All Roads lead to Eoropaidh

Satan goes to Midsumer Mallows

“It was a parish member who’d been approached by him. He didn’t come to see me directly. When I came to Windy Whistle Farm, the door was open, and the entrance was partially covered by snow. I let myself in, and let my presence be known” the reverend Brown, a small, chubby man with a dark frock told the chief Inspector. Detective Sergeant Troy was about to say something, but Barnaby halted him, wishing to give the reverend some time. The priest was in shock. They’d found him raving in the middle of the road, some fifty metres before the turn of the road which led to Windy Whistle Farm. The farm itself was engulfed in flames, the heat so strong it signed the picket fence to the nearest neighbour. There was nothing the Midsomer Meadows Fire Brigade could do, but to watch it burn to the ground. Barnaby and Troy had driven the reverend to the police station. He’d not spoken one word the entire trip. The reverend stroked his vanishing grey hair over and over with the palm of his hand. “There was this cat…, -a black cat sitting in the middle of the living room. The eyes…, oh Lord help me, the eyes were a searing red! It looked mad, crested its back against me and hissed in pure fury, like it was displaying human emotions. Then I saw the walls…! They were full of scribbles, and the wallpaper was grey and faded, and it smelled of something…, like sulphur. A very distinct smell, like something was burning—“
“—let me see if I get this straight, Reverend Brown, you’re approached by a parish member who implores you to seek out Peter Drinkwater, a known criminal, and you decide to do so at three a.m. At three o’clock in the morning, Reverend Brown? Why?”
“Because—because, that very same day that I spoke to this parish member, I drove past the farm, and I felt this enormous presence of…evil. I could not shake the idea of that Peter Drinkwater needed my help, I just couldn’t. You see, I went to bed as usual just around eleven p.m. and fell asleep. The horrible thing is, you see, that I dreamt of that living room. I dreamt of it…!” Reverend Brown sobbed, losing his composure once more, “and the walls were oozing of blood! And it ran down the walls, all but one place, which was over the basement door, and it was like the blood avoided an area there over that door, and the area was in shape of a cross turned up side down. So you see, when I made my way there at three o’clock, because I woke from my dream thirty minutes earlier, after seeing the scribble on the wall, which were in ancient Aramaic, I walked over to the basement door and opened it.”
“How did you know it was Aramaic?” Barnaby wanted to know.
“Every priest or anyone who’s ever studied theology knows that ancient Aramaic is reckoned as the language of Jesus Christ, the language of God. The early Christians—“Reverend Brown looked to the detectives for understanding. “Nevermind. I know very little of the language, but I know enough to know that the writings on the wall were summoning and spells meant to attract demons and Wraiths – evil spirits, binding them to the walls.”
“So you went down into the basement. What did you see there?!”
“I saw…a makeshift bed. It was soiled with dark stains. It looked like blood. The floor too, was soiled with similar stains. And the whole basement smelled of urine and excrements. I found some pages of a Bible—“
“—I reckon Peter Drinkwater wasn’t there. And no sign of the other resident there? Another young man?” Barnaby wanted to know.
“No. No sign of anyone. But someone had lived down there, that’s for sure. Then, as I walked back up, I noticed something on the door. It was scratch marks, like someone had tried to scratch their way out…! But, as I said, I found pages…! Originally they were papers from a Bible, but they’d been written over. It was letters. Lots and lots of letters, to someone addressed as ‘Master’, and signed by ‘Your slave’. Don’t you see? Peter was held captive in this house, inside that basement, by someone with very dire intentions. But the fantastic about these letters, you see, is that most of them were written in English. Then, one letter, the words, English and Aramaic, began to float together, until it was all in Aramaic.”
“I can’t help but to notice, Reverend, that you describe the letters in past tense. What has happened to these letters? They are police evidence.”
“They, I—I distinctly remembered putting them in my inner pocket on my jacket. But now, they’re gone. I can’t explain it. I just can’t. It’s the cat, you see. It was Satan. I have seen evil itself in the eye…!” reverend Brown trailed off, lost in thought. His face as pale as the desk they sat gathered around.
“Did ‘Satan’ by any chance tell you to set fire to the house?” Detective Sergeant Troy asked. There was a slight hint of irony to the question, but the reverend seemed oblivious to the fact.
