All Roads lead to Eoropaidh
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Category:
M through R › Midsomer Murders
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
8
Views:
2,280
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Midsomer Murders, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chief Executive Sparrow
The translation of the Aramaic writing on the Reverend’s walls, finally reached the desk of Chief Inspector Tom Barnaby. The request for translation of the Polaroid pictures forensic had taken, had made its way cumbersomely – from the Royal London University to the renowned University of Paris, France, where it had been processed and then sent in return. The university explained the delay by blaming the ancient Aramaic language, and that the writing on the wall was next to indecipherable as it appeared to be written in an extinct dialect. An accurate translation was therefore impossible to make, and said text written below the explanation was to be regarded as the one closest in resemblance and most logic hence the original transcript.
Sheer habit made Troy sip from his cup of coffee as he surveyed a copy of said translation which Barnaby was overlooking in equal style over at his desk. He didn’t really notice that he was drinking the hot, black liquid, for the words he read, gave him the chills:
‘Rex Christhos’
‘Rex Lucipheros’
‘Rex Jehohanan’
‘The Holy Triangle binds Your Will’
‘The Holy Triangle binds Your Flesh’
‘The Holy Triangle binds Your Soul’
‘I compel Thee, Traitor of Rex Christhos’
‘I compel Thee, Servant of Rex Mundi’
‘I, Satan of The Seventh Plane of all the Hells, compel Thee Albert Brown’
‘Thy Eternal Soul be bound to my Fist’
Detective Sergeant Troy looked from the translation, to the Polaroid pictures and back again. The furrow between his brows became deeper with each glance.
“It’s at best, very disturbing” he told Barnaby.
“It’s some kind of incantation, meant to enslave the victim” Barnaby said, ignoring Troy’s comment, “it’s evidently specifically written for the Reverend since it mentions him by name.”
“And that only makes it creepier. My theory is that both the Reverend and the gay couple at the Windy Whistle Farm were taken by some satanic cult.”
“But Peter Drinkwater’s car was gone, as to while Father Brown’s wasn’t. That suggests that Peter and his friend probably weren’t at home at the time of the fire. And if there in fact is a cult as you say, my dear Troy, then they either fled from it, or joined them. Or we’re simply dealing with one deranged individual.”
“You think Caroline Devere might be connected somehow?”
“Possibly. But it’s more likely that the Sparrow family is involved.”
“What do you mean, Chief Inspector?”
“Look at the name of the professor who’s signed the translation document.”
“Monsieur Étienne Moineau? What do we know of him?”
“Nothing, except he’s an award winning scholar professor in ancient languages. Look at his last name. If I’m not completely wrong, ‘moineau’ is the French word for ‘sparrow’!”
“Étienne Sparrow?”
“Another Sparrow. They’re like birds; They’re everywhere.”
“I think we need to pay the Sparrows another visit. I refuse to believe that this is just a coincidence”.
*
The main office of The Sparrow Shipping Company was about as old as the company itself, and was richly decorated with figurines. It had an overall classical Hellenistic design which added depth and credibility to the large sign which decorated the doorway leading into the main lobby. The lobby was one oval space with one circular reception desk in the middle which was manned by four male secretaries. Detective Sergeant Troy hadn’t noticed before, but the reception desk was actually raised from the ground floor, put on a pedestal so to speak. It made the receptionists look down at all guests and staff. How unusual, the detective sergeant thought to himself, to have four young men, probably in their twenties, to be attending something so boring as receptionist jobs. And they looked just as polished as the very floor which was reflecting the lights from the magnificent chandeliers hang from the sloping beams supporting the roof high above their heads. When coming in from the door, one was met with the impressive sight of the centred reception, the luxurious spacing about and the two enormous twin stairs which led up to either side of the building. They flanked the reception desk with such delicacy it was worth the trip just to get a second look at it all together. Detective Sergeant Troy eyed the men at the reception again. They all wore suits and seemed very formal. They were so perfect it was almost eerie. Upon reaching their desks, Barnaby presented himself along with Troy, demanding to shown to the Director’s office. Seeing them up close again, Troy noticed the receptionists’ discrete use of make-up, the occasional low-profile ear-rings, the fancy haircuts and the comfortable, not-too-much-but-just-enough smell of aftershave. Just enough to make every woman or right kind of man swooning with desire. They were sexy, perfect and eerie. They did their jobs with elegance and diligence, their voices speaking eloquently when operating the switchboard and never once did they roll their eyes over tiresome guests or callers. They had to be gay! What else could they be?! Troy quickly pushed the thoughts away as he followed Barnaby over to a small group of couches, obviously designed for guests to wait in. He turned his head and looked up to the director’s office, which was placed on the first floor. His office had glass walls, and it was centred perfectly between the two stairs, overlooking the reception area. Whatever happened in the lobby, would not go unnoticed. The inspectors waited for about half an hour, before they were finally shown upstairs.
