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  In fleeting seconds, Ignatious saw the figure of Sister Evangelica, the English girl, hurtle back into the broiling river, hitting it with force and being carried quickly away. Almost at the same time, he saw Father Lassiter fly past his entangled position, trapped in sturdy branches, to become fatally impaled upon a broken limb just a few feet away, that jutted out like a spear. The point of the branch entered the open, screaming mouth of the priest exiting in the middle of his left foot, skewering him like a pig on a spit.

  Shocked but aware, Ignatious saw the good Father Christian clinging to a gnarled tree root as the water beat about him, trying to drag him to his death. Then, in one quick movement, Christian rolled from the river and huddled into the widespread roots, curling into a ball.

  Looking around, Ignatious made out the frail figure of Sister Vasquez trapped in branches some six yards from his own position; she appeared to be either unconscious, or dead. A further sweep of the area revealed Father Ottomier wriggling into the foliage, seeking refuge from the near-hurricane that was all about them. As he watched, the shattered body of a squirrel monkey, its white face covered in blood, crashed into the dense branches near to Ignatious’s head, where it stuck for a few moments before hurtling out into the raging river to be swept into oblivion.

  With a start, Ignatious awoke, jerking upright in his terror. Bewildered for minutes, he gradually regained his senses, realising that he had awakened from the deep trauma that had bedevilled him since returning from that fateful expedition.

  He rose from the bed and towelled away the sweat, a combination of the night’s heat and the terrible memories. Before returning to continue the sleep, hopefully without dreams, he removed the saturated sheets and replaced them with clean, dry ones. Fluffing up the pillow, he slipped beneath the fresh cotton sheet and went immediately to sleep. This time, it was untroubled.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Surprisingly, perhaps, most murders are solved quite quickly. There are some, however, that take years to solve and some, of course, that never reach a conclusion. The three cases being handled by Graham Sampler were moving in the direction of the ‘never solved’ as there was absolutely nothing to go on. If a person were to be apprehended at some stage, guilt or innocence could be easily established by comparing the DNA. However, it was always necessary to be able to produce further damning evidence in order to really have a case that would succeed.

  Although the killings bore the same identity – poisons mysteriously administered to the victim, there was no other obvious connection. Even DNA would only be able to show that a person had been at the scene and even, possibly, that the person had had sex with the victim; none of these proved murder. Sampler had pored over the reports of each and looked endlessly at the photographs, but nothing had sprung out at him. The report on the death of Lawrence Maddigan was expected from Doctor Wray this morning, so maybe that would shed some light.

  Expecting nothing, Graham moved to the far wall of his office, where blown-up photographs of the victims, taken at the scene, were arranged. Each time he had looked, he had felt that there was something similar; something he should spot.

  He looked hard at the bizarre pictures of the naked Maddigan. This was the only male – so far - and it was the only body that showed marks of violence. Even the violence appeared to have been consensual. His eyes slowly roved down the body, from the hanging head to the feet. He studied the surrounding area, taking in the unremarkable ground, with its grass shoots, wild flowers, weeds and sprinklings of moss.

  He began to walk to the next set of pictures, the ten-year old Kylie, when he suddenly halted, a small opening of his mind. He had noticed something! Slowly, he returned to Maddigan and looked at the dead man’s feet. For several minutes, he studied, silently, a hand stroking the smoothness of his chin, absently noting the pleasant smell of the after-shave on his fingers.

  Going back to the desk, he opened a drawer and withdrew a powerful magnifying glass. Yes, detectives really do use them. Focusing it at a point on the outside of Maddigan’s right foot, he examined the area carefully. Something was protruding from beneath the foot but, even with the glass, it was difficult to identify.