“No. He did so himself. As I shut the basement door, I looked up the stairs to the first floor. The cat was gone, but instead I saw…a man. With the same red eyes…!” Reverend Brown seemed to stare straight through Barnaby, at something behind him. “He told me that Peter wasn’t there, and that I had to go home. He said: ‘This house will burn for its crimes’. Then the walls came alive. They were screaming angrily—“
“—came alive? How?”
“The writing turned into faces, and the walls began to move, faces growing out of them, hideous, horrible faces! Demons!” reverend Brown swallowed hard, his voice had fallen to a raspy whisper, “demons…!” He hid his face in his palms, and sighed heavily. “How am I ever to get these images away from my mind?!”
“Is there any history of mental illnesses in your family, Reverend?” Troy said, trying to sound understanding.
“I panicked, I ran! Instead of battling Satan, instead of doing my duty as God’s warrior on Earth, I fled. I should have—“Reverend Brown shouted, flailing with his arms.
“—so you did on no way start the fire? Nothing you did in that house could, in your opinion have started the fire?” Barnaby cut him short, looking for facts, speaking sternly.
“I did not start the fire, Chief Inspector. It was Satan who did.”
“What’s the name of the parish member who spoke to you about Peter Drinkwater?” Barnaby asked him, trying to change tactics.
“It was young Miss Caroline Devere. She said she’d met Peter in the Bank, and that he’d looked awful. He’d seemed frightened out of his wits” Reverend Brown said, collecting himself, “now Peter has never been an active church-goer, but I gathered as much that he was still a member of the parish, and it was therefore my obligation to seek him out.”
“The Fire Brigade came to the scene about five minutes after the fire began. They found you, and I quote ‘wandering aimlessly around in the street, shouting out obscenities.”
Reverend Brown fell silent. He stared down into the table, for a very long time. The he whispered: “I could tell you I don’t remember, but that would be a lie, wouldn’t it?”
“What happened during those five minutes, Reverend?” Barnaby waited patiently. He folded his arms in front of his chest, expecting an answer.
“It all depends on which truth we decide to tell. That’s what he said, when he was done with me” Reverend Brown whispered. The words dragged themselves out of his mouth, and it was clear that the memory pained him. ”I was so frightened I couldn’t move!”
“Can you describe this man, Reverend?” Barnaby leaned forward, speaking softly.
“It was Satan…!” The reverend whispered, clutching the cross hanging from a golden chain around his neck.
“What did ‘Satan’ look like, then?” Troy replied, sighing.
“He kept singing this song…’yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me…!” Reverend Brown stared into the faded white desk, humming the tune with a whisper. The memory made him nauseous, his face grey and unreadable, his eyes open wide, staring and staring at the desk as if he expected it to come alive. “And the demons, they burned with the house…! And those who tried to escape…, he was hurling flames at them, and they turned to ashes instantly.”
“What did he look like, Reverend?” Barnaby repeated the question.
“His eyes were glowing red, and he was breathing steam and fire” the reverend whispered.
“So the flames reflected in his eyes. It’s the middle of winter. Hot and cold air” Troy concluded.
“He had long, brown hair, down to his waist and it was held in place by a bandana, and on top of that, a triangular black hat. His skin had the colour of mother-of-pearl…., and his long nails…!” Reverend Brown swallowed.
“The medical report states you have been treated for six inch deep cuts around the hip- and abdominal area. You’ve had to sow several stitches. Some cuts were so deep they struck the hip bones. And…they had to sow three stitches around your rectum. Were you raped, Reverend?”
“It is only a body. I will never give him my immortal soul.”
“Is that what happened during those five minutes before the Fire Brigade showed up?”
“Is it possible that this man also killed Peter Drinkwater and his friend, a Mr. Sparrow-Monterey?”
“If so, they must have been hid upstairs. I searched the kitchen, the living room and the basement. No sign of life” Reverend Brown shook his head contemplatively.
“We’ll let this lie for now, Reverend. Sergeant Troy will drive you home. Thank you” Chief Inspector Barnaby stated, nodding at the Reverend in sympathy. He watched the priest get up from his seat. They shook hands, and Troy showed him outside. Just as Barnaby collected his papers from the desk, he glanced over to the seat where the reverend had been sitting. A red stain had caught his attention. Perplexed, he walked over, and wiped the substance with a white cloth from his breast pocket. He put it in a forensic bag, and held it up against the lamp light. He stared amazed at the red spot. His eyes had to playing tricks on him! He whirled on his heel and walked swiftly down to the forensics department. Twenty minutes later, it was confirmed. The blood contained heavy traces of pure gold.