Jesuit Read online

  Reverend Gutteridge was overjoyed at the result of the meeting. He had tried to talk to the couple at the time of the discovery of Kylie’s body and had kept in touch on a regular basis since then. However, he’d sensed that his words of comfort were falling on stony ground. They were questioning the kind of God that would allow such a terrible thing to happen and he had begun to sense the possibility of an irrecoverable situation.

  Brother Saviour was an instantly likeable person and he did somehow exude the quality of a holy being, even though, arguably, inappropriately dressed for a man of the cloth. He related tales of his many adventures to the rector, leaving him stunned and enthralled in much the same way as had his two grieving parishoners.

  He explained that the Catholic Church was attempting something new with him. They had decided that people were perhaps more responsive to a person who dressed in a less formal manner and, in that way, could be easier accessed. The Church was also concerned about the seeming proliferation of murders, especially those involving children, and felt that the bereaved families were not being reached. Less people now believed in God and were deserting their faith in unacceptable numbers. True, many were finding faith and opting for the Catholic Church but the balance was not being redressed.

  So, with all his experience in meeting people from many parts of the globe and getting through to them, Father Gawain Hadleigh, as he was then known, had been selected for interview with the highest primate — the Pope himself. He had been trained for the Brotherhood, as a Jesuit priest and had been allowed to choose a suitable name, subject to approval from the Pontiff, and he chose Ignatious Saviour. He had been given more or less carte blanche to travel wherever he saw fit and to spread comfort and advice together with the Word of the Almighty.

  He was instructed to dress in a manner suitable to the country in which he was to work and to arrange the purchase of a motor home. This would enable him to exercise freedom of movement and, at the same time, not impinge on the resources of any diocese or parish he might visit.

  His first area of operation was designated as Great Britain and he was to pay particular attention to those families suffering from the horrors of murder and suicide.

  It was late in the afternoon when Saviour took his leave; the vicar imploring him to stay for evening meal, so enthralled was he by his Godly visitor. Gutteridge was a little bewildered by the effect the man had on him; he was accustomed to religious people of all persuasions but he had never experienced this feeling of having been visited by the Christ himself. Reluctantly, he watched the motor home slip away and out of view.

  Saviour was to find a spot in which to park, have some food, get cleaned up and visit Father Cobb at the church of The Holy Rood to inform him of the day’s events. After that, he would hear confessions, seeking out anyone he felt would benefit from his words. The role he had been given by the Pontiff was a new and exciting one and one that he intended to carry out with fervour and not a little enjoyment. He had originally intended to spend more time at the magnificent church of The Holy Rood and study it’s fine architecture, but the day had become too full and he would have to leave that pleasure for another time.

  His first meeting with Father Cobb and been short; mostly an introductory mission and to give a brief outline of his special duties. Even in the short time he was with the priest, he was aware that his aura had affected him in the same way as everyone else. The only person who had been unaffected by him since the experiences in the Amazon, was the holy Pope himself.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The morning was beginning to form, a heavy mist clinging to the earth as the sun struggled to bite through the haze. A night of heavy rain and thunderstorms had prevailed, ceasing at around four in the morning, just in time for the early birds to gather the worms.

  Gradually, the sun broke through; it was going to be another hot summer’s day. The forest became alive with small animals of all kinds and birds hummed and swept their way between the branches, twittering in a never-ending chatter, warning others of dangers spotted and indicating sites of food. Butterflies awakened and began to flit over the sea of flowers, settling at random; insects crawled and burrowed, some becoming food for the various predators, while rabbits leapt and bounded around, revelling in the large quantities of grass and shoots. The busy hum of bees was ever-present. Life in the parish of Penn, Buckinghamshire, was beginning — for most.

  The body had been there overnight, death having been administered at around 7:30 pm the previous evening. There was no warmth in it and not a mark to be seen. The autopsy would later reveal amounts of strychnine in the bloodstream, that being the cause of a reasonably quick and unpleasant death.

  Debbie Singleton had reached the age of seventeen years and five months; a happy life until two years ago when Debbie had found her father enjoying a loud and serious sexual encounter in his bed. The problem was that it was not her mother in the bed with him, but her mother’s best friend, Gwyneth Pallister.

  The divorce had followed eighteen months later with bitter recriminations, Debbie having suffered the tempers of both parents throughout the months following discovery and through the ensuing separation.

  The day of her death had been spent browsing around the local shops, this being a Saturday, when she did not work at the local bakery where she was employed full-time. She had bought herself a dinky little top and a fresh pair of earrings to match the emerald green of the garment.

  She was not to wear them that evening, feeling a more sober mode of dress to be suitable. She was meeting a man whom she had accidentally encountered in the park the previous day. He had approached her when she was sitting, crying quietly, on a bench, an unopened book on her lap.

  He had offered her words of comfort and drawn from her the sadness in her life. A total stranger, she had found herself so at home in his company that she felt able to confide her innermost concerns to him. He was a listener. The man had promised to help and to allay any fears she may have for the future; also that she would come to terms with her turmoil.

