The Transition of Sebastian Gloom

Sebastian Gloom
Part Eleven

At the same time that Inspector Gideon was grilling Father Anthony in his own church, Sebastian Gloom was leaving his museum in his steam wheelchair, accompanied by Benson, to see a contact that had provided useful information in the past. The young man wasn't one of the clairvoyants able to speak to the souls of the deceased. There were, so far as Gloom knew, none of these exceptional people within a hundred miles of Manchester, and as they tended to be recluses, rarely if ever venturing from their homes, consulting with them required a train journey, usually followed by a lengthy ride across rough, unmade roads, something that the investigator only did when there was an exceptionally urgent reason, such as a life at stake. There was no great urgency in the case of Father Anthony, though, and even if there had been, the church was always on the lookout for such people, deeming communication with the dead to be one of the worst possible sins. They named them witches and warlocks and arranged fatal accidents for them, while wishing for the return of what they called ‘The Good Old Days’ when they could be publicly burned at the stake. Putting a stop to this practice was the only significant victory the secular authorities had achieved against the church in the past hundred years.
With this threat hanging over them, Gloom could not have visited any of them so long as he was being watched no matter what the urgency, but there were a few lesser talents around that the church tolerated, suspecting that their dreams and visions were given to them by angels, both fallen and otherwise, for the guidance of man. Timothy Grenfell was one such man, and Gloom knew that the church already knew all about him. The worst that would happen to the young man was that agents of the church would visit him later to make him reveal what he'd said to the investigator. Since Gloom was at something of a dead end in his investigation, therefore, he thought it might be worth visiting him, to see if he could point him in the direction of some new leads.
As they left the museum, he looked across at the cafe, to see to whom the church had given the task of watching them today. Taking note of the frequency with which they changed shifts, and of the total number of people who took turns watching him, would tell him how important and dangerous they felt he was, which in turn would tell him how close to a vital, incriminating clue he was getting. It was, he thought with a smile of amusement, a bit like searching a room while someone told him that he was getting hotter, or getting colder. He was a little disturbed, therefore, to see that the table they normally used was empty. Had they decided he wasn't worth watching any more? Did that mean they no longer considered him a threat?
Then he saw a team of road workers just a little distance away. One of them was digging a hole in the road with a pickaxe, while another was smoking a pipe and looking around at the passers by with what he was trying to pretend was bored disinterest. Watching him from out of the corner of his eye, Gloom thought he looked like one of the men who had been in the cafe yesterday. He had the same splendid moustache, connecting with parts of a beard on either side of a shaved chin, and the same bulbous red nose. This was a common look among Manchester’s working classes, though, and so as the steam wheelchair drew closer he tried to make out the other features of his face. At that moment the man turned to look on his direction, and before Gloom could look away their eyes met. It was indeed the same man, Gloom saw, and when he realised that he'd been spotted and recognised the man flinched guiltily and looked away, trying to pretend that he had no interest in Gloom whatsoever. It was too late, though, and Gloom cursed under his breath. The watcher knew he'd spotted them, and would report the fact to their master. Gloom had lost a valuable handle on his enemies.
“Is everything all right, Sir?” said Benson, sensing his master's frustration.
“Fine,” the investigator replied. “Just got a cramp in my leg, that's all.” He massaged the numb, withered, useless limb that occasionally produced these ghost sensations and Benson nodded, turning his attention back to the way ahead and the crowds of pedestrians who had to keep moving aside for them.

