mess. Mr Bacon brought the needle round the back of O’Leary’s skull. He tried to move his head, but the combination of shock, Mace and the pain raking his aged body made him no match for Mr Bacon.
The needle began to penetrate the soft flesh at the nape of the neck. ‘An interesting fact …’ Mr Bacon said matter-of-factly. ‘According to some historians, the term “tenterhooks” comes from a form of execution popular in the fourteenth century. The condemned were left to hang on a metal hook passed through the nape of the neck. Very painful, apparently.’
Mr Bacon pushed the entire length of the needle through the priest’s skull. Father O’Leary shuddered, and as the plunger was levered down, releasing heroin into his brain, began to shake violently. He froze, then died.
Lowering the body to the floor, Mr Bacon stepped out of the vestry, grabbed the arms of the ornate chair positioned against the wall and dragged it across the stone floor. Levering the door open and keeping it in place with one foot, it was just possible to manoeuvre the chair through the opening and into the vestry.
Inside the shoulder bag lay a bundle of clothing. Taking it out, Mr Bacon unrolled the fabric. Papal vestments: a white surplice, purple cope and purple hat. Placing these carefully over the back of a chair, the murderer stripped the dead man to his underwear, discarded his clothes and dressed him in the papal garments. When the body was ready, Mr Bacon heaved it on to the seat of the wooden and gold chair. It was a struggle, but empowerment came from the incredible thrill of the moment, the sweet nectar of cold, cold revenge, pure
Inside the shoulder bag was a folded steel rod. This Mr Bacon unravelled then placed inside the back of the papal cope to keep Father O’Leary’s dead spine straight and upright. Rope was then removed from the bag and tied about the waist and chest, pinning the priest’s corpse to the chair. More rope secured the arms, while the hands were draped over the throne’s sides.
Now there was just the face to attend to. From the bag came two lengths of clear surgical tape. Peeling back the priest’s eyelids, Mr Bacon applied the tape to the soft skin and stuck the other end to the man’s forehead, pinning open his sightless eyes. Lastly, from a pocket in the hoodie, came a clear plastic sphere the size of a tennis ball. This was rammed into the priest’s mouth, behind his teeth, forcing open O’Leary’s mouth. Next the corpse’s lifeless lips were folded back, exposing the teeth. The entire ensemble created the look of a man screaming and grasping the arms of the throne, as though he were being electrocuted.
Mr Bacon stood back to appraise the evening’s work and nodded appreciatively, then stepped out through the door, locked it and pocketed the key.
Chapter 20
To Mrs Sonia Thomson
13 October 1888
So, when was it that I stopped searching for the thing that is not there, the thing Christians call a ‘soul’? When was it that I started to treat human beings as playthings … materials for my work? I have one special individual to thank for that revelation, a most singular man, and I think, dear lady, I should explain how he crossed my path.
My little experiment to see what life would bring me as an actor in all my daily actions proved remarkable. People flocked to me, men and women. I seemed to be irresistible, and my life at the University became a whirlwind of socialising. So much so, in fact, it was a minor miracle that when it came to scholarly concerns I managed to appease my professors at all.
I was quick to learn that the best fun was to be had from mixing with those for whom three years at Oxford was a time in which to indulge their every whim. There were two types who fitted this bill. The less interesting of the two were the genuine artists, the poets, painters and philosophers who ignored most conventions, kept within few bounds and believed they were on a mission to experience ‘real life’ in order to fuel their artistic ambitions. They could be entertaining, but they were strangely predictable. Nevertheless through them I grew close to two Oxford legends, William Morris and Edward Burne-Jones. They were each in their fifties when I was introduced to them and had already gained the status of gods within the artistic community. They spent little time in Oxford except that each of them delivered a special annual lecture at the Faculty of Arts. I found both men surprisingly open to the ideas of youth, and, again, perhaps it was down to my talent as an actor and mimic, but they took to me.
The other group were the immensely wealthy sons of the aristocracy, children of stalwarts of the House of Lords, themselves future peers. These young men whored, gambled, drank and took every drug known with complete abandon, as though their wealth made them immortal and immune from bodily corruption … the fools! They acted the way they did not from any high ideals or aesthetic imperatives, but simply to have a good time before having to submit to a more conventional existence. The problem about associating with these types was that one needed money to do so.
I circumvented this initially by sponging off others. I used my considerable charm and thespian talents to wheedle my way into the cliques that seemed to be the most high-living. But even my charisma has its bounds, and eventually I was forced to find money from somewhere. Father provided me with an annual allowance, which, as you may imagine, was pitifully meagre. To fund my escapades, I found gainful employment as a Society artist. I was in my final year at Oxford and had something of a reputation as an up-and-coming young painter. I even managed to procure a letter of recommendation from Morris himself. What wealthy businessman or lady of leisure could resist?
It was an altogether loathsome experience. The women were, without exception, pampered snobs gone to seed. The worst aspect to it was the sexual opportunism I was obliged to endure. Perhaps one in three of the gracious ladies would proposition me at some point, and I would find it a challenge to keep myself from vomiting over them. Needless to say, such experiences did nothing but exaggerate my hatred for everyone alive.
Ironically, it was through the artists rather than the fun-loving aristos that I met the man who would set me on the correct path. That man was Magnus Oglebee. No, you probably have not heard of him, my dear lady, but then very few have. He was something of an enigma by intent. He guarded his privacy jealously and trusted only a select few. But when he did place his trust in you, you felt very special.
It was Burne-Jones who invited me to Oglebee’s soiree in May 1888. Oglebee held these events at irregular intervals and only the elite of Oxford were welcome. As you may imagine, I was delighted. The party was at Oglebee’s mansion close to Boars Hill, outside the city. It was a cab ride there, and I arrived just as the sun was setting over the Neo-Gothic towers of the enigma’s grand home, Clancy Hall.
It was a magnificent house, set in splendid gardens. The grand hall was dominated by a mahogany staircase that swept up to the first floor then split to left and right before sweeping round in two great curves. The main dining hall was lit with literally hundreds of candles held in crystal chandeliers. I was told the owner of this palace shunned gaslight and would only illuminate his home with the natural glow of candles. It was a breathtakingly beautiful affectation.
No one knew how Oglebee had made his fortune. No one seemed to have a clue what he actually did in the world, or even how he spent his days. And, of course, this set tongues wagging among those few who even knew the man existed. I remember there was some fevered speculation that he was a vampire who only came out at night. Absurd, of course, and a notion most probably fuelled by excessive quantities of opium. But certainly a flattering piece of gossip, nevertheless.
There were just twelve guests that night. Oglebee made it a happy thirteen. Morris and Burne-Jones were there. The author Charles Dodgson arrived late, fretting comically. And I saw at least two well-known politicians, one from the Upper House, men whose faces are often seen in the pages of
After the meal, we were invited into the vast library. Servants supplied us with cigars and brandy. I perused the books, staggered to find such delights as first editions of de Sade, Rochester, Byron, Keats, and a host of other luminaries. As well as these, I found books on alchemy and necromancy, the titles of which I had never heard of
