I was kept for some time at the library for questioning, as I was, as they called me, a reliable witness. Despite the fact that I told them that I did not see the initial attack, nor did I even see young Justin enter the library, they still sought to keep me on hand for their own investigative purposes. Jill was dismissed soon enough, and I had to take her aside and make her swear unto me that she would not approach the Mews without me by her side, to which she eventually conceded. I therefore stayed with the Constable Richards, later accompanied by Mr. Barberwart, a young girl named Stephanie Crane who was a practising nurse and the closest thing the village had to a doctor at the time, and Mr. Grisham the vicar. It was this collective of authoritative officiating bodies that handled the scene, interrogating young Justin and tending to the constable’s injuries.
“You are facing grave ramifications, Mr. Tellman,” the mayor said, pacing back and forth and tapping his cigar ashes upon the ground. He did not so much as stride but wobble as he paced. “You have not only assaulted another human being, but a lawman at that. Have you no excuse for your actions?”
“I don’t,” he whimpered. “I really don’t.”
The constable sat upon his desk and had his shirt removed whilst the young nurse tended to his wound. He hissed with pain before chiming in his theory. “That’s London for you. Spends a few months mixing with his kind and they put him up to all sorts. This is their work! Stabbing out authority so they can live freely!”
“A quite literal interpretation,” I mused, “but I nonetheless find it odd that this young man, who has been nothing but the picture of grace under fire given his disposition, would suddenly act now.” I turned to Justin, regretful that I had to act as one of the mob but nonetheless playing to their strengths. “Was it the remorse for your sister that charged your emotions so?”
“No!” he insisted tearfully. He tried to lift his hands in a plea of innocence, but the were handcuffed together behind the back of the chair. “It’s nothing to do with that!”
“I doubt his kind feel remorse,” the constable spat.
“Then by all mean, why don’t we throw him into the river and see if he floats,” I snapped. My criticism was not properly appreciated, for rather than take offence at my scathing analogy of his convictions he instead seemed to consider whether or not my suggestion was a valid option.
“Mr. Fugit, Mr. Richards,” the mayor said, attempting to calm us both. At least he had the professional air to take familial ties out of this equation. “Let us calm ourselves, hm? Tempus, my good man, I think the constable fears that perhaps you side too much with the man who was caught, quite literally, red handed.” He gestured to the blood stains that adorned both Justin’s and the constable’s clothing.
“I do not question what my eyes behold, but I am not always sure that what we see is the clear and total truth. Young Justin seems bewildered by his action. Do you not find this odd?”
He gave my question the respect of pondering upon it. “As was the Gallows boy.”
“Yes, as was young Jack,” I added.
“Little Jack?” the mayor asked, gesturing the height of a young boy to ensure that he hadn't misheard. “What has he done?”
I shook my head. “Nothing so rash that it deserves the involvement of the law. I have dealt with it. Nonetheless, confusion upon committing a uncharacteristic crime is becoming more akin to a trend, would you not agree?”
“Perhaps I might be of assistance,” the vicar, Mr. Grisham said, breaking his silence and stepping forth, placing himself alongside Justin. “This young lad has come to me before, seeking comfort in the Lord when he felt as though his lot in life has led him down a path most separate than others. Perhaps if I take his full confession he may feel...alleviated enough to reflect and speak more clearly upon the subject.”
“Aye,” said the mayor after giving it much scrutiny. He then gestured to his son, the constable, who in turn threw his set of keys to the vicar. “The cells are down the hall, vicar. If you’d rather wait, the constable will be available soon to accompany you.”
“I have no reason to fear this lad,” Mr. Grisham said, lifting Justin’s bound arms over the back of the chair. He then led him to the area where the alleged cells lay. “Is Mr. Coaltree still here?” The mayor nodded. “Excellent. He would not speak to me earlier, but perhaps now he might allow me to take his confession as well.”
“You provide an invaluable service, vicar,” the mayor said. Though his words might have been heartfelt, he was clearly only adding them for civility at the time. Mr. Barberwart then turned back to the rest of us. “This...this is unlike anything this village has ever faced,” he lamented. “All since the rise in sightings at that blasted wreckage. We should have just brought in a bulldozer and taken our chances.”
“This is not connected to the hauntings, father,” the constable spat. The look on the mayor’s face clearly showed his displeasure at the familial familiarity whilst in an official capacity. “These crimes and murders did not start until Tempus Fugit set foot into town.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said yourself you were dissatisfied with his progress! And now these murders? Perhaps he seeks to distract us with thuggery to hide the fact that he knows no difference between a charlatan and a ghost!”
