The Bishop’s Nightmare
written by: Rex Fausett
“Bishop Francis? Are you there, Bishop? Hello, Bishop, can you hear me, Sir?”
“Who is this?” It was four in the morning, and the Bishop was struggling to surface. “Do you know what time it is? Who is this? Identify yourself!” The Bishop was shouting.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Bishop. This is Brace, at the mortuary. I think you need to come down here right away, Sir. There is something you need to see.”
“Damn it, Brace, what is it? Tell me now. I’m awake for Heaven’s sake. Tell me what it is.”
“I’m sorry, Sir, I don’t feel comfortable speaking on the telephone. I would like you to come down to the mortuary at once. I assure you it is a very important matter, and I do not make the request lightly. It is also best that you come here when there are few people about. You will understand when you see what I have to show you.”
The Bishop, now wide awake, recognised the insistent tone and pictured Brace, short and spare with a large moustache set on the bald head that perched like a cantaloupe on the thin neck swimming in his collar. Brace was the official undertaker to the Catholic Church, and the Bishop couldn’t imagine what the man wanted. Who had died lately? Could it be something to do with Father Joseph, found dead yesterday? Was there someone else? He couldn’t think of anyone else. He shook his head to clear it. Brace had always been reliable and there was a genuine sense of urgency in his voice, but the urge to go back to sleep was strong.
“Sir, are you still there? Please, Bishop Francis, you must come here at once.”
“Very well, Brace. I’ll come down. I’m sure you understand that getting up at four in the morning is a sacrifice I would make for few people. I’ll be there in about half an hour.”
“Thank you, Sir. The rear door on the alley will be unlocked, and the light will be on for you.”
The Bishop climbed out of bed, called his driver, and pulled on enough clothes to keep warm in the early autumn chill. He detoured through the living room on his way to the front door to take a revivifying glass of sherry from the decanter on the sideboard, and by the time he reached his front door, Parker had the car waiting. The new Ford was the Bishop’s pride, but it needed heating. Next time, he thought, I want something with heating. The Bishop gave Parker instructions and slumped down in the back seat. He pulled the rug kept there up over his knees and rubbed his eyes. Surely the time was near when he could stop being called in the middle of the night?
Parker threaded his way through the streets, watching for drunken louts asleep on the roadway. It seemed this was a quiet night and, apart from one intoxicated idiot shouting at the car, the trip was uneventful. Eventually, the car nosed into the alley that led around to the back of the mortuary and pulled to a stop. The Bishop got out, carefully picking his way around the scattered horse droppings.
The team of four black horses and the glass and ebony hearse they pulled were the pride of Brace’s death emporium, and no funeral was a triumph unless the team solemnly took you to your final resting place, the black plumes on their heads tossing in the air and their hooves silent in their felt shoes.
Moths flung themselves at the solitary bulb over the rear entrance that reflected on the damp surface underfoot. Bishop Francis found the back door unlocked as promised and entered, then walked across a barely lit open area to the foot of the staircase where Brace stood, nervously wringing his hands.
“Thank you for coming, Bishop. I’m sorry to call you out at this hour. Please come downstairs.” Brace led the way down another wide stairway and through the door straight ahead into the main workroom where Brace plied his trade, the place where he embalmed and dressed the corpses, tried to make them less deceased so that family and friends would not be quite so appalled by the presence of death.
“This way, Sir.” Brace led the Bishop through a door on the far side of the room. It was a smallish room with only enough space for a work table and two smaller tables that were covered in bottles, jars, and tools of Brace’s trade. There was a sheet-covered body lying on the table. The face wasn’t covered, and Father Joseph lay as if asleep yet involved in some vastly serious dream. Brace waited until the Bishop was fully in the room, then closed the door and locked it.
“This is what I wanted you to see, Sir. This is, as you see, Father Joseph. I was shocked and distressed when I removed his clothing to prepare him for embalming. I apologise for the nakedness you are about to see.”
