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Mary’s, Penn, was full to bursting for the funeral of the tragic Debbie Singleton . Flowers decked the coffin and covered the church exterior, all bearing sweet, poetic messages of condolence . The girl had been popular and the crime had shocked the village . The tears shed could have created a small river, such was the emotion engendered by the words of the parish priest, Father McGiven . Men, women and children wept as one.
       The priest spoke words of compassion and forgiveness for the killer as well as extolling the virtues of the dead child . It was God’s responsibility alone to punish the sinner, which, at the day of reckoning, he would do . Any anger felt by the community must be curtailed . And there was anger – much of it . Prayer was the answer now.
       On reaching the end of the deeply sad internment, the crowds dispersed to their homes, heavy at heart . The parents, however, remained at the graveside, unwilling to leave their beloved daughter . Thomas Singleton had arrived the day before from his home in Brentford, Essex, and booked into the local public house for the night . He had had the good grace to come alone, leaving Gwyneth, the former best friend of Elizabeth, at home with their year-old child.
       Father McGiven allowed a good ten minutes before walking to the bereaved couple and placing an arm around each in a gesture of comfort . “Come Mr. And Mrs. Singleton . It’s time to leave Debbie to God now,” he said softly, guiding them away from the open grave . “I know you will not feel like visitors just at this time but I would like you to receive a priest. A Jesuit . He is a much travelled and experienced man and he feels he can help you through this tragedy . I must say, he emits an astounding, what shall I say? Karma . He is a most holy man, as you will find if you meet him.”
       The couple walked along in a semi-numbed state, only half listening to the priest . However, Mrs. Singleton agreed to allow the Jesuit into her home and an appointment was made for three that afternoon . Thomas was to travel back to Brentford immediately following the funeral.
     
    Brother Saviour guided his motor home along the macadam road, and parked it outside the address he had been given by the parish priest, number 11, Griston Avenue, a cul-de-sac of pleasant houses, built in the seventeenth century and now faced with modern brick , the old having showns signs of distress .
       Leaving the vehicle, he ambled up the path to the house, admiring the profusion of pretty flowers covering the small garden area at each side and taking in the wonderful mixture of scents.
       He knocked firmly on the door, choosing to ignore the doorbell situated at head height in the centre . On the second knock, he heard sounds of approaching footsteps from within the house . The door opened to reveal a healthy looking young woman, around thirty-four years of age, plain featured, with small, b lue eyes set in dark circles . The face, at this time, was unusually lined, undoubtedly due to the strain of the recent weeks . The woman’s hair was of a light brown shade and was brushed neatly back from her forehead and down to her shoulders . She wore make-up, now fading since its application for the morning funeral.
       “Hello?” she said, not recognising her visitor and cocking an eyebrow in a questioning way . “What do you want?”
       “I’m Brother Ignatious Saviour, Mrs. Singleton,” he said . “You agreed to see me, I believe.”  Ignatious smiled disarmingly and he saw the woman melt to his charm . He was fully aware of the effect he had on men and women . They looked on him in awe; saw him as something of a God – and he enjoyed the misplaced adulation .
       “Oh, yes, Father, - er- Brother . Please come in.”  She had not expected to see a priest, especially a Jesuit, to be dressed in modern clothing . She sought no identification; no stranger would know of the arrangement and, besides, this man