The Purge Of The Maleficence
Lorient Montaner
Centuries of concealed secrets and riddles of Christendom are enveloped in the intricate web of the Catholic Church, of which we are not fully cognisant, either in its validity or its consequences. Thus, these incessant mysteries remain insoluble, lingering within the dark and gloomy halls of the statuminated cloisters of the cathedrals. They are destined to endure in history, recording deeds that, even if inherently criminal and nefarious, are too often cloaked in silence.
It was precisely one of these intricate cases—dealing with the immemorial mysticism of such crimes—that caught my fascination as I sat at my escritoire at 23 Whitehall Place in London, deep in thought, in the year 1899. For those curious about my reputation, I shall proceed with the worthy disclosure of my public persona. I am Jack Cauvain, a resilient and analytical Chief Inspector, who has worked on and solved numerous cases of meritorious supererogation.
An urgent telegram of extreme importance from Paris, France, had reached my attention. It was sent by my esteemed French acquaintance, Hugo Bonheur, the diligent Prefect of the Prefecture of Police in Paris. I had been writing my memoirs on the infamous case of the murdered infants in Liverpool by Amelia Dyer when the Prefect’s telegram arrived. I had not returned to Liverpool since my involvement in solving the case of 'The Black Widows of Liverpool' in 1883.
When I met Bonheur, it was in front of the colourful patio near the ancient Gothic cathedral of Seville in Andalusia, Spain, where we had arranged to meet in person. His traditional French kepi hat was easy to spot from a distance. I had travelled by ferry, making the two-hour trip from Dover in southern England to Calais in northern France, then by train to Paris and Madrid, before finally reaching the city of Seville. Naturally, I had reposed a night in Madrid before departing the following morning. I understood that my urgent assistance had been requested due to a horrific series of murders attributed to an unsolved mystery known as 'The Purge of the Maleficence'.
It was April, and the weather hovered at around 17 degrees Celsius—pleasant, yet the imposing rays of the Andalusian sun permeated the air with a warmth that reminded me of Moorish tales from Washington Irving. Seville was the birthplace of my mother, Maria Belmonte, a proud Andalusian.
I had visited Seville several times, though never for a murder investigation. The people of Seville seemed amiable and talkative as they strolled through the streets, but beyond the adjacent patio, the murder scene lay hidden from my partial view. Bonheur, as usual, was revealing in his facial expressions, unable to conceal the concern in his inquisitive eyes and composure. It was natural for him to be overtly expressive with his candid manner, although at times he was conscientious. He was more practical; I, more analytical.
Bonheur explained the recent murder to me in detail. It was not until we reached the crime scene that he fully apprised me of the incontrovertible facts that had been diligently retrieved. The murder had occurred at the St Mary Cathedral of the See. The cathedral, the largest of all medieval and Gothic cathedrals in Seville, boasted Spain’s longest nave, splendidly decorated and abundantly gilded. Indeed, it was an architectural masterpiece of Western Europe.
The unfortunate victim was hanging, unmercifully, from the daunting tower known as the ancient Moorish La Giralda. This tower, attached to the cathedral, dated back to the twelfth century. Originally constructed as part of a mosque under Moorish rule, it was later incorporated into the cathedral by devout Christians.
The ghastly sight of the victim was a haunting and portentous reminder of the sheer brutality of the criminal, who had superbly orchestrated his nefandous acts in public view. I soon learned that the poor devil murdered was the French Cardinal Jean Paul Mathieu of Paris, visiting Seville on religious and private matters. I then understood the troubling expression worn by the honourable Prefect, who could not conceal his preoccupation. After all, the cardinal was a significant figure in the Catholic Church of France. I examined the murder scene with my magnifying glass after observing the hanging body of the cardinal from below.
'What are you thinking, Inspector? Have you deduced any clues?' Bonheur enquired eagerly.
'Without a doubt, Bonheur, we are dealing with a calculated murderer—callous, yes, but meticulous in execution', I replied.
'How so?'
'Look at the position of the body. The angle is facing towards the Basilica de la Macarena in the east', I said, pointing.
'I don’t see what you’re getting at. What does the basilica have to do with this?' Bonheur pressed.
'Perhaps nothing—or everything. I sense a connection between this murder and the earlier murders at the Basilica de la Macarena and the Monastery of San Isidro del Campo in Triana'.
'To what degree? Please explain'.
'The locations of the murders coincide with precise distances from one another. I suspect the monk killed at the monastery, the priest at the basilica, and now the cardinal at La Giralda’s tower are all part of a pattern. This cannot be mere coincidence'.
'And how do we prove this?'
'We must speak to the captain of the local Spanish Civil Guard immediately, and to any witnesses'.