Deftly, he stripped the sheet away and watched to see how the Bishop reacted. The Bishop was still looking at the face of Father Joseph, whom he had known for fifteen years and rather liked for his wit and inspired sermons, not to mention a good wine cellar and a groaning table when indulgence was warranted. But what was this? What were these? Breasts? An empty space where there should have been a penis? What had happened to Joseph? His first thought was that someone had removed his member while he lay in the mortuary.
“I thought it imperative you know about this, Father,” said Brace.
“Bishop.”
“I’m sorry, Father, I mean, Bishop. I was rather taken aback myself, expecting to find a man under the cassock. It seems Father Joseph was a woman. I presumed you would want to know.”
“Thank you, Brace. Yes, you did the right thing.” He paused. “Let me think; now. Father Joseph was not a man. Father Joseph was this woman, and she has been impersonating a priest for some twenty-five years. I have eaten with her often, I have had theological arguments with her and felt I’d been bested, and I have even slept under her roof. She has been taking confession, absolving people from sin, saying mass, giving unction. Dear Lord, she’s been marrying people. What in Heaven’s name are we to do?” The Bishop felt faint. Surely this was impossible, despite the evidence before his eyes.
He leaned back against the wall. The more he thought about the implications of this impostor priest, the less he wanted to think about them. He felt he was becoming unhinged. Father Joseph was to be buried in less than forty-eight hours, but he had to settle this matter before the sun set this day.
“Here are my instructions, Brace, dress her as if she were Father Joseph, because for now she is Father Joseph. Not a word to anyone, Brace. I rely on your discretion, and I assure you it will be well rewarded. I will call you later today and give you further instructions.” He looked again at the body in front of him. The breasts were small but indubitably breasts, and the fine down on her pubic mound reminded him of something he hadn’t thought about for many years.
“How old would you say she was, Brace?”
“Hard to say, Sir. I suppose fifty? Perhaps fifty-five?”
“Cover her up, Brace,” said the Bishop, and left the room. His climb up the staircase was slow and heavy, and outside, even in the dim light, Parker could see the Bishop was quite pale.
Bishop Francis arrived home in a state of agitation, woke his housekeeper, and asked her to draw a bath. The bath had always been his favourite thinking place, and above all things, he needed to think. His first thought was to call Archbishop Connell, but the Archbishop was given to precipitous action without proper consideration, and this was a time, if ever there was one, for judicious consideration.
It was a dilemma he might have to ask God about. The Bishop hadn’t talked to God on a one-to-one basis for some time. His faith had not diminished exactly, but he found himself becoming more pragmatic as he got older and needed advice less often. He decided a prayer for guidance prior to his bath was appropriate and so he shut his eyes and begged for a sign, or at least a hint of some sort. As no sign was forthcoming, he went to the bathroom. He took off his clothes, which he felt sure were tainted by the smell of Mr. Brace’s establishment, then manoeuvred his bulk into the tub. Immediately, he wished he’d brought something alcoholic with him to enhance his thought processes, even though it was only half past six in the morning.
He had already decided he had two choices; to say nothing or tell everything. He had only to see Brace with a suitable reward for his co-operation, and that was the end of it.
But his conscience was troubled. There were people not properly married, buried, confessed, or blessed by this impostor, who had even deceived the Bishop. Children were effectively unbaptised, and some parishioners would have twenty-five years of sins confessed but not correctly forgiven. He was astonished that Joseph had maintained this masquerade for so many years. Would it reflect badly on the Church, or indeed, himself, if the facts were disclosed? Of course it would. How could it not? Among other things, it would be known that the Bishop had stayed overnight with Joseph on a number of occasions, mainly when the Bishop had overindulged. Surely the Church and its flock would not try to see anything in that?
The Bishop was tending to the option of silence by the time he rose from his bath, wrinkled and cold. He had made a decision, however, and intended to visit Father Joseph’s residence first, hoping there would be something there to help his decision.