“That is quite enough!” Mr. Barberwart said, raising his voice like the bark of a dog. The young nurse looked panicked, caught in the middle of a debate that was beyond her capacity and station. Noting her concern he dismissed her. When calm returned, he continued. “We are not living in the dark ages and I will not see this turned into a witch hunt. We will not throw blame at one another because we fear the unknown. Have faith in the services I have provided for this village for the past twenty five years! I know a charlatan and a shyster when I see one, and I also know how to dismiss someone from their post when I feel that they are not completing their job to the required specification. Mr. Fugit will continue, constable, and he will leave the punishment of common criminals to us. Are we understood?”
It was clear that these words, though spoken to the constable, were nonetheless meant for both of us to adhere to. Constable Richards, in response, slammed his hand down on his desk in protest and then marched off, supporting his slung right arm as he headed towards the cells. Mr. Barberwart shook his head and sighed, the grief of a father who felt as though he had disciplined his son one too many times. With that he left, and I followed soon after.
I ambled down the lane towards Mrs. Tellman’s Bed & Breakfast, preparing to break the news to her that she might have lost another child, though in not so terminal a manner, for I doubt she had yet been told. I marked the time. It was two thirty. I beg your pardon, two twenty seven. I wondered where Jill might be, and if she heeded my request to stay as far away as possible from the Mews. I saw her brother, Jack, cross the road before me. He was chasing a frog, a game worthy of a lad’s life, however I feared for the frog’s fate should it be captured. Was I neglecting my own rationale, that perhaps there was some strange, if not unlikely, reason as to the cause of his actions? He stopped midway across the road, giving up his chase as he saw me. He made no attempt to come to me, nor to leave. I saw a great sadness and shame awash his face. Caught between the limitless reserves of reason and the confines of emotional bias, I did not know what to do or say.
Constable Richards’ patrol car pulled up alongside me. Although I was relieved for the distraction, I was nonetheless wary. It was clear the young constable was not happy with my progress or presence, and his dogs were only called off by his father’s objection. It concerned me as to what business he had, out in the streets, with only the troubled young lad as a witness. Warily I took the two steps necessary to stand alongside the vehicle. He had leaned across to open the passenger door for me.
“Get in.”
I peered inside. It was Jill behind the wheel. I did as she said.
“Fabulous,” I
commented, closing the door behind me. “The constable is clearly vexed with me, but you are obviously still in his good graces. How kind of him to lend you his patrol car.” I turned to her with a sudden concern. “Are you not too young to drive, though?”
She rolled her eyes. “Buckle up, Fugit,” she said firmly. “We’re going to the Mews before anyone else gets killed.”
While I applauded her for formulating her own theories, I nonetheless had to question her conclusion. “How do you postulate that...”
“I don’t know, but no one was getting killed until we started poking about. I think we should assume, for the sake of assumption, that its all connected. Hold on.” I was too busy questioning her conclusion to heed her warning, and found my face pressed right against the passenger window as she took a corner sharply. “Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “Second time driving.”
“You...you did not borrow this vehicle with the constable’s permission, did you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Jill I am appalled! Theft of a motor vehicle is criminal enough, but a police vehicle? Why on earth would you commit such a crime?”
“I needed it to get away from the church as fast as I could.”
“Oh dear God,” I muttered, placing my face in my palms. “Tell me, do you at least feel remorse for your indulgent and illegal actions?”
“Oh yeah. Loads.”
“Dare I ask what you were doing at the church?” I asked. “I thought you had coined a condemning term for such places.”
“Well I certainly wasn’t praying. Fox.”
The car swerved and send up a cloud of gravel as she sought to avoid the animal, nearly killing us in the process. Once she gained control she reached into the back seat and retrieved a small folder.
“I was checking out the vicar’s office.”
“You did what?”
“Listen, I wanted information on some of these people that were going about stealing, maiming, and killing, and the only thing they all have in common is that they freely admit to their crime and give their confession to the vicar. I thought he might have some sort of journal or record, and since he was busy with you lot I thought it would be the best time.”
“While I don’t protest to know the ways of the vicarage, I do very much doubt that they keep journals of the confessions they received. It is a sacred rite share by the confessor, the receiver, and God, apparently.”
“Well yeah, I know that now, don’t I? I didn’t know that thirty minutes ago though. I did find that though, so you might want to shut up and have a flip through. We’re almost there.”
Despite my need to scold the girl for her sudden bout of rash behaviour, I decided to trust her judgement and open the folder. It contained sheets of handwritten paper, all looking relatively similar. Each one, however, began with a different name, and by the looks of it they were the names of various townspeople.