☆☆☆

For an hour after the inspector left, Father Anthony paced and fretted around the church, his mind in turmoil. How had he learned of his involvement in the Cranston affair? He’d been lying about the eye witness. If there had been one, the inspector would have arrested him, so he had no proof, but he knew nonetheless. Somehow he knew. How?
He was certain he’d left no clues at the Cranston house that could possibly point to him. It would be easy to deduce that that two murders were connected, that Doris Kettle had been killed by someone who didn't want to be linked to the killing of the manservant, but that still left the entire population of Manchester as suspects. Why would Bailey think of him? Everyone who knew, or could deduce, that he had hired Gideon was dead. Everyone except...
Sebastian Gloom. The priest's hands clenched in fury. It had been Gloom who had recovered the Solomon Bottle from Gideon's strongbox. He didn't know that for certain, but he was certain of it nevertheless. Gloom had been seen in his ridiculous steam wheelchair in the street in which Gideon had his hideout the day before the church had detained Gideon. That couldn't be a coincidence. Could the two men have spoken? Maybe one of Gideon's henchmen, people of low intelligence and morals, he had no doubt, had said something that Gloom had heard at second or third hand. It didn’t matter how Gloom had learned of it. Learned of it he somehow had, and he had then passed the information on to the inspector.
It would mean the end of his involvement with Exercitus Dei, of course. He didn't dare take part in any more of the organisation's activities if there was a chance the police might be watching. That was the bitterest part of the whole thing. He'd taken great satisfaction in pursuing and punishing the enemies of God. The thought of spending the rest of his life doing nothing but sermons, weddings, baptisms and funerals, consoling the grieving and counselling the weak of faith... An empty, meaningless life that would be forgotten five minutes after his death. Other members of Exercitus Dei would use his name as an object lesson in how not to arrange a simple theft. Students and acolytes would laugh as the tutor recounted the long list of stupid mistakes he'd made...
“None of which were my fault!” He cried out loud. It was true, he consoled himself. It had been Gideon who had made the mistakes. It had been him who'd killed the manservant, without which the theft of the bottle would have been a simple, unremarkable burglary, forgotten before the week had been out. Well, Gideon was dead. He was in Hell now, and soon Gloom would be as well. Anthony would have to wait until the investigator had been admitted into the Resistance, of course, but then he would have great pleasure in torturing everything he knew out of him. Gloom would come to know the wrath of God.
The thought consoled him a little and he busied himself with the routine, day to day business of looking after the church. He did all his own cleaning and tidying, believing that God would be pleased to see him being modest and humble, cleansing his soul with honest manual labour. The work eased his thoughts a little more, although the thought of his imminent demotion still rankled. When be thought he'd done enough he went into a back room and opened a bible, looking for some inspiration for the Sunday service. He found himself turning to the second book of Kings, verse 2, chapters 23 to 24. It told the story of a group of children who taunted a prophet for having a bald head. God sent a bear to punish the children, killing many of them. The passage made the priest smile. That was a passage that really needed to be more widely known, and that Inspector Bailey in particular needed to read. Show disrespect for a man of God and God will punish you.
The door of the church opened and one of his agents entered, one of the man he'd sent to keep watch on Gloom. “What are you doing here?” the priest demanded.
“I just came off duty,” the man replied. “Josh and Sid took over. I thought you ought to know that he's on to us. He knows he's being watched. You want us to go on watching him?”
Father Anthony cursed under his breath. “Keep on watching him. Do him good to know just what kind of trouble he's in...” His voice broke off and his guts shrivelled up with fear as a new thought struck him. The Resistance would never admit Gloom to their ranks if they knew he was being watched by the church, and Gloom had been their best lead to that nest of sinners and blasphemers. He'd told Cardinal Bertone that they were going to leave the investigator well alone until he was well established in the Resistance, and he'd already had men watching him even as he said It! This wasn't an incompetent hireling. This was his own screw up! Rome would blame him, and they had ways of making their displeasure known. He’d be transferred to some backwater on the other side of the world to preach the word of God to a village of naked tribesmen in the jungle. If he was lucky. “How did he spot you?” he snapped furiously.
“I don't know, he just did! He's an investigator, he spots things!”
“All you had to do was sit there and watch him! How incompetent do you have to be...”
“And follow him. You said we had to follow him.”
“Get out! Get out of my sight!”
The man fled, leaving the priest shaken to his core for the second time that day. Of course he spotted them, he thought. He's an investigator, and I knew that! How could I have been so stupid? Now what do I do? In his panic his mind conjured up awful possibilities. Stories were told in the priesthood of dreadful things happening to priests who screwed up in some spectacular fashion. Sometimes they just disappeared. The official story was that they'd fled to some far off corner of the earth to escape retribution (although no-one can escape the justice of God!), but some people whispered that the church had them quietly killed to stop them taking revenge by revealing Exercitus secrets.
He paced back and forth like a caged tiger, his mind in a turmoil of terrified anxiety. Through it all, his hatred of Sebastian Gloom burned like the fires of Hell, and along with it came the realisation that, if Gloom was no longer joining the Resistance, there was no further reason to leave him alone. If Anthony was finished in England, if he was faced with exile or worse, then he would take care of Gloom first. He still had Clerical License, until Rome stripped it from him. If he acted before Bertone found out what had happened, he could send Gloom to the Hell he had so richly deserved and his soul would remain spotless in the sight of God. It was practically his duty!
His mind made up, he was feeling much better as he marched out of the church and called a cab.