Walking up the stairs always invoked an eerie feeling with Troy. The walls were filled with enlarged photographs of men. Troy had to stop for a moment. Didn’t he just see a guy just like that in the reception that resembled that person on the photo? Checking the tag on the photo, he discovered it was from 1887. No way!
“Ah, we meet again, Chief Inspector Barnaby. Detective sergeant Troy” the man nodded shortly at him with a smile. “Come to admire my photos again, are we?” David Sparrow smiled again, walking past the Chief Inspector and down to where Troy was standing. “That would be the crew which were stationed on The Black Pearl, my father’s flag ship, back in 1887. And over here, the crew of The Virgin Queen in 1892, and this is the crew and captain of The White Pearl. This photo is taken in 1901, but The White Pearl was of course built in 1798—“
“—It’s remarkable how well the ships stay in shape, I have to say. And the crew as well, might I add, for I could swear that that man there, on the photo taken in 1901 looks just the same as that one over there from 1887!”
“Oh, that would the honorable first mate Mr. Gibbs, as he was called. The sea kept him young” the chief executive laughed, “for a, uhm, very, very long time. I was told he was one of those men, who keep working right until their dying day, and then they just—, you know, they call it a day and that’s that. But do step into my office gentlemen”. David eyed the detective sergeant and blinked seductively with one eye at him.
David’s office was spacious and modern. At the far end of the room overlooking the lobby below, was an oval glass table on richly carved oak legs. Troy remembered being told the last time they paid David a visit, that the legs were in fact railings from one of the old historic sailing vessels of the Sparrow Shipping Company Ltd. back in the 1800th century. Troy did as Barnaby, and took his seat in one of the two chairs in front of the main desk.
“So”, David began, his attitude steaming of positivity, “I assume you’re here about the investigation concerning Malachi, yes? Let me just start by apologizing for the delay. It was a client of our on the phone you see, one of the sons of the Sultan of Brunei. These Arabic rich daddy’s boys seem to think I can perform miracles for them when it comes to speed boats! Believe me; it takes time and patience to explain to them, even in their own mother tongue which I do by all means speak fluently, why they can’t have their boat fixed in two hours but the very next morning. My employees do after all require their beauty sleep, right? Work regulations are work regulations, even in The United Emirates. And I had to tell them that if they thought I was spoiling my employees by doing so, that they could take their business elsewhere. The employees and their families always come first, that’s how it’s always been in the Company. And that’s that. So what can I do for you?!”
“Do you know anyone by the name of Étienne Moineau?” Barnaby asked David.
“I certainly would. He’s my cousin. Lives in France” David replied.
“Are you familiar with his works as a professor?”
“I don’t really know him or his works, no” David shook his head contemplatively.
“Are you familiar with the art of demonology, Mr. Sparrow? Ever read a demon summoning spell?”
“Not particularly no” David answered as he was presented with a copy of Étienne’s translation.
“These inscriptions were found on the walls inside Fader Brown’s house after he went missing. And based on his testimony prior to his disappearance, we have reason to believe the same writing could be found on the walls of the living room of the Windy Whistle Farm where Malachi and his friend were staying. What do you make of it, Mr. Sparrow?”
“It looks like a spell meant to bind Albert Brown. The priest, I take it?” David replied to them, looking from one policeman to the next and back again.
“We believe that whoever took Fader Brown and Malachi Sparrow, may belong to a Satanic organization.”
“Satanic? Now come on, you’re sure this is not the work of some juvenile delinquents?” David said, continuing with: “I don’t mean to insult your intelligence on any level here, inspector Barnaby, but has it crossed your mind that perhaps Malachi and his lover or whatever decided to part-take in some ridiculous so-called satanic ritual with a bunch of the local youth otherwise bored to death by living in a far out small town of what’s it name, and that they accidentally set fire to the house? They probably got scared, took what’s his name’s car and drove off and now they’re hiding some place because they fear the authorities. And that would be you. That’s that. What else?!”
