Jesuit

There was no time to think; no time to consider the situation. “I’m on my way now. Hold tight and don’t do anything to upset him.”

“Graham. Please, come alone. He’s insisted on that.”

“Right — anything. Just stay calm.”

“He says if you come, he will explain things to you and let me go. All he wants is his freedom.”

“Freedom? I’ll kill the bastard!” he hissed and then hung up.

Ignatious was delighted with the unprompted story. “Excellent, Sallie!” he said. “That was first class.” The mumbling of the penitent priest continued, unabated. The intensity of the wailing sprits increased. Ignatious wondered if the others were able to hear the unnerving sounds.

While awaiting the arrival of Bethany, Ignatious picked up a knife-like instrument, ancient but rust free, and began to clear one of the stems brought in by the priest, taken from a rose bush that bore the deepest burgundy flower the Jesuit had ever seen. He carefully stripped away the sharp thorns until just two remained, one near to the top of the stem and the other an equal distance from the bottom. He then cut the stem into two pieces of around six inches each. Satisfied with the result, he placed them both into the bowl of thickening poison, ensuring that the thorns were covered.

Having finished the task, he raised the priest from his kneeling position and sent him into the church ready to receive Bethany. “Bring her immediately to here,” he instructed. “I may allow you to further sully your cesspool of a mind by letting you secure the new one to the other table.”

Momentarily, the priest’s eyes lit up and then quickly clouded as though caught doing something he should not. He shuffled away and out through the secret exit into the vestry. Almost running into the empty church, he knelt at a front pew facing the altar, where he began again to pray.

Sixteen minutes later, a highly agitated and angry Bethany stamped into the church, her high-heels stabbing loudly onto the tile flooring. Spotting the now turning priest, she increased her step, bearing down menacingly upon him. For a moment, Father McCahill felt a spasm of fear, as he stood erect. This was a woman in deep anger and liable to do anything. He tried to speak but the words would not form.

“Where is the woman?” Bethany screamed at him. He cowered. “Er, er, she is in a room off the vestry,” he managed.

“And where the hell is that?” she asked sharply, not caring about the apparently abusive language, considering where they were.

“Follow me,” mumbled Father McCahill. “This way.” He moved swiftly from the church, into the vestry and to the wall covering the defunct torture-room, with Bethany no more than inches from his heel. Hell hath no fury like a woman! He thought, Full stop!

At the tug on the brick, the mechanism operated as smoothly and as quietly as ever, the entrance becoming instantly cleared.

The priest was bundled roughly aside as Bethany stormed in. Inside, she first took in the strapped-down figure of her rival and then the calm, smiling Jesuit beyond. She halted in her tracks at the unreal and bizarre sight before her. Instinctively, a hand flew to her mouth as her eyes widened. Then she looked at the Jesuit. His twinkling eyes looked into her, searching her secret thoughts, upturning the ones she tried to bury, the one’s that shamed and embarrassed her. She fought against it, rebelled; she hated this man! You want me don’t you? I’m yours now. I’m yours whenever you want me. Oh, my lovely God, take me — hard! She fell to her knees, unable to control her actions any longer.

“Get up, Bethany. Come, stand near to the table.” Ignatious’s quiet, controlling voice wafted across the room. She did as told, standing looking down at the near-naked figure of Sallie. She took off her jacket, followed by the white blouse and the rest, until, like Sallie, she wore only her skimpy briefs.

What a lucky man that Graham is! thought Ignatious. Two really beautiful creatures from which to take his pleasures.

He then addressed the priest: “Put her on the table alongside the other, Father.” Still the quiet, unruffled voice. The priest moved swiftly to do his Master’s bidding, smiling lecherously as he did so.

In no time, Bethany was secured in place, her right arm almost touching the left of Sallie. Both women were calm, influenced by the magical aura of the mysterious Jesuit.

Like a dog awaiting its master’s command to “fetch,” Father McCahill looked expectantly to Ignatious. A full minute passed as the men’s eyes locked. Finally Ignatious spoke: “Get away from her, you miserable sinner!” he hissed. “Get down onto your knees and pray to the good God above that he offers you salvation!” The crack of bone on stone floor echoed through the room as McCahill dropped to his knees as if pole-axed.

By then, Graham was ten minutes away from St. Cecelia’s, having torn down the motorway at illegal speeds, his mind concentrated on meeting the Jesuit and wreaking revenge.

Inside the secret room, Ignatious removed the thorn stems from the mixture and placed them on the bench. The poison had soaked well into the plants, covering the individual thorns and leaving a clear area of around four inches to the end. Going to the captured women, he looked at them, enjoying the double beauty. Both smiled, their thoughts for once in unison. Come on my beautiful Master. I am ready for anything you may give. Come to me. Come to me.

Speaking to the priest through the raised voices of the long-dead spirits, Ignatious commanded him to get up off his knees and let the policeman in. Without delay, Father McCahill rose to his feet and hurried into the church to kneel at a pew once more.

Five minutes later, the second member of the Sampler family entered, equally angry and stamping in, his leather-soled shoes smacking loudly on the flooring. Seeing the priest, who had risen to face him on his entry, he called: “Where is she? And him!”

In response, Father McCahill murmured: “Follow me, please,” and moved off in the direction of the vestry, shuffling his feet, head bowed. Graham hurried behind him, his anger only just under control and threatening to break at any time.

As the opening to the room was revealed, Graham stormed in, as had his wife before him, and then stopped dead in his tracks. The scene caused his mind to spin and he was forced to support himself briefly on the wall that had closed behind. In one quick glance, he had taken in the figure of the hated Jesuit at the head of two adjacent tables bearing two almost naked women secured there — his women! The wife whom he had so easily betrayed and the lover in whose arms he had found sexual satisfaction certainly no better than what he already had but new and different. Man’s basic instincts to the fore — and the Jesuit knew! In this place of God; of religion; of evil and of ghostly presence. He shuddered.

His brain was still unwilling to accept the fact of what could be plainly seen; the Jesuit had his lover here and also, incredibly, his wife! And they were in danger!

Then the Jesuit spoke: “Ah. Welcome, Detective Inspector,” the voice, as always, calm, everyday, unruffled. “As you see, two of the most precious beings in your life have been spending their time with me — and the lecherous priest here.” He pointed to Father McCahill, to whom he addressed the next sentence. “Come here, Father. Stand by my right hand.” The wretched man scurried over and stood, head down in shame, next to Ignatious.

At last, Graham’s mind gelled. He made to move forward but was stopped by the Jesuits words: “Stop! Do not approach me, Detective Inspector or these two lovely females will die before you have travelled three feet.” Graham halted, puzzled but recognising the very real threat in the Brother’s words.

“You will have noticed that I am holding two rose stems with rather wicked looking thorns very close to the skins of Bethany and Sallie.”

Graham had not noticed before but his eyes now rested on the innocuous-looking items. Ignatious continued: “Be warned that the stems are impregnated with a most deadly poison and one prick to the flesh will cause death within seconds. It is a poison I learned of on my travels to the Amazon and it is deadly effective.”

“You’re bluffing,” croaked Graham, his apprehension building.

“No. I do not bluff in such matters. See.” In a blur, Ignatious shot his right hand sideways and back again, scratching Father McCahill with the thorn. The effect was immediate as the doomed priest instantly foamed at the mouth, his eyes bulging. He began to jerk uncontrollably in spasm before falling to the ground, his arms and legs flailing, his body jerking wildly. A yellow vomit poured from the open mouth, shooting into the air and falling back onto the now purple face. A long, low, disturbing moan escaped from his lips and, seconds later, the troubled priest fell dead.