At eleven thirty the Bishop knocked on the door of the Parish house Father Joseph had shared with his housekeeper, the frankly terrifying Charlotte O’Hagan, an elderly widow who had a deeply cynical view of the Catholic Church, and particularly priests, brought about by watching them pass out cold in armchairs and bathrooms, wailing about their inadequacies and fears of losing their calling. Mrs O’Hagan was a dour woman. More than once, Father Joseph had opined that Mr O’Hagan had died simply to escape her, an uncharitable view for sure, but one never argued with.
Mrs O’Hagan answered the Bishop’s knock with a glare that the Bishop felt was unwarranted. Her reddened face was her trademark, and some had asked, well out of her earshot, if she boiled it deliberately. The Bishop had telephoned her to say he was coming over to examine Father Joseph’s effects to see if he had left a will or any instructions for his passing. Mrs O’Hagan had been having her first weekend off in a year, visiting her ailing sister in the suburbs, when the good Father passed on so unexpectedly. She blamed herself for not being at home at the time and was inclined to take out her guilt on visitors. The Bishop had always thought of Charlotte O’Hagan mainly as an irritant, but the present problem was far larger than a housekeeper, and he swept past her with a grunted greeting.
The Bishop inspected the Father’s study and commenced a thorough and methodical search of the shelves, drawers, and cupboards. He was finally rewarded with an envelope tucked at the back of the bottom right-hand drawer of the roll-top desk he had always coveted, and he almost missed it because it was under several hymnbooks and appeared to have been deliberately concealed from a casual search. The envelope was marked ‘Bishop Francis – Confidential.’ The writing was faded, appearing to have been inscribed some time ago. The Bishop picked up the paper knife lying on the desk and carefully cut the envelope open. He took out the pages, twelve or more, and saw that the salutation on the first page was ‘To Bishop Francis or his successor.’ The next words were ‘Forgive me, Your Grace, for I have sinned.’
The Bishop went to the door and called for Mrs O’Hagan to bring him some tea, then sat down in the leather armchair. By the time he finished the letter, his discomfort would be a living, tangible thing. It said:
Forgive me, Your Grace, for I have sinned. I assume by now you have discovered that I am neither male nor a priest and have come looking for an explanation. That explanation is in your hands, and although it is my final confession, I feel it will give you little comfort and will certainly give me none. I am saddened that I have been to confession so many times in my life, while confessing very little other than the most puerile of sins. I wish I could have made a full confession to perhaps feel the peace that a full and frank confession brings. It was a truly sad thing that I could ease the consciences of my flock; see them lift themselves up as if weights were lifted from their shoulders, their burdens shed, with an honest admission of guilt, real or imagined. I could not confess because I would have had to abandon this life I cherished so much and move far away.
I have a large respect for you, Bishop, and I regard you as a friend, a man of wit and culture who has a real grasp on the difference between our world and the world our flock lives in. I am pleased to have been able to help some lives become more pleasant and relieve the interminable drudgery of some.
My name is Rose Carroll. I was born in 1879 in Boston. I grew up in the priest’s house in the South of the city, where my mother was the housekeeper. In 1902, my mother died, and I replaced her as housekeeper, and in 1908, Father Joseph came to the parish.
Father Joseph was a beautiful man, and I fell in love with him. The Father was kind to me, but always acted in a manner appropriate to his calling and never suggested to me by word or deed that he was attracted to me or that he saw me as anything other than his housekeeper. God knows I waited and watched, ached for a sign. I was besotted with him, and I refused the company of men who would have married me in a moment had I said a word.
I have been a devout Catholic since I was a small child. I knew every ritual off by heart by the time I was ten, the words, the chants, and the gestures. I went to every service, and of course, I attended weddings, funerals, and christenings. I knew all the Saints, and I could recite the Church hierarchy from His Holiness down. I loved the Church and everything to do with it. Quite simply, it was my entire life.
I was content with that life, except that I could not have Father Joseph. I knew in my heart it was wrong to think he might reciprocate my feelings, but I never ceased to hope. I might have gone on hoping and housekeeping until I died, but then Father Joseph was asked to go to this Parish that has been my own these many years past. I was distraught at the very idea that he would consider moving away and abandoning me, and I became ill with the fear of it. I begged the Father to take me with him, but he told me he was unable to because there was a housekeeper installed already and his replacement would, in any case, need my housekeeping services.. I had no intention of keeping house for anyone else, and I became more distressed as the time for Father Joseph to leave loomed closer.