☆☆☆

Sebastian Gloom and Benson returned to the museum later that day frowning with disappointment. Timothy Grenfell had not been able to help them, despite trying various herbal medicines and sitting in meditation for over an hour, and in the end the investigator had thanked him, paid him for his time and started home.
“Such is the life of a private investigator,” he said to his manservant philosophically as they drove along the street, the last remaining petals of cherry blossom blowing around their heads. The trees were almost bare now, it would be a couple more weeks before their buds broke and they began producing leaves. Gloom wondered how many more cherry blossom springs he would see before the various illnesses and weaknesses that afflicted his body finally carried him off. The positive side, he told himself, was that it made him appreciate all of life's pleasures all the more. People with healthy bodies took so much for granted that it was as though they went through their lives asleep. He, on the other hand, was wide awake and appreciating every moment that he had left.
“So what now?” asked Benson, walking beside him.
“I have no idea. I have no leads left to investigate, we are at a dead end. I'll think about it a little more, but we may have no choice but to leave the affair in the hands of Inspector Bailey and hope that he has more luck. As a member of the police force, he has avenues of enquiry that are not open to us.”
“And if he fails?”
“Then we will have to consider our options. I would hate for Father Anthony to go unpunished for the murder of Doris Kettle. I never knew the girl, but it seems perverse to me that we only feel sympathy and compassion for those we know personally.”
“If you need me to perform some act of chastisement on your behalf, then I would be happy to do so. I did know the girl, even if only briefly, and she seemed like a good young woman who didn't deserve what happened to her. She deserves justice, and I'll be happy to deliver it.”
“Thank you, Benson, but hopefully such drastic action won't be necessary. I have faith in the good inspector. I think he'll come good for us.”
Arriving at the Museum, they were met by Albert, the housekeeper. “Your pardon, Sir,” he said as Benson helped Gloom into the indoor wheelchair, “but you have a visitor. A man of the church, I believe. He seemed to be in a state of some agitation, if I may say so. I've shown him to the waiting room.”
Gloom shared a look with Benson. “Thank you, Albert,” he said. “If you would ask him to be patient for a couple of minutes longer, I’ll see him in my office as soon as I’ve gotten myself settled in.” The housekeeper nodded and went off to convey the message.
Father Anthony didn’t begrudge Gloom an extra fifteen minutes of life and so waited patiently until Albert returned to show him into the investigator’s presence. “Thank you, Benson,” said Gloom as the priest entered the room. “You can go now.”
“Are you sure, Sir?” asked the manservant doubtfully. Father Anthony was a trained killer and had reason to hate Sebastian Gloom. The investigator had ways of defending himself, it was true, but leaving his frail, disabled master alone with his enemy still seemed like the sheerest madness.
“Quite sure, Benson. I'll be fine.”
Benson gave the priest a look that promised death if any harm should befall his master and friend, and the priest met his gaze steadily. Then the manservant left, closing the door with a click that reminded Gloom of the sound of a coffin lid closing.
The two men examined each other for a few moments before Sebastian Gloom spoke. “I'm guessing that the reason you're here is that you've received a visit from a certain inspector of the Manchester police force.”
Father Anthony ignored the statement. “You've interfered with church business, Gloom. You have taken the side of Satan in the war between good and evil.”
“And for that you've come to kill me. That’s why I sent my manservant away. He's been trained as a soldier, it's true, but you're an assassin, a killer. He wouldn't stand a chance against you. I sent him away to protect him. Tell me first, though. If you intend to murder a cripple in cold blood, how does that make you the good guy?”
“Nothing done in the name of God is evil.”
“Not even the murder of an innocent young woman? What did Doris Kettle do that she deserved to die for? You killed her to stop her from incriminating you, and you claim to be the good guy.”
“I didn't come here to debate morality with you...”
“Just as well, because you'd lose. What does your God know about morality?”
“He saves people from Hell! If not for Him, everyone would burn! He created paradise, a place of unending bliss where those who have proven their worthiness can dwell for ever! Only the most perverse individuals would fail to drop to their knees and thank him for this incredible gift!”
“Listen to yourself! We have to prove our worthiness in order to be saved? Why? If you saw a man drowning in a lake, would you demand that he prove his worthiness before you saved him? Of course not! You'd just save him, or at least most decent people would. Why doesn’t God just save everyone?”