Bonheur introduced me to Captain Salazar, whose distinctive tricorn hat was as noticeable as his steadfast determination. Being somewhat of a polyglot, I conversed in Spanish with him.
'Captain Salazar, if I may impose upon your time, could you investigate the itineraries of the monk, the priest, and the cardinal?' I asked.
'Sí, Inspector Cauvain, but may I ask why?' Salazar queried.
'To establish the pattern and timeline of these murders'.
'Of course'.
'I understand there was a witness?'
'Sí, the caretaker'.
'Where is he now? I’d like to speak with him'.
'At his home, I believe. He gave a statement already, though, saying only that the culprit was tall and slim'.
'I still don’t see the basis of your analogy, Inspector', Bonheur muttered.
'Then allow me to explain. Each victim was found in a religious, secluded place: the monk in the mausoleum of the abbey, the priest in the basilica’s cellar, and the cardinal in the cathedral’s tower. This cannot be coincidence'.
'Are you suggesting a conspiracy?'
'Until I have more facts, I cannot rule out that possibility'.
'True'.
'Now, let’s head to the Comisaría to see if any more information has been uncovered'.
We left La Giralda and went to the local Comisaría in Seville, riding in a Spanish cab—quite different from the hansom cabs of London. The horses were more agile, though the cab was less refined. The narrow cobblestone streets bustled with daily life.
Upon reaching the Comisaría in Triana, I received the information I had requested. One of Captain Salazar’s officers handed me a sheet of paper that divulged critical details. I scanned it quickly. As I had suspected, the times of death for each victim coincided precisely with the hours they were last seen in their respective sanctuaries. The monk’s throat had been slashed, the priest strangled, and the cardinal hanged.
The murderer had taken into such careful and planned consideration the fact that the victims were at their most vulnerable period of solitude and attention. There was a detail of extreme pertinence that had captivated my sudden intrigue. Apparently, their murders coincided with the beginning of the veneration of Holy Week. I had learnt that the French cardinal had met with the monk and the priest who were murdered, but I still did not know the specific reason for their meeting. Bonheur was mostly occupied with the death of the cardinal, which was the primary priority for his urgent involvement in the case.
‘It would seem that my theory of the connection between these murders has become more plausible, Bonheur’, I declared.
‘How, Inspector?’ Bonheur asked.
‘That is simple to elucidate. You see, the victims were members of the Catholic Church and had most likely organised the cardinal’s visit to Seville during Holy Week. Regrettably, we were too late to prevent these murders, but there is something that I have not yet figured out’.
‘What is that?’
‘Verily, I have not concluded the genuine motive for the murders, nor the correlative incrimination of these horrific acts to our murderer or murderers’.
‘Murderers, you say? Are you insinuating that we are confronted with more than one murderer? What do you base that on?’
‘On the sound inference of the multiple fragments of the corpus delicti discovered’.
‘You mean the essential evidence pertaining to the crime?’
‘Precisely!’
‘Then you strongly believe that we are dealing with a clever international scheme?’
‘That remains yet to be proven, but rest assured, we shall confirm that independent supposition with the irrefutable facts of the case. One other thing: we must investigate the intrinsic nature of the deceased victims’.
‘Oui!’
Captain Salazar arrived at the Comisaría and informed us that a letter had been found by one of the priests on top of the tomb of Christopher Columbus inside the Cathedral of Seville. Fortunately, the tomb of the famous navigator had not been violated, but the contents of the letter were disturbing and gave us logical intimation of the reason for these murders. It was not clear at the time who we were dealing with, as there was no absolute mention of an identified association, but there was a definite reference to the murders and a stern warning of their continuation throughout Holy Week.
The ominous message conveyed in this letter had strengthened my suspicions regarding the intentions of the murderer or murderers. I still did not overlook the possibility of more than one murderer being involved. There was another significant discovery that was perhaps a more reliable clue than the letter’s original contents. A clear impression was imprinted with blood at the lower bottom of the right side of the letter. The blood appeared to have spelled out ‘La fraternité de la sange’.
This anonymous organisation was foreign to me, and I had only vaguely heard of its existence among European secret societies. I was bemused by their possible participation in the crimes, but I perceived an unexpected gesture of perturbation in Bonheur, as his mannerisms were unmistakable. Immediately, I deferred to Bonheur’s knowledge of this particular group.
‘What is it, Bonheur, that has unsettled you so plainly? What do you know of 'La Sange?’
‘You are always so meticulous in your intuitive prowess, inspector. As for your question, yes, I know about this group, and I had feared that they would act on their threat to kill the cardinal. Letters were sent anonymously by them to the Prefecture of Police in Paris’.
