and slid open the gate to the lift. India followed him in.
‘Which floor?’ she asked, as he closed the gates, her fingers hovering over the ivory buttons.
