Bill Franks: Jesuit

“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.

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.