The two detectives were in Graham’s office at the Met shortly before six-thirty in the morning. Clive stood as his Superior collected up the slim files and placed them into his briefcase.
They were about to leave for Penn once more, when Graham spotted something on the corner of his desk. There were two typewritten sheets, which had not been there when he left the office the previous evening. Picking up the first, he quickly read the contents. “Ah,” he said to Clive. “It’s a brief autopsy report from Sallie, on Thomas Singleton and it confirms that he was murdered by injection of a poison.”
“What did he use this time?” asked Clive.
“ Atropine, according to this. Does the poison mean anything to you, Clive?”
“Nope. Not a thing,” he chirped. “What’s the other note?”
Graham reached for the sheet and began to read. “Ah,” he said, “It’s from the Ornithologist.” He read through the short report. “Seems the feathers are from the Hummingbird.” A slow smile spread over his face as he related the last piece to Clive. “The crucial bit is that the particular breed is something of a hybrid and, although rare, is known mostly in the Amazon forests and jungles.” The triumph in Graham’s voice was undisguised. He added: “Now, Clive, where did our Jesuit say he had spent a couple of years?”
Brazilian Amazon,” he said, acknowledging that his Superior’s hunch was proving to be along the right lines. Not sufficient to convict a man but a giant step forward in the investigation.
Stuffing the papers into his briefcase, Graham followed Clive to the police car park where they took a vehicle for the journey to Penn.
Even at this early hour, traffic was beginning to build. However, it was much lighter than it would be in another half an hour and good progress was made to the A40. Once there, the going was steady and they were soon onto the M40 and the route to Penn.
Arriving at the local police station within the hour, they found it to be manned by a Sergeant Tim Brewster. Apparently George Flint was on his day off. Brewster was a portly, old-time type copper, nearing retirement, and just as genial as George. An over-large moustache drew attention immediately and the seasoned, brown eyes sparkling from the multi-lined face, seemed to understand this.
“Good morning, detectives,” he boomed. “Early morning journey, eh. Would you like a brew?” he asked before introductions had been made. The pair from the Met wondered how he knew what they were — was it so obvious?
Turning to put on the kettle in the small kitchen nearby, Brewster called over his shoulder: “You’ll be Graham and Clive from The Yard, eh?”
The pair exchanged glances. “George told me all about you. Said you’d probably be popping back here again sometime.” The chinking of cups reached their ears. “Knew you were fuzz,” using the general description of the police force. “Takes one to know one…or two in this case!” A booming laugh followed the rather weak joke.
Coming from the kitchen, precariously balancing three cups of tea on saucers, Brewster ushered his visitors into George’s office. Over the drinks, Graham briefly explained his suspicions of the Jesuit and the new evidence on the feathers.
No longer being surprised by anything humanity threw up, Brewster grunted his agreement. “Yes. It does sound suspicious, I agree. Get the bugger in here; we’ll soon have him talking,” he added, the eyes twinkling.
“I appreciate the offer, Sergeant, but we need to make a few more enquiries yet,” Graham responded. He did not want to do anything that might jeopardise the case. It had to be right; clear evidence that could be used in a court of law. “We’ll pay a visit to Mrs. Singleton first, and then Father McGiven again.”
“Yes, whatever you say Detective,” came the toneless response as Brewster finished his cup of tea. “Better be getting back to the desk,” he said, with a big smile, indicating that the hospitality was at an end. Emptying their cups, the two men from Scotland Yard offered their thanks and left.
Having the address of Mrs. Singleton together with a local town map, they had no problem locating her. The door was opened at the first knock, the bereaved woman having seen them arrive as she looked out from her front room window. Graham introduced them, showing his ID card. “Could we ask you a few questions about Brother Saviour, the Jesuit Priest, please Mrs. Singleton?” he opened.
She frowned, not really wanting to discuss anything more in connection with her beloved daughter and her ex-husband. The memories were still fresh; still painful. She had just about come to terms with the death of Debbie and accepted it in the light of the Jesuit’s words.
“Well,” she began hesitantly. “I think I’ve gone through just about everything with the local police — and I don’t really feel like talking about it any more. Is it really necessary?”
The woman was clearly troubled but Sampler needed to talk to her. She may just offer some kind of clue that could strengthen the case against the priest. “I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Singleton,” he said. “But we will take up as little of your time as possible. I realise it must be painful to you but it could help to apprehend the person responsible for these crimes. We’d like to make sure he doesn’t kill again, if possible.”
Mrs. Singleton relented, the urgent plea in the detective’s eyes softening her. “Oh, all right, then. Come in.” She turned and led them into the room where Ignatious had so recently brought his holiness and aura to her.
Inviting them to sit, she followed suit, sitting upright betraying the discomfort she felt, her hands clasped together on her lap.
Graham smiled, hoping to relax her a little. “Firstly Mrs. Singleton, I understand that you received a visit from Brother Saviour, shortly after Debbie had been found.”
“Yes. He helped me a great lot. He made me feel as though I was talking to God Himself.” She spoke in a faraway, wistful voice.
“Quite. Did he talk to you about his past experiences, at all?”
Elizabeth thought for a while before replying: “No. Not that I can think of.” She then decided. “No; definitely not. He came in and consoled me and put my mind on the right track. He made me realise that Debbie was now safe and she was happy. That is all I should want for her.” She stopped to choke back a tear. “I miss her so much but I must not think of myself. Debbie’s happiness is all I ever wanted for her when she was alive, so why should it be any different now?”
Graham felt for her. To lose a child must be devastating. For a fleeting moment, he wondered how he would feel if anything happened to his little son, Nathaniel, while he was enjoying illicit sex with his lover. The thought was quickly brushed away, it not being welcome.
“Did he ever mention being in Brazil?”
Elizabeth looked at him in puzzlement. “Brazil? Why Brazil?”
“It’s just somewhere he had lived for a while. I thought he might have mentioned it,” he said, dismissively. “Did he mention Hummingbirds to you?”
The questions were getting silly now. “Detective,” she said with some frustration. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I appreciate that some of these questions may not mean much to you, but we need to build a fuller picture in our investigations.”
Elizabeth stared at the two. “Surely! Surely, you are not saying that you suspect the priest?” she snapped.
“I don’t imply anything at all, Mrs. Singleton. It’s merely a case of gathering as much information as we can. Many questions help to exonerate a suspect — not that I suggest the priest is a suspect,” he added hastily.
“I should hope not!” She then calmed. “I have told you all I can, detective. Is that all, now?”
“Just another couple of questions, then we’ll leave you in peace. “Did Debbie ever mention Brother Saviour to you? Or a priest, even?”
Elizabeth forced a tight-lipped smile. “For someone who you don’t suspect, you’re certainly asking a lot about him. No. She didn’t mention him, or a priest. I felt she was going to meet someone that day but it wasn’t a priest, I can assure you of that!”
“How can you be so sure, Mrs. Singleton?”
“Because, Debbie was wearing make-up and I could smell a faint aroma of perfume.” She smiled. “It doesn’t sound like she would be meeting a man of God, exactly, does it?”
Graham went on to his next concern. “Your ex-husband, Thomas, Mrs. Singleton.”
“Yes.”
“Was he present when the Jesuit paid you a visit?”
“No. He had to get back to his woman!” The bitterness was evident. “She used to be my best friend, too!”