  Keeping the picture in mind, he moved to Kylie, very slowly sweeping down with the magnifying glass over the sweet figure in the bright summer dress. Just by the girl’s left thigh, he spotted it. No wonder he hadn’t noticed it before; the busy pattern on the dress deflected the attention from such a tiny object. Trying to keep his excitement down, he went to the pictures of Debbie Singleton. Again employing the glass, he carefully examined the area next to the body. First, down the right side where he failed to find what he was seeking, and then slowly up the left hand side. By the thigh, he found the item in plain view – a small bunch of coloured bird feathers. Now, here was a clue – a clue of some kind; small but a clue, none-the-less. That all three entertained a bunch of feathers next to their bodies, and the same iridescent hue at that, was too much to be coincidence. His policeman’s nose told him that this was significant. In what way, Graham was not yet sure but significant it was.

  As he turned, intending to call his detective Sergeant in, Miller entered the office. “Sir,” he began, “There’s been another murder. A woman again and in Watford.”

  Graham stopped in his tracks, his elation dwindling. “Oh, God!” he gasped. “Not another, and so soon. Do we know it’s the same killer?”

  “Well, no, sir. The local police have asked us to go down there and take a look. They can’t see a means of death.”

  Sampler’s heart sank. This again fitted the modus operendi. How many more before we get the vital break-through? he wondered. “Christ!” he spat, “Is this guy on a spree, or what?”

  “We need to catch him soon, sir,” said Clive, unnecessarily.

  Graham looked at his colleague. “We will catch him, Clive, I’ve no doubt of that. It’s a question of how soon – or how long!” Remembering his discovery, he caught Clive’s arm.” “Ah. Take a look at this, will you?” He guided Clive to the photographs. “I have just spotted something that may be of help. I don’t know how as yet, but I feel that it’s a small light in the tunnel.”

  Handing the glass to Miller, Graham pointed out the tiny bunches of feathers next to the bodies. His friend studied for some moments before he spoke. “Yes. I see what you are saying. It is more than coincidence to find little bunches of feathers near to the victims in each of the cases, I would agree with that. What it tells us, I am not sure. However, I feel pretty certain it will become part of the evidence and, who knows? It may lead us to the killer. I suppose we should give it some thought when we get back.”

  “Right, Clive. Come on. Let’s go.” The two moved off to leave the building and motor over to Watford.

  Once again, the siren needed to be used whilst in the Metropolis but, once away, the progress went unhindered. Arriving at the local police station, the detectives were led to the scene. The similarities began to build: within the London outskirts, a mile or so from the main town, along a rough dirt path, through bushes, past trees and into a small clearing.

  The body lay in the open, directly at the foot of a mini-cliff, which Graham estimated to be about seventy feet in height. From several areas on the cliff side, jutted stringy bushes of some kind. In a rough line from near the top, branches of these were broken, their fresh, white limbs bright in the sunlight. Clearly, the path of the body, which must have fallen, or been dumped, over the edge after being murdered.

  Sampler and his assistant moved over to the body as it lay on its back, arms spread wide, one at a crazy angle, broken in three places. One leg was out of sight, under the woman’s back, again severely fractured, with the other bent at the knee, the foot turned inward and also at an abnormal angle. She would be around thirty-seven years of age and, beneath the cuts and lacerations to the face, it could be seen that she wore no make-up.

  As the men from the Met. had been travelling down, a forensics team had arrived from the loc
al police station, together with a pathologist, a Doctor Bernard Bracewell. It was he who had been examining the body and now he gently eased it onto its right side to feel and prod at the rear part, expertly diagnosing the multiple fractures to the spine.

  Completing his task, the doctor straightened then turned to the new arrivals. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he began. “I am Doctor Bernard Bracewell, the pathologist.” The detectives returned the greeting. Bracewell continued: “Well, I’m afraid you have had a wasted journey here. Why you were called before I had had a chance to see the body, I can’t imagine. This unfortunate young lady has not been murdered, she has suffered a massive heart attack.”

  “Heart attack?” thundered Sampler. “Heart attack?” Then dumbly: “Are you sure?”

  The pathologist put on a tolerant expression and said, calmly. “Yes, detective. I’m quite sure.” Looking up the rise of the cliff, he spoke his thoughts. “I imagine she has simply come out here to enjoy the summer’s air and the captivating view from up there. Maybe even on a picnic. She may have stepped near to the edge and that’s when the attack came. She would know very little of it. The bodily damage, I would say, was all caused by the fall.”

