Samuel allowed himself the slightest of nods, wondering where this was going.
“Don’t you see?” she said, setting her cup down and leaning close to him, her soft golden hair fallen over one brow, her white smile dazzling. “Father Henry’s grandfather, as far as I’ve been able to discover, is the only person on this entire earth who knows Amelia Dyer’s confession. She wrote it all down, Samuel. He was given books by her. Books that she wrote while imprisoned, awaiting her death!”
“Books?” he said, sitting back from her, his fingertips tapping the cool porcelain tiles of the table. “What books, Catherine? Look, I don’t see...”
“Her journals!” she exclaimed, standing up and pacing before him as if they were scheming the heist of the century. She spun on him, fingers flexed outward. “She wrote several journals in prison. Her entire confession, hand-written, for the eyes of her confessor only. No other person, aside from maybe your Father Henry, has seen them or read them.”
Catherine strode across the floor to the priest, her eyes wide and wet. She hiked up her skirt, straddled his lap and the chair beneath him. She leaned into him, lifted his face to hers, now shining with anticipation. She kissed his lower lip, licked his top lip with the tip of her tongue. He groaned as she pushed into him. “Until now, my dearest. Until now.”
* * *
Hell on earth if it ain’t it oughta be. Never have I or any human with God’s breath been subjected to the level of filth a degradation as is habit within the walls of Newgate Prison. The smell of it is so bad you can taste it and whats worse is I been put in a stone cell with six other women all criminals one a murderer one believe it or not a killer of children but not part of my belief just a plain out demon, I suppose God makes them to, but the rest of them thieves a whores who stolen or killed or one who attacked a gentlemen when he squelched on payment maiming him forever she says carving his cheek with a small blade she kept hidden for safety slicing him while he laughed a dressed a her still dripping she cut him, well she is going to hang for it now just like me we will swing a swing may God have mercy on our souls a those we have taken. The floors here are crunchy with bugs a lice a half the women are naked, some raped in front of us by guards or male inmates who pay the guards how I don’t know or with what. Mostly the whores but there was one woman a beautiful young woman whose daughter was with us a nine year old lass a the mum was raped a had her head caved in by an inmate don’t know what became of him the guards took the corpse a the daughter away I thank the Lord for times such as these that I am a large woman going on in years, plus they are all afraid of me some call me a witch others insane they may all be right. To be thought of as disturbed a violent in a cage filled with killers is not a role I cherish but one I suppose I fill. I will tell you now of the Marmon baby since that is the one they stopped me on maybe I wanted to stop God knows I done my work for His will a as I mentioned things were changing inside me squirming pleasure almost sexual when I choked them a that is not God’s plan that is the devil’s plan, his way of laughing at the Servants of the Light when in their efforts of thwarting him so maybe I wanted it to end, I don’t much care now as long as they don’t hurt Polly or that silly husband of hers although Polly is not as innocent as she says or I say but Alfred her husband my Lord he knew nothing don’t know how but there it is. The Marmon baby was brought to me a I swear I thought this was the one I do not know why it was a feeling a look it had in its eyes. I remember looking at while she held the worm a I smiled a told her all the lies about how well I would take care of it but me eyes kept drifting to the child to the child’s head which was thick with fine baby hair but I was looking for the Mark while she spoke. She caught me a I smiled a told the same lie I told hundreds more, What a beautiful child. So I took it a the fool woman the unmarried woman the sullied woman gave it to me for care while she whored or drank or who knows what the women born outside of God do when their burdens are released a I took it to Polly’s house because I KNEW this was HIM although a girl makes little sense but the devil is that way a I knew it in my bones this was the avenger the spawn of the fallen angel a I did not want to take it home to Reading as Polly was in Willesden a the fewer that saw me with the child the better, so that is what I did a Polly was there caring for another child herself but of course this was an