“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.