“Some people don’t deserve to be saved! But even the most undeserving can still be saved. All they have to do is confess their sins and beg forgiveness. Even such a wretched soul as you can enter paradise if you confess your sins.”
“I don't believe in the concept of sin.”
Father Anthony stared in astonishment. “You what? Murder, rape...”
“Those are crimes. I have no problem with the idea of crime. Do you know the difference between a crime and a sin, Father?”
“A crime is to break the laws of man. To sin is to break the laws of God.”
“Oh no, it goes a lot deeper than that. A crime is an act that a group of people have decided must be forbidden for the good of society as a whole, and the important point is that the law applies to everyone. Everyone, including...” He sat forward in his wheelchair to emphasise the point. “Including the people who made the law. No-one is above the law, not even the King himself!”
“God is above even the mightiest king...”
“God makes laws, but they don't apply to Him. He can do what he likes. He can kill whoever he wants...”
“Because He is God! That gives him the right!”
Gloom stared at him. “You really believe that, don't you? Read the bible, God's hands are dripping with blood! The most profligate mass killer in history!”
“God loves us! All of us! Even a crawling worm like you, Gloom!”
“But he tortures everyone who won't worship him! If you found out that a member of your congregation was torturing people, would you say that he loved them?”
“The wicked must be punished! Even you must see that!”
“The wicked? I heard a story recently about a man who devoted his whole life to caring for the sick and injured. He's in Hell now for the sin of not being Christian. Why? What did he do that was so wicked?”
“Everyone in the world today has heard the word of God. Everyone knows what they have to do to be saved, the incredible generosity of God that allows even the greatest sinner to enter paradise if they accept God's offer to worship him. If a man throws that offer back in God’s face they know what to expect. They can't act all surprised when they suffer the consequences.”
“Worship me or else. Is that right?”
“Worship Him and be saved.”
“Saved from what He'll do to you if you don't worship Him.”
“God doesn't want people to go to Hell, but He can't save those who reject His offer to worship Him!”
“He can't? I thought He was supposed to be all powerful! How can there be something He can't do?” Gloom found that he was actually enjoying the debate, even though he knew it would almost certainly end with his death. He carefully moved his finger to the trigger of the tiny spring powered poison dart concealed in the arm of his wheelchair and moved it on its oiled hinge so that it was pointing at the priest.
“That’s just the way it is!”
“If He’s all powerful, it can be any way He wants it to be.”
“It is not for us to question the wisdom of God! If it seems unjust to us, we must just accept that there is a reason that we are unable to perceive.”
If it seems unjust to us... Gloom felt a glimmer of hope that the priest might be wavering a little. Maybe the good man that had been his friend for so many years could still be reached. “So God loves us and doesn’t want to punish us but we leave him no choice?” he asked.
“Exactly!”
“You know what that reminds me of? An abusive husband who beats his wife. He claims to love her, but then she doesn't have his dinner on the table on time and he beats her black and blue for it while saying ‘Now look what you made me do!’ The relationship between God and man is an abusive one.”
“Every blasphemy you utter condemns you more, Gloom!”
Gloom laughed. “I'm already condemned to an eternity of suffering. What more can He do to me? That's the problem with promising infinite punishment. It leaves you with nowhere else to go!”
“Then go!” roared the priest, rushing forward. Gloom's finger tightened on the trigger and the tiny dart flew, penetrating the fabric of Father Anthony's trousers and piercing the skin of his thigh. The poison acted fast but not nearly fast enough and the priest's hand shot out towards the investigators neck, snapping it before Gloom had time to flinch.
The door burst open and Benson, who'd been waiting outside listening anxiously, came rushing in, but Gloom was already dead. He stared at the priest, who was wobbling on his feet as the strength left his limbs. Father Anthony stared down at his leg and reached with a trembling hand for the tiny dart sticking out of his skin.
“Your master has killed me,” he said as Benson stared in horror at the scene before him. “I go joyously to judgement, and Sebastian Gloom goes to Hell.” He stared at the limp form in the wheelchair. “Too late to repent now, my friend. The book of your life is closed.”
“You b*****d!” cried Benson, rushing forward, but the priest was sinking to his knees, his face and hands growing red and feverish. There was nothing else for him to do but stand there and watch as his breath grew harsh and laboured, and then stopped.



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