amount to squirt from it to clear the air bubbles.
Thomas continued his narrative, his eyes looking straight ahead, his expression vacant. He allowed his right arm to be raised by the priest, the story continuing without pause, and was unaware of the slim needle sliding easily into one of the tiny holes made by the holiday jab.
As the fluid exploded into the vein, Thomas suddenly stopped talking, looking at his advisor, his counsellor, with some puzzlement. A lop-sided smile spread along his mouth, as Ignatious slowly backed away.
Ignatious was interested to see what effect the poison would have. The dose, as always, was excessive. He watched in fascination as the smile faded from Thomas to be replaced with an unstifled yawn, followed by another. The stricken man then swayed from side to side before tottering forward in a clumsy attempt at walking, clearly feeling the effects of dizziness. Another attempted step, as he clutched at his dry throat, caused Thomas to fall. He tried to rise but was only able to get to his knees.
Ignatious noted the extreme paleness of the face. When he tried to speak, Thomas could only grate out unintelligible words, in a husky voice
He made another attempt to stand but was thwarted by legs that would not obey and a dizziness that prevented concentration. He remained on his knees. Ignatious moved nearer to him and knelt, studying the face. From the paleness, a scarlet rash had begun to appear and this spread like magic before the watcher’s eyes until it completely covered the face and neck. Thomas then began to choke and the veins at his temples began to stand out, throbbing wildly. The veins in his arms also began to pulse in the same erratic manner. Bulging eyes with greatly dilated pupils looked into Ignatious as though asking for a reason. Ignatious stared back into them, thought-waves conveying the message that, as a sinner, punishment was necessary to cleanse the soul. Powerful though it was, the thought failed to penetrate the dying mind and Thomas fell forward onto his face, the pulse now slowing at a rapid rate. He was dead within the next ten seconds. The poison, Atropine, had done its deadly work.
The Jesuit then began to pray over the body, now empty of a soul. “Good Lord above, I pray to you for this wretched sinner. He failed in his family duties and was therefore punished. I pray that you approve of my method. He is now at peace and his soul comes to you cleansed and pure. He will now be able to join his beautiful daughter, taken into your all-loving embrace and I yearn for their happiness through eternity. Amen”
With that, he knelt beside the corpse and reached into his shirt pocket. Very gingerly, he produced a small bunch of feathers, which he placed against Thomas’s right thigh. Rising, he walked briskly away to retrieve his transport, without once glancing back.
Arriving in Penn, Sampler and Dunning searched around for somewhere to stay for the night. Amongst the collection of hotels and guesthouses, they came across a delightful, Olde-Worlde hotel, situated a half mile from the southern exit of the village. The hanging wooden sign, unmoved by the slight breeze, showed the name as “The Stocks.” It was painted with the picture of some unfortunate serf, locked in the village stocks with pieces of ripe fruit squashed on various parts of his face and body, no doubt thrown by the group of laughing villagers shown surrounding him.
They drove into the car park and found a suitable spot. Going into the atmospheric hotel, Sampler ordered a lunchtime meal and two rooms for the night. The couple were on official police duty so it would not have looked proper had they booked a single room. A short walk from one to the other would easily solve the problem.
It took only a few minutes to complete the booking. The Landlord, a large, bearded man, wearing a striped shirt, open to mid-chest, with short sleeves revealing thick arms covered in dark hair, matching that sprouting from the open shirt, greeted them cheerfully. Learning that they were from the Met, he did his best to find out how well the murder investigation was going but he received scant information and was left to believe that progress was being made but at such a critical stage as to prevent the divulgence of information.
He was satisfied. He had enough ammunition now to later impress his regulars with a tale of “inside” knowledge and being unable to disclose the facts due to a promise of discretion. Alexander Brighouse, ex-Marine in the Royal Navy, had contacts in high places, in many areas and could be trusted by all. Or so he would have his friends believe.
