“Run the siren?” he asked with a glint in the eye. “If you like.”
“You well know I love it.”Jessica and Richard exchanged a smile at the old man's expense. Jessica thought him lovely. As they made their way to the motor pool, Jessica asked Luc Sante, “The words the ancients used in their tongue branding, Father…”
“Yes?” he replied.
“Would they have been the same as those we've found here today?”
“Actually, they would have been quite close, indeed. But not likely identical, no.”
“Perhaps we are dealing with someone who knows about this ancient cult or similar cults in early Christianity.”
“That is a likely possibility, yes, my dear, yes. However, no coincidence is also an enormous force in the universe, controlled at the hand of Puck, the devilishly sneaky orphan of Satan who enjoys a good laugh at our expense.”
“Puck?”
“Of course, Puck. What? You do not believe in evil spirits or mischievous spirits aloft in the world?”
“I believe in a palpable evil.”
“That finds its mark and inhabits a man's heart.”
“Or a woman's, yes.”
“Agreed then we are.”
She thought he spoke like the Star Wars character of Yoda.
The siren wail all the way to his church and office delighted the wizened old man. “How like a banshee wail it is,” he said repeatedly, a smile gracing his weathered features.
Father Luc Sante's church stood amid the squalor of a rundown neighborhood, looking like a castle under siege, held hostage by its surroundings. The church, built on the order of a small cathedral, had seen better days. It hardly measured up to the great cathedrals abounding in London. Still it displayed magnificent oak doors with huge metal hinges and a beautiful cupola, graced on all sides by wide-eyed, curious gargoyles staring down on them as they entered, making Jessica wonder if stone could think.
A light rain had driven them to rush from car to entrance-way rather quickly and hurriedly. Once inside, the priest quickly found himself on familiar ground and moved with more fervor than before, going straight for the office he maintained at one end of the rectory. A pleasant-looking, mild-appearing, gray-haired secretary named Janet, her gray skin like that of the gargoyles outside, greeted Luc Sante with a stem warning. With gritted teeth, as if meaning to bite him when finished, she said, “I won't be made the fool for you, Father.”
“Whatever can be troubling you, my dear Miss Eeadna?” asked Luc Sante, taking both her hands in his in a protective gesture.
“I won't stand and lie for you, not here, not in eternity, not anywhere, Father.”
“Ahhh, my patients, is it?”
“Will you tell me what I'm to say when you fail to meet with one of your… so-called patientsT'
“Keep patience, my dear Janet. Always keep patience in your heart, dear.”
A younger man in vestments came from a second office, hushing Miss Janet Eeadna, as her desk nameplate had her. The younger priest asked if Miss Eeadna would care to take tea with him. She beamed, delighted, taking the young priest's arm and sauntering out with him.
“That's Martin, soon to replace me here. Good man, really. 'Fraid the bishop won't be calling me out of retirement, no. But what I shall do in retirement, I don't know, Richard. I pray the police keep me active.”
“We will call on you, Father, no doubt,” assured Richard. “Look, we must be getting back. Much to do today, you see, so-”
“Oh, no! You must stay to meet Martin. He'll be right back, I'm sure. Oh, here he is now! Martin!”
The younger minister beamed, grasping hands all around, shaking vigorously and apologizing just as vigorously for “poor Miss Eeadna” whose mind, it seemed, wasn't at all what it once was. “I shall have to clean house once you've retired. Father,” he chided the old man, “but I do appreciate your leaving the old parish picture up,” he finished, pointing to a pastoral little parish in a wooded area in a painting behind the desk which Jessica thought beautiful.
“My first parish, painted it myself,” explained Luc Sante with a shrug. “Once dabbled in art but gave it up.” He then said to Jessica, “Dear Miss Eeadna needs rest, and the church will most certainly see to her getting a fair pension.”
The two men seemed most agreeable about the changing of the guard, Jessica thought.
“Allow me, Richard and Jessica, to introduce my young prot6g6, who will be taking over my duties when I retire in a few weeks, Father Martin Christian Strand.”
Sharpe introduced himself and Dr. Coran to the younger man whose blond haired ponytail marked him as of a new generation of clerics. “Saint Martin, we call him round here,” said Luc Sante, a twinge of bitterness in his tone. “Such a do-gooder, Richard, you've not seen the like before! Has no business in this business, and certainly no future in it, going at it the way he does!” He roared at his own joke. Strand joined in the laughter, Richard following suit. Jessica managed a smile.
The room felt darker than it actually was, what with the old, darkly stained wood bookcases all around and the huge, oak furniture with anthropomorphic legs.
Strand modestly declined the sainthood, explaining, “We don't need any more saints in the church. What we desperately need here in the community center is a new toaster and a microwave!”
Suddenly, a door burst open and from within Dr. Luc Sante's inner office stepped a man with a wild shock of hair and eyes both bloodshot and bloodthirsty, shouting, “I need to talk to you, Luc Sante! Now!”
“Jessica, Richard, go with Martin, and he will show you around St. Albans. I must see to Mr. Hargrove here who has been so very patiently awaiting my arrival.”
“ 'Fraid I can't stay, but you go ahead, Jessica,” Sharpe told her. “I'll leave the car and driver for you outside.”
Sharpe's departure came so suddenly, Jessica hadn't time to protest. She and Strand took to the massive corridor. Strand pointed out the paintings adorning the walls and the Italian marble floors as they moved along.
He explained what they did by way of helping the homeless and helpless of the neighborhood around the old cathedral located near one of London's most notorious bazaars where anything from drugs to an honest to God medieval table and chairs set could be had for the right price.
Strand appeared a devoted disciple of Luc Sante's, and was most obviously devoted to the old man's causes. Strand showed her a room where local children played at games and made things with leather and hemp. He showed her the soup kitchen where she saw the poor being fed.
They walked back toward Strand's and Luc Sante's offices afterward. Martin Strand-handsome, tall, powerfully built, remarked on how sad it sometimes became. 'Toiling here inrelative obscurity, it pains me to see Father Luc Sante's work going ignored. He is rather a genius, after all,” finished Strand.“So, you've read his book?” she asked.“Every word he's ever committed to paper, yes.”
Jessica saw Luc Sante's red-eyed, wild-haired patient ambling fast away from the office and out the oak doors, the sunlight pouring into the corridor as a result. The aberrant thought that Dr. Luc Sante had just been murdered by one of his own patients crossed her mind like a fleeing bird before it escaped on seeing the old man in his office doorway, waving them to return.
When they reentered there was no Miss Janet Eeadna to disrupt them, and no more patients to see for the day, according to the old man who looked pleased.
“And how is it with Mr. Hargrove today, Father?”
“He is a man plagued with as thorny a bush of perplexing problems as I've seen in years. Still hearing the voices, I'm afraid.”
“Surely, they're no longer telling him to kill his wife?”
“No, they've quaffed that issue it would seem.”
“But 'ave grown shrill on other issues, is it?”
“By my word, Martin! Have you placed one of those bugging devices in me office?”