“Are you and your family church goers, Mr. Sparrow?” Detective Sergeant Troy asked out of the blue.
“Of course not. We’re atheists. Religion is a sad thing and the root to all evil in this world, believe me.”
“You can’t think of anyone who might be inclined towards Satanism, then? Anyone with deep fascination regarding the occult then?”
“The pope? Oh, that’s right, he’s not a Sparrow. No, I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“And this Étienne? What about him?”
“He’s a man of science. He’s interested in history and ancient languages and goes off to expeditions here and there to find lost cities and stuff, but if he has any particular fascination with Satanism, well, I doubt it. I guess I would have heard about it.”
“And there has been no word from Malachi?”
“None”.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Sparrow” Barnaby said, getting up and out from the comfy armchair.
“No trouble at all” David replied. Just in that moment, the phone rang. “Do excuse me for not showing you out” David glanced up at the detectives as he reached for the receiver.
“Not at all. Had a good day, Mr. Sparrow” Barnaby replied.
David sat down and picked up the receiver, watching the gentlemen close the door upon leaving. He followed them with his eyes as he put the phone to his ear and said gravely: “Now I know how Peter the disciple felt when he denied Jesus thrice.
“It’s all for the best” a male voice replied.
“That’s what Jesus said too, before he was arrested by Pontius Pilate. We both know what happened to him.”
“I will not stand by a watch a son of mine be sacrificed, nor will I let the family name be muddled with the association of bloody wannabe Satanists, savvy?!”
“Calm down, Jack. Another month, right, and we’ll know what we’re dealing with, ey? We just need to lie low until then. How are you doing over there in the Caribbean?”
“I don’t like it a bit. The closer I come to home in these waters, the more eerie it gets.”
“Have faith, Dad. We’re with you, all of us” David said, closing his chocolate brown eyes. He put the receiver back on the phone without looking where it was. The desk in front of him was littered with papers and when he opened his eyes to look at them, he saw only a blur of white. How was it all going to end? A dark shadow of impending cataclysm hung above their heads, and all John advised them to do was to sit and wait?! Confronted by his father, David simply had to sound assertive. They all had to. They could not show weakness. They owed it to Jack to be strong and protect him. But from what? And how could they protect Jack when the old pirate refused to be pampered, as he so eloquently put it?
Sheer habit made Troy sip from his cup of coffee as he surveyed a copy of said translation which Barnaby was overlooking in equal style over at his desk. He didn’t really notice that he was drinking the hot, black liquid, for the words he read, gave him the chills:
‘Rex Christhos’
‘Rex Lucipheros’
‘Rex Jehohanan’
‘The Holy Triangle binds Your Will’
‘The Holy Triangle binds Your Flesh’
‘The Holy Triangle binds Your Soul’
‘I compel Thee, Traitor of Rex Christhos’
‘I compel Thee, Servant of Rex Mundi’
‘I, Satan of The Seventh Plane of all the Hells, compel Thee Albert Brown’
‘Thy Eternal Soul be bound to my Fist’
Detective Sergeant Troy looked from the translation, to the Polaroid pictures and back again. The furrow between his brows became deeper with each glance.
“It’s at best, very disturbing” he told Barnaby.
“It’s some kind of incantation, meant to enslave the victim” Barnaby said, ignoring Troy’s comment, “it’s evidently specifically written for the Reverend since it mentions him by name.”
“And that only makes it creepier. My theory is that both the Reverend and the gay couple at the Windy Whistle Farm were taken by some satanic cult.”
“But Peter Drinkwater’s car was gone, as to while Father Brown’s wasn’t. That suggests that Peter and his friend probably weren’t at home at the time of the fire. And if there in fact is a cult as you say, my dear Troy, then they either fled from it, or joined them. Or we’re simply dealing with one deranged individual.”
“You think Caroline Devere might be connected somehow?”
“Possibly. But it’s more likely that the Sparrow family is involved.”
“What do you mean, Chief Inspector?”
“Look at the name of the professor who’s signed the translation document.”
“Monsieur Étienne Moineau? What do we know of him?”
