Before Graham could reply, they arrived at the boss’s door and went in.
The severe looking man behind the desk looked at the men over his reading glasses as they entered. “Harrumph,” he mumbled, waving them to the two leather chairs in front of him.
“Good morning, Sir,” said Graham as he sat. It was now after eleven in the morning.
“Oh, er, yes. Good morning, Graham.” The Chief took off his spectacles and slid a slim folder across from the side of the desk, and opened it. Replacing the spectacles, he took a cursory glance at the neatly typewritten sheets in the folder. Then, again peering over his glasses, he spoke: “Been getting a bit of flack from the top on this little lot,” he said in clipped tones. “Need a result — and pretty quickly.”
By the top, he meant the Home Secretary. Politicians always see other people’s duties as simple to carry out — if there’s a murder solve it! Simple.
C.S. Longfellow continued: “Where are we up to with it, gentlemen? Any nearer?” It was not necessary for him to state the case to which he was referring.
The two officers exchanged glances before Graham answered. “It is a very difficult case, Sir. One that is without anything solid to go on.”
The steely voice of the Chief cut in: “Yes. Quite. You should know that murderers don’t intentionally leave clues. They don’t leave notes telling you who and where they are, do they? That’s where your job comes in! You investigate, question, take in the over-all picture; use your brains!”
The detectives shifted uncomfortably in the comfortable chairs. “If I can update you on what we have and what we suspect, Sir,” answered Graham.
“I wish you would!” came the snapped response.
Graham controlled the rush of blood to his neck, muting the anger that almost exploded. In a calm voice, he went on: “Firstly, we know that all the victims died from poisoning. The poisons were administered by injection through a fine hypodermic needle, or, in the case of Mary Stewart, by a compressed air method. Two of the poisons were Opium, one was known as Gelsemium and the other, Strychnine. All were delivered into existing immunisation scars. The murderer appears to have had some medical knowledge.”
“Yes. I was here when that fellow, er, erm, Wray! Yes. That fellow Wray, when he told you.”
The sharp interruptions were annoying but Sampler kept calm. “The method of killing and the weapon, if I may use the term weapon, tie the murders together. The killings have taken place roughly within the same area, which adds to the links. There is also one other link, and one which I feel is of significance.”
“Which is?”
“Bird feathers, sir.”
“What?” snapped Longfellow. “Bird feathers? Have you taken leave of your senses, Detective Inspector?”
The angry murmurings needed to be controlled once more. “If you will allow me, Sir,” the tone still controlled. “The killer leaves a small bunch of bird feathers near the body. He has done this in every case.”
Longfellow was upright in his chair, the steely eyes, once again free of the spectacles, looking at Sampler as if he was something distasteful. “And you feel this to be significant, do you?”
“Yes, Sir. I do.”
“Well, in what way significant?” the voice now a couple of tones higher.
“With respect, Sir. It is clearly a calling card — a signature of some kind.”
Clive broke in. “I’ve arranged for an Ornithologist to examine the feathers, Sir. To find out what kind of bird they are from. They are unusual in that they seem to consist of many smaller feathers making up one. And they are iridescent.”
Longfellow looked toward Miller with a hint of contempt. “Iridescent, eh?” he said with sarcasm. “Big word, detective.” He resisted the temptation to ask Miller if he knew what the word meant. Then, turning back to Sampler, he asked: “And what do you hope to achieve by finding out which bird shed their feathers?” The sarcasm was heavy and it was uncalled for.
Still outwardly calm, Graham replied: “Well, Sir. It is possible that the bird is peculiar to a certain district and, if so, it gives us an extra clue to follow up. The person may keep an aviary, or maybe work at one, or a Pet Shop. The bunches may be sold from a particular Fancy Goods Shop — again, another lead.”
Showing exasperation now, Longfellow sat back and sighed. “Is that the sum of it Detective Inspector?”
“I do have one suspect, Sir.”
Longfellow leaned forward. “A suspect? And it’s taken you until now to tell me?” He puffed noisily. “Who the hell is he, then?”
Graham steeled himself. “A priest, Sir. A Jesuit priest.”
For several seconds, the two men stared at each other, the silence electric. Instead of the expected explosion, the Chief spoke with quiet resignation. “So. What we are looking for, then, is a bird-loving priest who has a desire to send his fellow humans to their Maker. Good.” He studied his officers in silence before pointing to the door. “I suggest that you two get your act together and start finding real clues. If you are incapable, I will take you off the case and give it to someone who has their feet on the ground. Now get to it!”
The two left hurriedly, smarting with anger and feeling like schoolboys chided by their headmaster. As the door closed, Longfellow picked up the telephone. “Get me the Home office Minister immediately,” he instructed the telephonist.
It was five minutes before the Minister was obtained and Longfellow brushed the side of his hair into place as he spoke, as though the Minister could see him in all his importance. “Hello, Minister.” He smiled ingratiatingly at the phone in his hand. “I have had a word with my two officers in charge of the recent murder investigation and I am satisfied that they are well on the way to solving the matter. I am assured that an arrest is imminent.” He listened to the words of congratulation. “Thank you, Sir. I will pass on your comments. Goodbye.” Replacing the phone in its cradle, he sat back, smiling smugly at the ceiling.
Back in Graham’s office, the two exchanged heated comments on the ignorance of their Chief and his lack of understanding, wondering how he had ever reached the position of Chief Constable, letting their anger be spent. When they calmed down, Graham observed: “There is one thing he said that may have made some sense, though.”
“Oh? And what is that, Graham?”
“He said, sarcastically, of course, that the priest wants to send his fellow humans to their Maker. I wonder if that is what he is doing?”
Clive considered the statement. He had not suspected the Jesuit before but, suddenly, there was a hint of a possible motive here. “You mean he feels he is acting for God?”
There was a gleam in Graham’s eyes now. “Precisely! So you do suspect the priest, after all, Clive?”
“I’m not too sure. What you say makes sense, but are we not making the theory fit the crime? Could that scenario not be attached to any series of murders?”
“It could, possibly. However, have you not felt, as I have, that the bodies have been left with some kind of respect. Not mutilated, no signs of anger, nothing stolen, no mementoes taken?”
“Yes. I have to admit that it crossed my mind. Even with Maddigan, the beating appeared to be without malice and, though he left the body naked and bound to the trees, he still took the time to leave the feathers.”
Graham was once more calm, an air of anticipation about him. He felt that they were at last moving in the right direction. “Tomorrow, Clive, we pay a another visit to Penn. We’ll speak to Father McGiven again and, possibly, take a trip to Watford for a chat with Mrs. Johnson.” He rose, unable to contain the smile that crept over his lips. “Lunch time, Clive.”
Over the pub lunch and into the afternoon, sweating in the heat of Graham’s office, the pair pored over the murder files yet again, making notes and assembling a new ‘summary’ file, where all relevant details were entered; dates, times, the Jesuit’s reported whereabouts at the times of death and so on. At one point, Clive stopped the proceedings to ask if the facts were really fitting the Jesuit’s movements, or were they in danger of ‘fitting him up?’
No. Graham felt that they were on the right track and confirming that the Jesuit did have time to carry out the murders. After all, details of some of his movements had been accepted purely from the priest’s words.
They worked until late afternoon and then decided to call it a day. Graham had now to endure the guilt he would certainly feel on going home to his lovely wife.