appropriate relationship as a paid hire a as I stated Polly was not with the Order, so I went there with the child a girl named Doris a went to the sitting room while Polly left to put her charge to sleep. I lay little Doris down a searched its head combing through the hair while it wiggled but saw nothing but still I knew a besides we can never be sure for He is a deceiver the greatest of them all. So I opened my carpet bag where I had a spool of sewing tape a wrapped it three times around the child’s neck a waited for it to stop its breath while I watched. When it went from blue to black a dead I left the tape on as I always do in case the demon tries to raise his army but that is why they go in the river. See, I BAPTISE them Father, understand? Tied a torn from life a breath I baptise them a give them to the Thames a this one would be the same to ensure its spirit went to Heaven as an Angel I make sure they are all angels in Heaven to live in His glory, a so I put the girl in my bag a shoved the bag beneath my feet under the couch so my daughter would not be suspicious of my doings. She came back a wondered of course where the child got to but I had my answer all planned because I know how to fool people by God’s grace a I told her that Doris had gone home a I smiled a wanted to scream SHE’S IN THE BAG AT MY FEET DO YOU NOT SEE IN THE BAG LIES THE BEAST’S DEAD FLESH but also Father because it was Gods home the child bore off to a not the home of the sinners PRAISE BE TO GOD IN HEAVEN IT WAS GODS HOME GODS HOME IT WENT TO FATHER GODS HOME A THAT IS WHY THEY SAY ARIGHTLY SO I AM THE ANGEL MAKER.
* * *
“What is it that you seek, my son?”
Father Henry was dubious but also interested in Samuel’s request to see the papers, the confession of Amelia Dyer. On pretext of checking on his health and new house, Samuel had traveled to London and visited Father Henry’s new farm, helped him with some repairs needed to a stairwell and a rickety landing that led to the dead orchard, one that Henry hoped to revive with the endless hours the retired hold in such supply as it lasts, and much prayer to Holy God for divine crop intervention.
They sat in the orchard, at a dark wood table torn from the very trees that surrounded it, their withered arms clawed the insipid sky in prayer for fruit, their veins and rough skin dried, aged and dying as their master’s. Premature sour apples, the offspring of the orchard, lay ripened to brown beneath their feet, scattered among dense patches of long dark grass, the rest dirt, all confined by a deteriorated, broken comb of a jagged clay wall no higher than a meter at its crumbly peaks. They drank red wine and Samuel gave his friend the reason he had come up with on the drive, the lie he had conjured.
“A thesis,” he said, sipping the rich red wine from a stout glass, the carafe between them already half-drained. “A history of confessionals.”
Father Henry nodded, looked toward the withered globes of low-hanging fruit absently.
“Your grandfather heard so many,” Samuel continued, “and from the evilest of humanity. I’d like to make him a chapter.”
“Well,” Father Henry said, scratching the coarse white hairs under his chin with long, spotted fingers, “that is a worthy scholastic pursuit. Something to do in your leisure time, eh?”
“Yes,” was all Samuel could say in reply, the lie catching awkwardly in his throat. He swallowed the rest of his wine, his face burning from the heat of the sun, his labours with the house, the shame of his deceit.
“I see,” the old man said. “It’s true my father passed these books on to me, and at some point in his life, I don’t know the when or the why of it, he had them reproduced. I will lend you these reproductions, and you can write your chapter. The books, I’m afraid, I must keep here.”
Samuel nodded, let his eyes fall. “Thank you, Father.”
Father Henry cleared his
throat, twisted his body toward the younger man, put two hands around his glass. “Onto another subject, then,” he said. “There are rumours, my son. And they are not flattering ones, not that rumours ever are.”
Samuel paled. “Rumours?”
“Yes,” he replied, drawing it out in several small nods, “rumours of you and a woman in your parish. Someone you visit quite often; someone you visit quite alone.” He drew this last word out in a low arc, raised one bushy eyebrow and lifted his eyes up to meet Samuel’s. “Word has reached me through some of the elders in the church, who, in turn as gossip goes, heard whispers from members of your congregation...”
“A woman?” Samuel said with a sneer, as if the word were bitter.
“Do you deny it? Do you not know, immediately, of whom I speak?”