“Nothing, except he’s an award winning scholar professor in ancient languages. Look at his last name. If I’m not completely wrong, ‘moineau’ is the French word for ‘sparrow’!”
“Étienne Sparrow?”
“Another Sparrow. They’re like birds; They’re everywhere.”
“I think we need to pay the Sparrows another visit. I refuse to believe that this is just a coincidence”.
*
The main office of The Sparrow Shipping Company was about as old as the company itself, and was richly decorated with figurines. It had an overall classical Hellenistic design which added depth and credibility to the large sign which decorated the doorway leading into the main lobby. The lobby was one oval space with one circular reception desk in the middle which was manned by four male secretaries. Detective Sergeant Troy hadn’t noticed before, but the reception desk was actually raised from the ground floor, put on a pedestal so to speak. It made the receptionists look down at all guests and staff. How unusual, the detective sergeant thought to himself, to have four young men, probably in their twenties, to be attending something so boring as receptionist jobs. And they looked just as polished as the very floor which was reflecting the lights from the magnificent chandeliers hang from the sloping beams supporting the roof high above their heads. When coming in from the door, one was met with the impressive sight of the centred reception, the luxurious spacing about and the two enormous twin stairs which led up to either side of the building. They flanked the reception desk with such delicacy it was worth the trip just to get a second look at it all together. Detective Sergeant Troy eyed the men at the reception again. They all wore suits and seemed very formal. They were so perfect it was almost eerie. Upon reaching their desks, Barnaby presented himself along with Troy, demanding to shown to the Director’s office. Seeing them up close again, Troy noticed the receptionists’ discrete use of make-up, the occasional low-profile ear-rings, the fancy haircuts and the comfortable, not-too-much-but-just-enough smell of aftershave. Just enough to make every woman or right kind of man swooning with desire. They were sexy, perfect and eerie. They did their jobs with elegance and diligence, their voices speaking eloquently when operating the switchboard and never once did they roll their eyes over tiresome guests or callers. They had to be gay! What else could they be?! Troy quickly pushed the thoughts away as he followed Barnaby over to a small group of couches, obviously designed for guests to wait in. He turned his head and looked up to the director’s office, which was placed on the first floor. His office had glass walls, and it was centred perfectly between the two stairs, overlooking the reception area. Whatever happened in the lobby, would not go unnoticed. The inspectors waited for about half an hour, before they were finally shown upstairs.
Walking up the stairs always invoked an eerie feeling with Troy. The walls were filled with enlarged photographs of men. Troy had to stop for a moment. Didn’t he just see a guy just like that in the reception that resembled that person on the photo? Checking the tag on the photo, he discovered it was from 1887. No way!
“Ah, we meet again, Chief Inspector Barnaby. Detective sergeant Troy” the man nodded shortly at him with a smile. “Come to admire my photos again, are we?” David Sparrow smiled again, walking past the Chief Inspector and down to where Troy was standing. “That would be the crew which were stationed on The Black Pearl, my father’s flag ship, back in 1887. And over here, the crew of The Virgin Queen in 1892, and this is the crew and captain of The White Pearl. This photo is taken in 1901, but The White Pearl was of course built in 1798—“
“—It’s remarkable how well the ships stay in shape, I have to say. And the crew as well, might I add, for I could swear that that man there, on the photo taken in 1901 looks just the same as that one over there from 1887!”
“Oh, that would the honorable first mate Mr. Gibbs, as he was called. The sea kept him young” the chief executive laughed, “for a, uhm, very, very long time. I was told he was one of those men, who keep working right until their dying day, and then they just—, you know, they call it a day and that’s that. But do step into my office gentlemen”. David eyed the detective sergeant and blinked seductively with one eye at him.
David’s office was spacious and modern. At the far end of the room overlooking the lobby below, was an oval glass table on richly carved oak legs. Troy remembered being told the last time they paid David a visit, that the legs were in fact railings from one of the old historic sailing vessels of the Sparrow Shipping Company Ltd. back in the 1800th century. Troy did as Barnaby, and took his seat in one of the two chairs in front of the main desk.
