“Very good, Sallie,” murmured Ignatious.
Bethany forced herself to speak through gritted teeth. “Why didn’t he tell me that himself when he phoned a quarter of an hour ago?”
Unfazed, Sallie continued: “I’ve only just contacted him and he didn’t have time to get back to you. He asked me to give you a call.”
Asked her to contact me? thought Bethany, infuriated. “Where are you and why do you need me there?” she asked, icily.
“I am at the church of St. Cecelia’s in Pangbourne. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes I do. Now, why am I wanted?” asked Bethany sternly.
“Oh, I think you know that,” came the mocking reply. “We both know what we need to talk about.” A loud click told Ignatious that Bethany had slammed the phone down. He took the mobile from the smiling Sallie. “That was very good, Sallie. Very good indeed.”
Just then, the chastened Father McCahill returned with a steel bowl containing steaming water and carrying the required flowers in a pocket of his priestly gown. “Where shall I put these, Brother,” he asked, his eyes diverted to the floor in deep humility.
“Put them on that small table in the corner, there and then kneel and pray beside the young woman that you have just defiled.”
“Yes, Brother,” he said, almost in tears as he shuffled speedily to the table. “Please give me your forgiveness and allow me into Heaven. I am wretched. I am a sinner most foul. I beg your absolution.”
“Do as I say,” said Ignatious in return.
The priest hurried to carry out his orders, ending as instructed, on his knees by Sallie’s position.
Scooping up the petals from the table, Ignatious placed them into the bowl and, using one of the ancient implements, began to stir them in one direction and then the other until the water became a deep rose colour.
In order to allow the poison, for that was what he had brewed, to settle, he had to let it cool. Turning to the praying priest, he told him to bring the woman into the secret room when she arrived, which would be in about forty-five minutes. The intonation of the prayers hummed on, the whispering of the ghosts adding to the eeriness of the occasion.
Whilst the mixture was cooling, Ignatious addressed Sallie again:
“Tell me the mobile number of Detective Inspector Sampler,” he said. Again, the number was offered without delay. Ignatious punched in the given digits and, on hearing the dialling tone, he put the phone next to Sallie’s ear. “Get him here,” he commanded.
As the sound of Graham came to Sallie, she spoke: “Hello, Graham. I was just wondering how you were. I saw you climbing the fence but didn’t know if you had made it. Are you okay?”
Graham was astounded to hear Sallie’s voice; he really thought she had perished in the horror at the park. “Sallie?” he said, asking the unnecessary question. “Sallie? Is that you?”
“Yes. Yes, darling it is me. I was rescued by the Jesuit and he now has me held captive.”
“What?” thundered Graham. “Where? Where, Sallie. Where is he holding you?”
Sallie faked a tremulous voice. “He has me in St. Cecelia’s, Graham. Please, come quickly. I think he’s going to kill me!”
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.