  An arrangement had been made to meet the following evening; ‘when the day is tiring and getting ready for bed,’ was how he put it. The venue was to be a small forest situated on the outskirts of the village in which she lived; one popular for strollers, walkers, bird spotters and the like.

  It had been Debbie’s choice when the man had suggested an area close to nature, a place where solitude may be experienced and the smells and sounds of an unspoilt world could be found. How lucky she was to have met such an understanding and considerate man. She could think of no one in the village with whom she could discuss her state of mind, not even the local vicar. Normally wary of strangers, Debbie found this one to be quite different. He made her feel confident, totally at ease.

  After sharing evening meal with her mother, Debbie cleared away the dishes and attended to the washing up. Her mind was on the evening’s meeting and hope that her torment was at last about to end. Looking at the kitchen clock, she was surprised to find that it had reached five minutes to six. Her heart began to pound: less than an hour before they were to meet. It was time to hurry along.

  The evening was warm with only a slight breeze so she was comfortable in a white cotton top and knee length, navy-coloured skirt. She opted for flat-heeled shoes, more suitable for walking. Saying goodbye to her mother, she walked a hundred yards to the bus stop and caught the 6:15 that would drop her off at the beginning of the wooded area.

  Her mind was in such a whirl, her heart beating faster, that it was like going on a first date. Yet romance was the furthest thing from her mind. She had found someone who was actually interested in her, in her well-being. He was attractive, though older than her, and he had the appearance of someone who had lived a full life, someone who could handle himself.

  Alighting from the bus, she watched it move away and then set out for the well-worn footpath that would take her into the forest. When she was within twenty yards of the spot, she saw him. Her heart
began to thud against her breast. He was casually dressed and leaning against a tall, concrete lamppost. On seeing Debbie, he eased himself upright and gave a beaming smile. “Hello, Debbie,” he called. “Glad you didn’t change your mind.” It was then she realised she had never got around to asking his name.

  Moving along the footpath, they chatted about mundane things, not broaching the subject that had brought them there. After some fifteen minutes, they left the main path and walked between the magnificent, old and sweet-smelling trees, their footsteps falling softly on the fern covered and cushioned ground.

  Reaching a small clearing, they stopped and sat. The man reached across and held her hands in his, giving a warm, comforting feeling. He began to question her more deeply than on their first encounter, digging deep into her subconscious.

  He was an expert questioner, never forcing the issue, giving her time to plunder her thoughts and always gently encouraging. So wrapped up in the man was Debbie that she would have confessed to him of having a pact with the Devil, had that been so.

  “Now, Debbie, I want you to sit quietly for a couple of minutes and consider what you have just told me,” he began. “Think of it as being another person’s problem. Look at it in a cold light.”

  After the two minutes, she opened her now closed eyes and stared into her questioner’s. Everything seemed so clear: she had problems, many problems, but they could be solved! She had never looked at it like that before; all had seemed dark and insurmountable.

  As if reading her thoughts, he said: “Yes, Debbie. The hurt you feel, the dread, is not so great after all. You have surrounded yourself by nature. You must realise how minute we humans are in the grand scale of things. The tree will outlive us; the ferns will die and grow again, as will the tiny shoots of grass. We are insignificant.”

  He squeezed her hands tighter as he continued. “You have been looking at your hell and allowed yourself to become mesmerised by it. You have looked into it and seen only more hell. You have let yourself slowly slide into the morass. The more you have dwelt on it, the further down you have slid.”

  Debbie stared into his face in rapt awe. No one had ever spoken to her in this depth before. She was captivated.

  “Kick it in the face!” he shouted loudly, causing birds to flutter suddenly into the air, twittering in fright and beating a path away from the noise. “Do not let it grip you any more! You are greater than this. You matter! What has happened has gone — forever. Never look back at the events or at your misery. Life is ahead of you, so take it, grasp it, use it.”

  The intensity in his face forced the words into her brain, into her soul. She was prepared to kill for this stranger! Without fully realising, she found herself engaged in a bout of wild, abandoned sex with her mentor, and wanting it, wallowing in it, needing it. God! Give me the strength to sap everything from this man. I must have every piece of him! she thought in her lust.

  Finally, both being sated, they lay together in silence; she with her eyes closed and feeling absolutely all over at peace for the first time in two years; he with eyes open, deciding on the next move.

  “Debbie,” said the calming voice as his shadow fell over her. “To complete your future peace of mind, there is one final thing you should experience. After that, you will be completely at ease with yourself. No more nightmares, no depths of despair, no recurrence.”

  She opened her eyes slightly, peering through the mist that had formed in them. He was kneeling astride her prostrate form, holding something in his hand. “What do I have to do?” she murmured. Whatever it was, she would do it for him.

  “In my past, I studied medicine,” he was saying. “I discovered many things that the public have never been aware of. Things that can cure almost every ailment.” The voice was calm, warm and persuasive. “I have carried this knowledge with me even though I am no longer involved in that profession and I want you to benefit from it.”