On the day of his departure, I was quite desperate, and I decided that if I could not go with him, I would take the vows. On my knees before him, I made one last impassioned plea, and I was foolish enough to disclose my true feelings for him. He became angry with me, and I was unable to stand his anger, his blazing eyes piercing me with their contempt and disappointment. As he turned his back on me and walked away, I struck him with the axe that stood behind the door, waiting to be used for the firewood. Father Joseph fell to the ground with that first blow, and I believe he died from it, but that did not stop me from striking him about the head several more times.
I buried him in the garden. He lies there still and, just beyond his grave and further from the house, lies Elsie Bright, who had the misfortune to come in as I was cleaning the axe while the Father still lay on the floor. Mrs Bright was a widow who did some of the housework and saw what had happened. I had to clean the axe twice that day.
I was in no state of mind to decide what should happen next, but in my distraught wanderings, I went into the Father’s room to find his last suitcase packed but still open, together with a large trunk waiting for the men to collect and take them and him to the railway station. It was then that I started to realise what I had done, and I saw myself in the wardrobe mirror, blood-spattered and filthy from digging two graves. I broke down and started to wail, and for a time, I lost all my senses. When they returned, I saw myself in the mirror, dressed in the robes of Father Joseph and looking every inch a priest. My hair lay on the ground at my feet. (As will have occurred to you, I have always been plain in look, and if I had looked more feminine, my deception would never have succeeded.) By coincidence, the porters arrived at that moment to carry Father Joseph and his bags away, and I hesitated only for a second before I said, Yes, I am Father Joseph, and I am ready to leave. I closed the suitcase after quickly scooping my hair inside it.
The porters took me to the late afternoon train, and I was delivered without further ado to this parish nearly two days later. I say without further ado, but there was one incident. At the halfway point of my journey, I had the misfortune to come face to face with Robert MacIntosh, one of Father Joseph’s flock, and he looked at me hard, trying to remember who I was, feeling sure he had met me somewhere before. He introduced himself and explained that he was on his way to visit his brother, whose wife had recently delivered his first son. I wished him well on his journey and resumed my seat, but he stared at me for many miles. A few hours later, as he still stared at me, I saw the look of recognition as it came over him, and I rose and beckoned him to join me on the platform at the back of the last carriage.
As you would imagine, he was agitated to find the woman he knew as Father Joseph’s housekeeper on the train dressed as a priest, and he became so overwrought he could barely speak. His arms waved all about, and he took on the colour of a beet. I pushed him off the train, and I saw his head strike the groun,d and I was sure his neck was broken. I would have preferred to ensure his silence before pushing him, but I had no means of doing so.
When I reached my destination, I assumed priestly duties as if I had always been a priest, and I was exemplary in my devotion to the church and my flock. Bishop Flanagan, your predecessor, was well pleased with my performance, and we got along very well. Eventually, two policemen arrived to make enquiries about Rose Carroll and also about Mrs. Bright. Their disappearance had caused a stir, and of course, I was unable to help the gentlemen with their enquiries, having seen both women alive on the day I departed.
Unfortunately, there were times when my secret was at risk, and I was obliged to protect myself. It would alleviate the pain of relatives and friends if you could inform the Police about the people on the list that follows and include Mrs. Bright. No doubt they have them filed under ‘Missing’ or ‘Murdered by Person or Persons Unknown.’ Each was dispatched before they could discover, let alone share, my secret with others. I was indeed fortunate that I was healthy almost my entire life and had little call to visit a physician.
The names of my victims are as follows: –
Joan MacPherson – killed 1st of December 1905. Mrs MacPherson entered my rooms by mistake during a conference in Atlanta, where I was staying at the Royal George Hotel. Her body was left in an alley at the back of the building, and she was presumed to have been attacked for her purse.