Samuel feigned thought, going so far as to pinch his chin and narrow his eyes to the ground. He found himself studying the rotten skin of a particularly well-aged apple. As he watched, a black spot caved inward and a wiggling white worm slithered out, bending to taste the air. Samuel’s stomach swayed as if he were on a ship, and his head grew light. He closed his eyes, prayed for a breeze to cool his sweat-spotted pate. None came.
“Are you alright, my son?” Father Henry said with concern.
“The wine, and the heat, I fear. Just light-headed, Father,” Samuel said, trying to smile. “And yes, of course, I know the woman in question. She is a friend, which is an obvious statement. I actually intended to discuss her with you. Today, in fact.”
The old man sat back, surprise stretching the wrinkled skin of his face. “Oh?”
“Yes, you see, she, Miss Holbrook, that is, seeks to take on the Stokes’ cottage; to refashion it as an orphanage, in the church’s name of course.”
Father Henry eyes widened. “I see,” he said, caught off guard and quickly forgetting the nature of his original inquiry. “Using our means, is that it?”
“Partly,” Samuel admitted, “and partly her own. She was left money from her parents, both deceased for many years. She has a love for children, for...”
Samuel felt that shift again in his guts. This time, however, it produced a rush of bile that nipped at the back of his throat like acid. He swallowed, thought of sipping more wine, but his stomach lurched and gurgled at the thought.
“I’m sorry...” was all he could say, and considered standing. He heard Father Henry asking after him from a thousand miles distant as his brain swelled and his eyes watered. A sudden, maddening thought had struck him, a thunderbolt in his brain. How did he not make the connection before?
Babies, he thought. Why would someone wanting to work with infants make an inquiry into a demon such as this woman, this insane killer of children?
He placed a hand on his brow and breathed in deeply. Father Henry reached across the splintered table and put a hand on his wrist, squeezed it. “Father Ramsey?”
Samuel felt the warm, rocking ocean within him steady, his pulse slow, his mind clear. He let out a breath, inhaled, then let out another. “Fine,” he said, a weak smile on his face. “Fine now. It’s the heat.”
“Yes, this is the hottest time of year here. Well, let us go inside, and I will see if I can find those papers for you. While I do, you will sit in the shade for a spell.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Henry stood up, arched his spine, knotty hands rolled into his lower back. “As for the orphanage, on principle, I have no complaints, per se. But keep me informed of the plans, and I can help you with the bishop when it comes time.”
Samuel also stood, began to follow Henry inside.
The older man paused, turned his head.
“And perhaps it would be wise,” he said, mumbling quietly over his shoulder, “that you hold your future strategy sessions with Miss Holbrook at the church, hmm?”
“Yes, Father.”
Father Henry reached out and gripped Samuel’s elbow tightly, as one would clutch a walking stick, as they continued slowly toward the house. “And might I suggest, for your book, that you explore the martyrs. It might be interesting to reconnoiter the tales of confessors who used force, against God’s will, to extrapolate information from those who died rather than refuse their saviour?”
Samuel winced as they strode out from under the scant shade of a tree and into the direct path of the hot sun. In the far distance, the city was clearly defined by the layer of smog that rose above it, like a second city in the sky that held the labourers of weather—the makers of thunder, the pourers of rain. Painters brushing only with grey.
“Yes, it is quite interesting,” Father Henry continued. “In the century after Christ, emperors and kings would find the most creative, ingenious ways to kill a man. Let’s see, there was the pulley, the cross of course, the wheel, the wooden horse. They even crafted special instruments designed to tear the flesh off a man of God, like iron claws, while still keeping him alive to suffer it. Can you imagine? And, let’s see, there were many instruments of fire, as well. The gridiron, iron shoes and the like. They even had a helmet and tunic that would melt a man’s flesh off his bones while he wore it! It was a hard time for those of the Faith, to say the least.”