“What are these?”
“Test results,” she said flatly. “All nicely written and evaluated before the tests are even handed in.”
“You mean the questionnaire?”
“You’ve heard of it?” she asked, glancing over at me. “Ten simple questions to determine your soul’s worth, or what not. He handed them out last Sunday, and we’re suppose to hand them in by today so he can have everyone’s private and confidential report on Sunday.”
“Well perhaps these are the reports of those who handed them in early.”
“Nuh-uh. I got my questionnaire on Sunday and I haven’t bothered filling it out, but low and behold, mine report is in there.”
“I thought you did not appreciate the church,” I could not help but ask.
“I don’t. Me mum makes me go. That’s why I hate it so much. I’m sorry, but you are completely missing the point.”
“Perhaps he is lazy,” I mused, flipping through them. “Nonetheless, I do not think it is appropriate that we read these personal records, nor to I approve of your methods of...”
I trailed off, which garnered her closer attention.
“What’s wrong?”
“They’re all the same.”
“Yeah, it looked like he followed the same format.”
“No, they are all completely identical in their wording. Pull over. I cannot read whilst riding as a passenger.”
Jill pulled off of the main road and onto a small dirt lane, out of sight. I then got out of the patrol car and leaned upon it’s roof, reading the report. It was for Stephanie Crane, the young nurse I only just met. It told her, as it did the others, that she was a good person who is, at times, vulnerable to the common sins such as pride and jealousy, and that it was important that these not rule one’s life. It also told her that she was perhaps a bit too demanding of other people, but that is nothing that one cannot change in themselves. Jill was clearly awaiting my input, so I read aloud the final line.
“Fear not, for yours is a truly devoted soul which is on a clear and present path to salvation, a path only occasionally obscured by your easily distracted desires for shallow fulfilment. You’re ambitions are noble, but they can be somewhat unrealistic. Keep true to God, praise Him every Sunday, and confess your sins before they become burdens and you will one day know the glory of His kingdom.”
“Sounds like propaganda to me.”
“I’m sure it applies to the young Stephanie, though.”
“I’m kinda surprised to hear you say that.”
“I’m sure it applies to you, too.”
“Huh?”
I placed the report back in the folder. “Have you ever heard of the Barnum Effect?”
She pondered it for a moment. “Barnum. Weren’t he the circus bloke. ‘A sucker born every minute’ and all that?”
“Yes indeed. He not only believe that people were easy to fool, but that some people wanted to be fooled. It is the age old question of divination and those who believe it. Give a vague enough answer that is open to interpretation and the recipient will quite happily believe it and feel as though they’ve received some profound, and perhaps arcane, foreknowledge. When Croesus of Lydia asked an oracle whether or not he should launch an attack on Persia he was told that ‘a mighty empire would fall’. Armed with that knowledge, he went to war.”
“It was his empire that fell, wasn’t it?”
I nodded. “Yes, but the oracle, nonetheless, was correct. Typical practice, really - if you want someone to feel as though you are offering them great insight into their character, ensure that three quarters of your delivery has desirable information that any rational person would like to think of themselves, and one quarter of it contains undesirable information to counter-balance the presentation. As long as your overall message is not too specific, people will believe that your mass-produced message was designed just for them. It is a pareidolia.”
“It does what to children?
“A pareidolia, Jill. Random stimuli that takes on a meaningful interpretation.” Then, for recent relevance, I added; “Such as looking for shapes in the clouds.”
“Okay,” she said, accepting my explanation, “but why is he doing it? To secretly play a joke on the town? To cut back on some of his work?”
I shook my head. “No. I would imagine he is trying to subtly spread a common message.”
“Go to church?”
“No, “ I said as we got back into the vehicle. He wants us all to confess.”
Jill scoffed as she started the engine. “Yeah, and? I mean, he's a priest!”
“Vicar.”
“Whatever. It's his job to take confessions. Why be so secretive about it? Is he a freakin' pervert or something?”
I admit I had pondered that notion, but it would not add any significance to any other loose end. “It's not his suggestion that disturbs me,” I muttered quietly as I mused, “but rather the urgency behind such tactics.”
A moment's silence divided us.
“He's pushi
ng for confessions just as odd crimes are happening!” Jill exclaimed, excited by her own conclusion.
I smiled knowingly, then pointed forward to the road ahead.
“Let us find out why.”
She squealed excitedly, then caused the wheels to equally squeal as the car lurched ahead. “You got it, Batman!”
“...what?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Daedalian Muse Page 13