“So”, David began, his attitude steaming of positivity, “I assume you’re here about the investigation concerning Malachi, yes? Let me just start by apologizing for the delay. It was a client of our on the phone you see, one of the sons of the Sultan of Brunei. These Arabic rich daddy’s boys seem to think I can perform miracles for them when it comes to speed boats! Believe me; it takes time and patience to explain to them, even in their own mother tongue which I do by all means speak fluently, why they can’t have their boat fixed in two hours but the very next morning. My employees do after all require their beauty sleep, right? Work regulations are work regulations, even in The United Emirates. And I had to tell them that if they thought I was spoiling my employees by doing so, that they could take their business elsewhere. The employees and their families always come first, that’s how it’s always been in the Company. And that’s that. So what can I do for you?!”
“Do you know anyone by the name of Étienne Moineau?” Barnaby asked David.
“I certainly would. He’s my cousin. Lives in France” David replied.
“Are you familiar with his works as a professor?”
“I don’t really know him or his works, no” David shook his head contemplatively.
“Are you familiar with the art of demonology, Mr. Sparrow? Ever read a demon summoning spell?”
“Not particularly no” David answered as he was presented with a copy of Étienne’s translation.
“These inscriptions were found on the walls inside Fader Brown’s house after he went missing. And based on his testimony prior to his disappearance, we have reason to believe the same writing could be found on the walls of the living room of the Windy Whistle Farm where Malachi and his friend were staying. What do you make of it, Mr. Sparrow?”
“It looks like a spell meant to bind Albert Brown. The priest, I take it?” David replied to them, looking from one policeman to the next and back again.
“We believe that whoever took Fader Brown and Malachi Sparrow, may belong to a Satanic organization.”
“Satanic? Now come on, you’re sure this is not the work of some juvenile delinquents?” David said, continuing with: “I don’t mean to insult your intelligence on any level here, inspector Barnaby, but has it crossed your mind that perhaps Malachi and his lover or whatever decided to part-take in some ridiculous so-called satanic ritual with a bunch of the local youth otherwise bored to death by living in a far out small town of what’s it name, and that they accidentally set fire to the house? They probably got scared, took what’s his name’s car and drove off and now they’re hiding some place because they fear the authorities. And that would be you. That’s that. What else?!”
“Are you and your family church goers, Mr. Sparrow?” Detective Sergeant Troy asked out of the blue.
“Of course not. We’re atheists. Religion is a sad thing and the root to all evil in this world, believe me.”
“You can’t think of anyone who might be inclined towards Satanism, then? Anyone with deep fascination regarding the occult then?”
“The pope? Oh, that’s right, he’s not a Sparrow. No, I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“And this Étienne? What about him?”
“He’s a man of science. He’s interested in history and ancient languages and goes off to expeditions here and there to find lost cities and stuff, but if he has any particular fascination with Satanism, well, I doubt it. I guess I would have heard about it.”
“And there has been no word from Malachi?”
“None”.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Sparrow” Barnaby said, getting up and out from the comfy armchair.
“No trouble at all” David replied. Just in that moment, the phone rang. “Do excuse me for not showing you out” David glanced up at the detectives as he reached for the receiver.
“Not at all. Had a good day, Mr. Sparrow” Barnaby replied.
David sat down and picked up the receiver, watching the gentlemen close the door upon leaving. He followed them with his eyes as he put the phone to his ear and said gravely: “Now I know how Peter the disciple felt when he denied Jesus thrice.
“It’s all for the best” a male voice replied.
“That’s what Jesus said too, before he was arrested by Pontius Pilate. We both know what happened to him.”
“I will not stand by a watch a son of mine be sacrificed, nor will I let the family name be muddled with the association of bloody wannabe Satanists, savvy?!”
“Calm down, Jack. Another month, right, and we’ll know what we’re dealing with, ey? We just need to lie low until then. How are you doing over there in the Caribbean?”
“I don’t like it a bit. The closer I come to home in these waters, the more eerie it gets.”
“Have faith, Dad. We’re with you, all of us” David said, closing his chocolate brown eyes. He put the receiver back on the phone without looking where it was. The desk in front of him was littered with papers and when he opened his eyes to look at them, he saw only a blur of white. How was it all going to end? A dark shadow of impending cataclysm hung above their heads, and all John advised them to do was to sit and wait?! Confronted by his father, David simply had to sound assertive. They all had to. They could not show weakness. They owed it to Jack to be strong and protect him. But from what? And how could they protect Jack when the old pirate refused to be pampered, as he so eloquently put it?