Henry’s clutch was tightened as they neared the main house, the rickety building waiting to welcome them into the cool shade. Samuel was sweating profusely now, his backside coated like a silk sheet of perspiration that stuck resolutely to his black clothes. Father Henry droned on, the sun behind him a searing halo that put dark hollows on his face where his eyes and sunken cheeks absorbed shadows like sugar in a sticky palm. Samuel tried not to visualize the scenes the old man described but he knew them well enough, pictures from old texts showing rubbery pen-and-ink skeletons of men being pulled like toffee and burnt like wood.
“Sometimes,” Father Henry continued, warming to the subject, “they would lay a man down on broken pottery and pour boiling oil and quicklime over him. The man would squirm like mad and inevitably cut his flesh to ribbons. Ah! But my favourite, I think, was the press.”
“Hmm,” was all Samuel could think to say.
“Yes, yes, the press was where they would lay a man between two large slabs of wood, or stone, then slowly rotate a pole attached to a centreing screw that lowered the top slab onto the bottom, see? If the man would not confess his sin against the state and renounce God, they would squeeze him until his sack of flesh popped open like a swollen grape.”
The old priest stomped down on a rotten apple to illustrate his point, the white and brown meat spewing out from beneath his black shoe.
“I see,” Samuel said, desperate to be indoors. “Well, my book is more a study of priestly confessors, men of God who comforted those in desperate times of need, warfare and the like.”
“Of course, of course, much more uplifting, that. No one wants to hear the stories of martyrs anyway, and do you know why?”
Father Henry stopped feet from the desirous shade of the home. The old man appeared to Samuel as cool and serene as if they were on a late-night stroll under the stars, a sea breeze pushing lightly against their skin.
“Why, Father Henry?”
The old man smiled, his small grey teeth a row of accusations shouted from his grinning mouth. “Because they’re all dead, my son. Every last one of them.”
Father Henry removed his hand from Samuel’s arm and walked inside, laughing to himself.
Samuel did not reply, but followed the old man into the dank interior of the house, scowling at his own dark thoughts, cursing the tongues of gossips. The question of their being right did nothing to qualm his feeling of holy righteousness against them.
Inside the cool dark house, Samuel sat down and poured a glass of water from an earthenware pitcher. Father Henry excused himself and moments later returned with a leather satchel. He handed it to Father Ramsey.
“I have read the pages, some passages many times over,” he said. “She thought herself a crusader, you know. A finger of God. She makes references to certain sec
rets that a liar would not know of.”
“Secrets?” Samuel said, taking the satchel, his weariness fleeting now that he was out from under the blasted sun, his interest newly peaked. “What kind of secrets?”
Father Henry sat down across from Samuel, crossed his long skinny legs under his coarse robe. “There are many ancient orders, some older than the birth of Jesus himself. What she describes, well, let us say there are references to certain facts she should not know, and my father believed the same.” The old man crossed himself, mumbled a prayer. “She talks of the Anti-Christ, and a sacred order.”
“Sacred order?” he asked, gripping the soft leather of the satchel unconsciously. “Was she truly mad then? What, was this serial killer a member of the Masons, the Illuminati? Please, Father Henry...”
“No, no, of course not,” he said. Then with a leer, added, “For one thing, I would know if she were.”
Samuel said nothing to this, not wanting to go further down this particular road of thought. I’d rather go back to martyrs and torture, he thought dryly, but said only, “I see.”
“That is yet to be determined, my son. But, you have her confession. Read it and make your own judgment.” The old man sighed, and Samuel could see he was tired. “There are many bodies of belief in this world, Samuel, and we are on the edge of a precipice, the history that is behind us will always be thought of as ancient, the history before us always a renaissance. That is what it means to be at a crossroads, I suppose. But there are many factions—Cabalists, Masons, Brahmans, Buddhists, Jews... all believe in Christ, all believe in what He represents. The Bible speaks of miracles and teaches us the virtues of holiness, but it also warns of symbols, pretences of things to come, end of days. My point,” he said, sounding more and more weary and confused to Samuel’s ears, “is that history is more than bygone facts. It is also a warning for an unseeable future, hmm?”
“Of course,” Samuel said, then paused. “Please excuse my thick-headedness, but I don’t see what any of this has to do with Amelia Dyer.”
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