“Where is he?” asked Graham.
“Oh, he left about ten minutes before you arrived. Had to get back to the station.”
I’ll bet he did! thought Graham. Too embarrassed to face us! What an utter waste of time and what a letdown. “Okay, doctor,” he replied, “These things happen. Better to be sure.” His comments belayed his true feelings. Even so, Graham had a quick look around the body, in case there was a small bunch of bird feathers in the vicinity — there wasn’t. There being nothing more to be done, the detectives left for the Met.
On entering the CID offices, Graham was asked to visit his boss, Chief Superintendent Trevor Longfellow, and to take Clive along with him. First stashing his briefcase in his office, Graham rang through to Longfellow to ensure that he was free and being told that he was, set off down the corridor to the spacious office of his Superior, Clive walking alongside.
Knocking first before entering, the detectives were asked to take a seat, being motioned to two leather backed chairs at the front of the CS’s desk. A man was seated next to Longfellow and Graham instantly recognised him as the eminent pathologist from Oxford, sent to take a second look at Lawrence Maddigan, Doctor Francis Wray. The two men smiled in recognition, greeting each other with a warm handshake before introducing Wray to Clive.
Once all were settled, CS. Longfellow began: “Thank you for coming in,” as though there was a choice. “Doctor Wray has carried out a careful examination of Maddigan — he was a homosexual, you know,” he said with distaste.
Longfellow had been in the force; rising through the ranks, for forty-two years and his progress to the present position was to be admired. However, he was of the ‘old school’ and not at all understanding of gays, ethnic minorities and those of simple mind. “I will let Francis bring you up to date with his findings.” Turning to the pathologist, Longfellow waved his hand, inviting him to speak.
Firstly, the pathologist handed three sheets of typewritten paper to each, and these showed the officially couched words of the full pathology report. “We can skip the first two pages, gentlemen,” he said. “You will see my summing up on page three.” The men dutifully turned to the last page.
“I have carried out a meticulous inspection of the body,” he continued, “and I have found the method used to administer the fatal dosage.” He paused to straighten the papers before him. “As you will see, the poison used was, perhaps, a lesser known one: Gelsemium. The death would have occurred within two minutes and would have been extremely uncomfortable and painful. The two minutes would seem like a lifetime — which, in effect it was!” No smile at what may have been perceived as a sick joke; the man was stating facts.
“Finding the method of administration proved to be very difficult. Indeed, I had to make use of an exterior probe, affording well, let’s say, extreme magnification. An assistant traversed the probe over the body in minute degrees, every millimetre being inspected. The technology never ceases to amaze me,” he said, shaking his head. “The pictures were transmitted to a monitor placed nearby at which I was able to study in detail.”
Wray’s audience listened with quiet respect as he outlined his findings.
“At first, there appeared to be nothing untoward on the body, apart from the obvious damage from the pre-death treatment, but then, as I examined again the scourge marks on the victim’s body, I spotted something.”
Graham and Clive straightened in their seats, fully attentive. Could this be the break they were looking for?
“It was so minute, it was not very obvious even under the equipment,” Wray continued. “But, sure enough, one of the lacerations showed the tiniest hole imaginable. Definitely not as the result of the beating; the puncture was too perfectly round, too defined. Only the merest fragment, but there it was, without a shadow of a doubt. Enough to prove that something new had been inserted into the wound — most probably a hypodermic needle — and an extremely fine one at that. To the naked eye, and probably even under normal magnification, this would not have been seen. Whoever did this, is no ordinary person; they will have had to have some kind of medical experience. To do what he, or she did, required a great amount of skill.”
Doctor Wray leaned back in his chair. “So, there you have it, gentlemen, poison was administered by use of a hypodermic syringe. The poison was gelsemium and it was administered by someone with medical knowledge.”
“So, doctor, do we take it that we are looking at a doctor, or a nurse?” asked Graham.
“No. I cannot say that. The killer may well be a practicing physician but it may just as easily be a struck-off practitioner, or someone who has failed medical exams, or someone who has retired from the profession for whatever reason.”
“What is your opinion, doctor?”
“My opinion is as I have just stated,” answered Wray, matter-of-factly. “I cannot guess, if that’s what you want. All I can say is, that whoever did this, has some expertise. It is not an easy task to perform.”
Well, thought Graham, at least we now have two clues: one the medical expertise and two, the feathers. Not a lot, but twice as much as before!
Before Graham could ask about the other murders, Wray broke into his thoughts. “Whilst here, I have also had a look at the photographs of the other victims. Again, I used the magnifying equipment on them, looking at the monitor, as with Maddigan’s body. Sure enough, after painstaking work, I found the same minute perforations on the others; the difference being that these had been inserted into existing puncture marks caused by previous immunisations. Thus, they were all killed in the same manner and, it would seem, by the same person.”
There was much food for thought and a re-examination of the files. It would also be necessary to check on the National Computer to see if any similar methods were on file. The meeting broke and the detectives returned to Graham’s office to study more, a measured excitement being evident.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After having enjoyed a fatty breakfast of bacon, two eggs, sausages and grilled tomato, Ignatious was ready for the day ahead. This was Wednesday, the day of his assignation with Mary Stewart, the sinner.
Since the day of the confessional, Ignatious had visited the local area Girl Guide group, in Loddon Hall Road, where he met and chatted to several of the girls. At the ages of ten to fourteen, he had confidently expected one or two trauma sufferers, or girls with what they saw as behaviour they could not tell their parents of, but what he found was a bunch of normal, healthy and well-balanced girls, who seemed to need no more than the knowledgeable and understanding advice of their Guide Mistress, Mrs. Juliet Penwortham, or Heather, as was her chosen group name. Although disappointed with the result, Ignatious was pleased with the lasting impression of holiness that he left behind. The Guides and their Leader were bewitched.
Whilst in Twyford, the Jesuit was mildly surprised at the number of community bodies and events there were. He had gone along to watch an open-air display of hand-bell ringing, which he found perfectly enchanting, and a boisterous round of Folk Dancing performed by a local group. A visit to the United Reformed Church revealed a female Pastor who, he was puzzled to find, did not appear to have fallen under his holy spell. Had there been more time, he would have dearly loved to visit some of the many women’s organisations but the days were passing all too quickly and he had much to do.
Motoring casually along to the vicinity of Bluebell Dell, he parked up in a convenient lay-by, taking up most of the small area afforded. Alighting from the vehicle, he took in the already warm climate, delighting in the summery sounds of insects buzzing around, birds chirping busily, with a Lark on high, wings fluttering at an incredible speed, warbling happily as it searched for prey.