  Graham and Clive were astounded. “Has anyone checked the top?” asked Clive, knowing the answer.

  “No. Not yet. But a constable should just about be there now.” As he spoke, a uniformed policeman appeared at the edge of the drop, holding in his outstretched arm so that all could see, what was plainly a wicker picnic basket. “A cloth and some food laid out here, sir,” he called. “And none appears to have been eaten.”

  A false alarm. Graham did not know whether to be angry or pleased. At least his killer had not struck again. A voice broke into his thoughts: “Sorry about your wild goose chase, gentlemen.” It was the pathologist. “I think the officer at the scene panicked a little, being aware of the recent murders, and so he called you in.”

  “Where is he?” asked Graham.

  “Oh, he left about ten minutes before you arrived. Had to get back to the station.”

  I’ll bet he did! thought Graham. Too embarrassed to face us! What an utter waste of time and what a letdown. “Okay, doctor,” he replied, “These things happen. Better to be sure.” His comments belayed his true feelings. Even so, Graham had a quick look around the body, in case there was a small bunch of bird feathers in the vicinity – there wasn’t. There being nothing more to be done, the detectives left for the Met.

  On entering the CID offices, Graham was asked to visit his boss, Chief Superintendent Trevor Longfellow, and to take Clive along with him. First stashing his briefcase in his office, Graham rang through to Longfellow to ensure that he was free and being told that he was, set off down the corridor to the spacious office of his Superior, Clive walking alongside.

  Knocking first before entering, the detectives were asked to take a seat, being motioned to two leather backed chairs at the front of the CS’s desk. A man was seated next to Longfellow and Graham instantly recognised him as the eminent pathologist from Oxford, sent to take a second look at Lawrence Maddigan, Doctor Francis Wray. The two men smiled in recognition, greeting each other with a warm handshake before introducing Wray to Clive.

  Once all were settled, CS. Longfellow began: “Thank you for coming in,” as though there was a choice. “Doctor Wray has carried out a careful examination of Maddigan – he was a homosexual, you know,” he said with distaste.

  Longfellow had been in the force; rising through the ranks, for forty-two years and his progress to the present position was to be admired. However, he was of the ‘old school’ and not at all understanding of gays, ethnic minorities and those of simple mind. “I will let Francis bring you up to date with his findings.” Turning to the pathologist, Longfellow waved his hand, inviting him to speak.

  Firstly, the pathologist handed three sheets of typewritten paper to each, and these showed the officially couched words of the full pathology report. “We can skip the first two pages, gentlemen,” he said. “You will see my summing up on page three.” The men dutifully turned to the last page.

  “I have carried out a meticulous inspection of the body,” he continued, “and I have found the method used to administer the fatal dosage.” He paused to straighten the papers before him. “As you will see, the poison used was, perhaps, a lesser known one: Gelsemium. The death would have occurred within two minutes and would have been extremely uncomfortable and painful. The two minutes would seem like a lifetime – which, in effect it was!” No smile at what may have been perceived as a sick joke; the man was stating facts.

  “Finding the method of administration proved to be very difficult. Indeed, I had to make use of an exterior probe, affording well, let’s say, extreme magnification. An assistant traversed the probe over the body in minute degrees, every millimetre being inspected. The technology never ceases to amaze me,” he said, shaking his head. “The pictures were transmitted to a monitor placed nearby at which I was able to study in detail.”

  Wray’s audience listened with quiet respect as he outlined his findings.

  “At first, there appeared to be nothing untoward on the body, apart from the obvious damage from the pre-death treatment, but then, as I examined again the scourge marks on the victim’s body, I spotted something.”

  Graham and Clive straightened in their seats, fully attentive. Could this be the break they were looking for?