Graham and Sallie made their way to the first floor and entered the allocated rooms, Two for Sallie and Three for Graham. They were identical, both compact and sufficiently fitted out, with a three-quarter size bed covered by a floral-patterned duvet, a wide, built-in wardrobe, vanity table, bookcase filled with a varied selection of reading and a washbasin with lighted mirror and shaver socket. To the right of this, stood a small floor-mounted cabinet that held an electric kettle, a toaster and space for a dining plate. Underneath was three drawers containing eating utensils, pot and hand towels together with cleaning materials. Through a narrow door, a small but accessible en- suite could be seen.
As if in mental contact, both moved to their respective windows at precisely the same time, and opened them three notches. The warm air entered the stuffy rooms alleviating them just a little, as the net curtains rippled gently in the little draught that was afforded.
Graham then locked up and went into Sallie’s room. She turned on his entry and they stood, smiling, looking to each other. For a minute, neither spoke or moved, and then Graham broke the spell going to Sallie and encircling her in his arms. He pulled her to him, delighting in the soft body and the fresh smell. Their mouths met in a tender, natural kiss as Sallie slipped one hand into the hair at the back of her lover’s head and the other around his muscular waist. Immediately, she felt his urges responding. Tempted to flow into the oncoming action, she pushed him gently away, smiling as she took in the evidence of their embrace. He was a stallion waiting to pounce!
“Now, now, lover,” she said in mock admonishment, “There’s time for that later. Food is next; I’m starving!”
“I’m starving too, sweetheart, but not for food!” He made a sudden lurch towards her but she easily sidestepped him, laughing as he careered into the wardrobe with a loud bang. “You can satisfy your eating urges now,” she commanded. “You need to keep up your strength, you know.”
Graham laughed along with her, allowing his passions to visibly subside. “Okay,” he said. “Give me a minute, then we’ll go downstairs.”
The weather had become too warm for a hot meal, so the lovers took a cooked ham sandwich with a salad side-plate. The sandwich consisted of two thick slices of white, home-made bread, thickly buttered, with the most delicious slices of cooked ham buried under all means of salad items and sprinkled with just the right amount of dressing. This, in itself, would have provided a sufficient meal, making the side-plate unnecessary. However, both ate the lot with great relish, washing it down with a cold lager for Sallie and a cool beer for Graham. Being fully sated, they went for a short walk immediately afterwards, returning to The Stocks an hour later. Going up to Sallie’s room, they surrendered to their mutual lust and indulged in further discovery of each other’s bodies enjoying the new, and different techniques, in contrast to their accustomed actions with their partners.
Ten minutes to four in the afternoon, saw Graham and Sallie sat in comfortable chairs, chatting amiably to Father McGiven, awaiting the arrival of the enigmatic Jesuit. Graham talked about the recent murder of Debbie, with genuine compassion. No murder was good but the life of a young person, with so much time ahead of her, troubled Graham deeply.
“We will catch him, eventually, Father,” he said, “but we have to hope and pray that he doesn’t carry out any further killings in the meantime.” He knew this hope was a forlorn one, and no amount of praying was likely to change that. Still, one had to have faith. “Murderers almost always slip up; make that one vital mistake that leads us to them.”
“This one hasn’t done as yet though, has he? Slipped up I mean,” observed the priest.
Graham could not deny the fact. “No, Father, that is so. However, we will not be giving up and perhaps we’ll get the break we need, soon.”
Just at that moment, a shadow fell briefly across the window casting over those inside, causing heads to turn in that direction. A figure flitted past without being properly revealed but it was expected to be the Jesuit. It was exactly four o’ clock.
In a few seconds, Mrs. Morgan, the middle-aged cleaning lady for the church, showed the visitor in. Brother Ignatious Saviour thanked Mrs. Morgan as she closed the lounge door and he accepted the handshake and greeting of the parish priest.
On his entry, Graham and Sallie stood, studying the guest in close detail, following the police training instilled