Brian Oldham – killed 18th December 1906. Brian was attracted to men and had heard rumours that priests were the same. He entered my bedroom while in a drunken state, and I awoke to find him in my bed and puzzled over my lack of a male member. He was left at the back of a hotel and was assumed to have been killed by someone who took offence at his approaches.
Jenny Briggs – killed 5th March 1907. Jenny was as I was when I was the housekeeper for Father Joseph. She was a young widow and a member of my flock who became besotted with me and entered my house and spied on me one day as I bathed. She was taken in a state of shock to the banks of the river, where she proved unable to swim with a head wound.
Ethan Davidson – killed 18th March 1908. Mr. Davidson was persistent in thinking that I was not a man. In this respect, he was one of very few who discerned my true gender. Insisting I would prove him wrong, I arranged to meet him at a shabby hotel in the centre of the city. I had arranged for the proprietor, a Mrs Bell, to have the day off, and I dressed as a woman for the last time and for the first time in many years. I met Davidson and dispatched him with the small hatchet I carried for the purpose. The Police have a good description of the woman suspected of the murder, but she ceased to exist half an hour after the event.
John Brewster – also killed on 18th March 1908. The cab driver who took me from the hotel to my house and who would certainly have remembered the blood spattering my dress. I invited him in while I found his fare. He is in the backyard buried immediately in front of the elm tree.
David Johns – killed 20th February 1912. Mr. Johns was caught in my rooms in the act of rifling through my possessions. He had found the blood-stained woman’s clothes I wore when I dispatched Mr. Brewster and Mr. Davidson, despite the dress being securely locked in a trunk that only an expert locksmith could have opened. Unfortunately, I had not had time to dispose of this evidence immediately after the men were dispatched because Mrs Bell returned home a little early. It was one of the few mistakes I made that could have seen my charade ended. The eleven months between the deaths of Mr Brewster and Mr Johns were the longest period of abstinence from killing since I came to this Parish. Killing Mr Johns revived in me a blood lust I was not aware I had.
Martin Morrison – killed 5th April 1912. Mr. Morrison was a shopkeeper who came to confess his sins and ……’
The Bishop stopped reading and examined the pages that followed and saw that the list was long and contained many names, added over the years in different shades of ink. The last entry read;
Donald Travis – killed 13th of August 1928, for pleasure. An obnoxious and tiresome man who offended my sensibilities.
Under that entry, the rest of the page was blank, presumably left that way to record future victims. Then there was another page attached which read;
I have killed many to protect my identity, but once I was no longer in danger or likely to be found out and, particularly after the episode with Mr. Johns, I was unable to break the habit. I found a pleasure in killing that I neither understood nor wished to cease. I have given much thought to it on many occasions, but never reached a conclusion. To describe killing people as a habit, as one would describe drinking or smoking, seems extreme even to me, but nonetheless, that is close to the truth.
On the other hand, my parishioners are a God-fearing group of devout Catholics who are a credit to the Lord, and I believe that, apart from the killings, I was a good Priest. I ask that this fact be taken into account when you judge me.
May God guide you, Bishop. You will make the correct decision about the disposal of the information in your hand, because you are a good man and could ever be relied on.
With great respect, Rose Carroll.
A postscript had been added:
You may wonder how I feel about God in all of this. I am torn between the opposite views of doubting the existence of a God who would allow me to do these deeds and being terrified that he exists and will cast me into Hell.
The Bishop rose slowly and heavily and put the letter back in the envelope, and then into his pocket. He ignored Mrs O’Hagan’s inquiries as if she was not present and left the house, his tea untouched. He wandered for a time along the sidewalk while Parker kept pace with him, then he paused and climbed into the car, telling Parker to take him home.
He searched his conscience deeply and decided at last to give the letter to the Police as Father Joseph had asked. He would write to the Archbishop, who would undoubtedly insist that the whole affair be covered up, but the letter would not reach him for at least two days, by which time the Police would have the matter well in hand. The Archbishop would be angry with the Bishop, but the Bishop would at least be able to sleep.
Finis
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