  A smile trickled across her lips. You’ve already given me the benefit of your brand of medicine! she thought, naughtily. “Yes,” she whispered. “Do whatever you like.”

  “Don’t worry about this, Debbie. I am going to give you an injection of a certain fluid. It won’t hurt you, just a tiny jab. Okay?”

  Debbie stretched out both arms, her palms facing upwards, revealing a large portion of each. “Ah, there,” he said, prodding a spot that had recently received some kind of immunisation. “What was that for?”

  “Oh, just a flu jab I had about a month ago,” she replied, dreamily. She tensed ever so slightly as she felt the slim needle slide into the same minute hole made by the flu jab. She smiled as the fluid surged into her bloodstream.

  The immediate reaction was dramatic in the extreme. Debbie’s eyes flew open as wide as they were able and her lips parted in an involuntary snarl. Then the muscles began to jump. The man prodded her, savouring the response; with every touch, the muscle in that particular area reflexed wildly. This progressed into violent muscle spasms throughout the body, causing the victim to thrash and flail erratically, a strange moan escaping the restricted throat. It was an attempted scream but it came as a long, deep wail, the extreme pain hitting every fibre.

  The man watched as a scientist may watch an important experiment. Debbie’s skin began to turn blue as the quantities of de-oxygenated blood increased in the tiny vessels. She was unable to control the movements of her ferociously flapping limbs, and then she began to choke. Her eyes were still wide open, the pupils dilated. She saw, and did not see, the benign face of the man above her; her eyes were focused but effectively blind. It took only minutes for her to die, minutes that were absolute hell, but sheer pleasure for her killer.

  He rose as the life lurched violently from his victim, who suddenly became peaceful and still. “I hope my advice and cure helped,” he said looking into the open and lifeless eyes. “You will not be plagued by demons any more.” After studying the girl for several minutes, dark, secret thoughts filling his mind, he bent to the body and slid her panties back up the legs, manoeuvreing them perfectly into their original position.

  He then rearranged her skirt into a modest position before removing a small object from his shirt pocket and carefully placing it beside her left thigh. He cast his eyes skyward and spoke silently and reverently: “Take this beautiful spirit into thy home.”

  Being satisfied, he brushed the surrounding area with his feet to erase any footprints and walked away, his feet again using a sweeping action, as though flicking a football to a teammate.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As so often seems to be the case, a dog out on a walk with its master, discovered the body. The animal’s keen sense of smell picked up something unusual in the air, something interesting. Tail wagging furiously, Rex, as was the dog’s name, broke through a patch of gorse and trotted excitedly over to Debbie, sniffing all around her.

  The owner, frustrated at Rex’s refusal to obey his command of “Come!” reluctantly followed the pet’s path, grumbling and cursing as he went. On arriving at the scene, he stared in numbed disbelief at the pitiful object before being violently sick and almost passing out.

  Graham Sampler had just completed his usual Sunday lunch, the traditional British kind: Roast beef, boiled potatoes, carrots, garden peas, and Yorkshire Pudding, all coated in a thick brown gravy. This had been followed by hot apple pie and Bird’s custard. The sweet coffee and butter biscuits to follow rounded off the meal superbly. Ah! The delectation of wholesome food!

  Bethany, his wife, had urged him to take a lighter lunch; a ham salad that would be ideal on a warm day such as this. She knew she was fighting a losing battle; he was a traditionalist where food was concerned. She enjoyed cooking and regularly prepared exotic and foreign dishes but, at the same time, she fed Graham the simpler British fare. It caused her no problem, even in today’s enlightened times, she felt it was up to her to provide the meals and generally do the housework. It was a pleasure to her, so why change? He went out to work and she didn’
t.

  Having many friends, she often had a few to afternoon tea and cakes, where all kinds of subjects would be discussed. She was also keen on ancient history and spent time at the local library. Her personal collection of books, many covering the enthralling history of the mysterious pyramids and Egyptology, were a source of wonderment to her.

  It was Bethany who took the call. Not the Met! Not on Sunday! She felt irritated, knowing the call must be something of immediate importance. As soon as she heard the voice on the other end of the line, it confirmed her suspicions. “Graham,” she called, resigned, “It’s the Met.” She held the phone at arms length waiting for it to be taken from her.

  Graham dragged himself from the comfort of his chair and took the phone from Bethany, a frown creasing his brow. “Hello!” he barked, “You do know it’s Sunday, I hope!” His thunderous expression deepened as he listened to the call, without comment. “Right. I’ll be there as soon as possible,” he said at the end of the message.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Bethany, going to a corner of the lounge to pick up Graham’s briefcase. “You have to go out right away.” She brought the briefcase to him as he went into the hallway and lifted his jacket from the stand.

  “Yes. Sorry, love. Can’t get any peace can we?” He took the case from Bethany. “Thank you. Hope I won’t be too long. Another murder, though, and it could take some time. It’s in Penn this time.”

  Bethany looked concerned. “Not another young girl, is it, Graham?”