  “It was so minute, it was not very obvious even under the equipment,” Wray continued. “But, sure enough, one of the lacerations showed the tiniest hole imaginable. Definitely not as the result of the beating; the puncture was too perfectly round, too defined. Only the merest fragment, but there it was, without a shadow of a doubt. Enough to prove that something new had been inserted into the wound – most probably a hypodermic needle – and an extremely fine one at that. To the naked eye, and probably even under normal magnification, this would not have been seen. Whoever did this, is no ordinary person; they will have had to have some kind of medical experience. To do what he, or she did, required a great amount of skill.”

  Doctor Wray leaned back in his chair. “So, there you have it, gentlemen, poison was administered by use of a hypodermic syringe. The poison was gelsemium and it was administered by someone with medical knowledge.”

  “So, doctor, do we take it that we are looking at a doctor, or a nurse?” asked Graham.

  “No. I cannot say that. The killer may well be a practicing physician but it may just as easily be a struck-off practitioner, or someone who has failed medical exams, or someone who has retired from the profession for whatever reason.”

  “What is your opinion, doctor?”

  “My opinion is as I have just stated,” answered Wray, matter-of-factly. “I cannot guess, if that’s what you want. All I can say is, that whoever did this, has some expertise. It is not an easy task to perform.”

  Well, thought Graham, at least we now have two clues: one the medical expertise and two, the feathers. Not a lot, but twice as much as before!

  Before Graham could ask about the other murders, Wray broke into his thoughts. “Whilst here, I have also had a look at the photographs of the other victims. Again, I used the magnifying equipment on them, looking at the monitor, as with Maddigan’s body. Sure enough, after painstaking work, I found the same minute perforations on the others; the difference being that these had been inserted into existing puncture marks caused by previous immunisations. Thus, they were all killed in the same manner and, it would seem, by the same person.”

  There was much food for thought and a re-examination of the files. It would also be necessary to check on the National Computer to see if any similar methods were on file. The meeting broke and the detectives returned to Graham’s office to study more, a measured excitement being evident.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  After having enjoyed a fatty breakfast of bacon, two eggs, sausages and grilled tomato, Ignatious was ready for the day ahead. This was Wednesda
y, the day of his assignation with Mary Stewart, the sinner.

  Since the day of the confessional, Ignatious had visited the local area Girl Guide group, in Loddon Hall Road, where he met and chatted to several of the girls. At the ages of ten to fourteen, he had confidently expected one or two trauma sufferers, or girls with what they saw as behaviour they could not tell their parents of, but what he found was a bunch of normal, healthy and well-balanced girls, who seemed to need no more than the knowledgeable and understanding advice of their Guide Mistress, Mrs. Juliet Penwortham, or Heather, as was her chosen group name. Although disappointed with the result, Ignatious was pleased with the lasting impression of holiness that he left behind. The Guides and their Leader were bewitched.

  Whilst in Twyford, the Jesuit was mildly surprised at the number of community bodies and events there were. He had gone along to watch an open-air display of hand-bell ringing, which he found perfectly enchanting, and a boisterous round of Folk Dancing performed by a local group. A visit to the United Reformed Church revealed a female Pastor who, he was puzzled to find, did not appear to have fallen under his holy spell. Had there been more time, he would have dearly loved to visit some of the many women’s organisations but the days were passing all too quickly and he had much to do.

  Motoring casually along to the vicinity of Bluebell Dell, he parked up in a convenient lay-by, taking up most of the small area afforded. Alighting from the vehicle, he took in the already warm climate, delighting in the summery sounds of insects buzzing around, birds chirping busily, with a Lark on high, wings fluttering at an incredible speed, warbling happily as it searched for prey.

  The sounds of the township carried dully on the heavy air as he locked up and walked through a small clump of gorse and into a small thicket. Breaking through this, some sixty yards from the road, he came upon a small, well-hidden clearing. Peering through the thickly surrounding trees, he observed a foot-worn path just a few yards away. In seconds, he was past the trees and leaning nonchalantly against a sturdy Yew, looking down the path, awaiting Mary. He was confident that she would come this way, there being no other.