Saviour. The feel of the Jesuit’s hands on their heads sent warm impulses through their bodies, creating a peace within.
“We will say silent prayers, not necessarily the one’s learned at school. It may be more appropriate to speak silently to the Lord Jesus in your own words; words more befitting the occasion. Let us denounce the Devil that certainly entered the body of the unsuspecting killer and pray that our Saviour prevents that Devil from finding a new source for his evil.”
The trio remained motionless, their eyes closed and their prayers ardent. After many minutes, the hands lifted and Brother Saviour silently left. Hugo and Philippa stayed in prayer for a further quarter of an hour before opening their eyes to find the holy visitor gone. Looking to each other, their thoughts married. They had received a truly divine visit and their burden was much lighter, their faith restored. Their lives began again.
After leaving the Johnsons, Brother Saviour strolled to his motor home, parked in a lay-by close at hand. He felt uplifted and happy in heart that he had allowed God to enter the bereaved parent’s home in person. Only He, The Almighty, could have lifted the gloom and despondency in that house and returned two precious members of His flock to the fold.
He then drove along to the Parish Church of St. Mary’s, to speak with Reverend Gutteridge and assure him of the success of the mission to the Johnsons. Once there, he was received with friendly courtesy and a welcome glass of pleasant-tasting, red wine. He was not interested in the name of the wine or the area from which it came; he was not a connoisseur, nor did he wish to be. Wine was either pleasant or unpleasant and, if he liked it, he would drink red with white meat and white with red meat, quite contrary to the so-called experts’, view. It cleansed his palate whatever the colour and so served its first purpose.
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.