‘Are you telling me that you received threatening letters from this secret society before, and said nothing?’ I interposed.
‘I seldom keep secrets from you. How was I to fathom such a tragedy and the maddening whims of vengeance would transpire?’
‘Vengeance, you say? Tell me more!’
He began to recount the inscrutable history of ‘La Sange’. The ‘Brotherhood of the Blood’ is a dark and mysterious sect that has sworn to defend and preserve the Holy Blood of Christ. They are obscure local Catholic groups of penitents, who wear white garments and scourge themselves during Holy Week.
The groups are the original descendants of the White, Black, Grey, Blue, Red, Violet, and Green Confraternities of Penitents. There are hundreds of distinct orders, and they do not go only by the cryptic name Brotherhood of the Blood, which erroneously implies that it connotes the Holy Bloodline. The various flagellant groups are not essentially related directly to one another. These orders are all in league and possess secret knowledge of what truly happened during the crucifixion of Christ. The original flagellants emerged in the 1300s and 1400s and were severely suppressed by the powers of the Inquisition’.
‘The question we must answer is: what exactly is the final objective of this organisation, and where do we locate the murderers?’
‘That I do not know, inspector. Seville will be busy with the daily processions. It will be extremely difficult to apprehend them’.
‘Difficult, but not impossible, Bonheur’.
‘What is our next step?’
‘Let us go and visit the old monastery in Triana’.
‘What for?’
‘So that we can speak to the only witness reported to have seen a stranger leave the scene of the murdered monk there’.
We departed from the Comisaría and headed towards the monastery in the quarter of Triana. There, we were greeted by the caretaker, Mr Galván, who was kind enough to let us enter. I thought it odd that Mr Galván was the caretaker for both the monastery and the cathedral, but I had not come to discuss his many duties.
The place was an ancient sanctuary for monks, solemn and pious in their reverence. Mr Galván was helpful and receptive to our enquiry, but I perceived his reluctance to answer specific questions about the murdered monk. When asked for a description of the stranger, he said he was not able to accurately describe the individual. Bonheur intuited the same thing I suspected—that he was not telling us the whole truth. There was no need for persistence, as I could not coerce him into speaking. In his verbal description, the only tangible piece of evidence was the height of this person and that he was dressed in dark colours.
This was the same description he had offered of the culprit at the cathedral. I began to speculate whether this was an unpredicted and unprecedented coincidence. For the time being, I would have to delay my doubts until further proof was established. For Bonheur, this narrative offered insufficient clues to make a thorough surmise. Perhaps it was immaterial evidence, but it was all we had at our disposal. The thought of this unusual stranger, as mentioned by the caretaker, had arrested my attention, but I remained occupied with the lingering thought of what the real objective of this organisation was.
Bonheur had also pondered this notion, and we quickly concurred on the gravity of its implications. Neither Bonheur nor I were natives of the city or knowledgeable of its main streets, and we had to defer to Captain Salazar’s assistance to solve this unfolding case, which required certain introspection.
There was not much else we could do for the rest of that day. Thus, we located a hotel in the old Jewish Quarter, where we would not be far from the streets of the city centre. No curfew had been imposed by Captain Salazar. When I pondered the reason, he simply stated that disclosing to the public the murders of the clergymen as a connected plot of a secret society would stir unnecessary controversy, disrupt the Holy Week processions, and cause enormous losses in revenue for the city. I was aware of the passionate devotion to Semana Santa, as the Spaniards call it, but I had failed to fully comprehend his practicality.
Bonheur was not easily persuaded, but there was nothing he could do, as he had no jurisdiction over the city or its citizens. His primary objective was to eventually bring back to France the dead body of the French cardinal and capture the fiendish murderer—or murderers.
Whatever objection I had was to be subdued for another day. That night we had slept little, and the streets were boisterous and teeming with the nocturnal festivities marking the sombre commencement of Holy Week in Seville. I was not much of a religious man, nor did I share the passion for Holy Week, but I would soon be marvelling at the devotion expressed by the faithful Andalusians. I thought of my beautiful mother, who had grown up with Holy Week in Seville.
I was awakened in the morning by a knock at my door; it was Bonheur, anxious to continue the investigation. He informed me that another murder had occurred: the victim was the caretaker of the Gothic Church of Santa Anna, beyond the bridge leading to the old Moorish quarter of Triana. We left the Hotel del Patio de la Alameda and headed straight for the crime scene and its vicinity, where we had been the day before. Upon our arrival, Captain Salazar related the clues of the murder inside the Gothic church.
‘Inspector Cauvain, I am glad the prefect and you are here. The caretaker, Mr Saavedra, was found lying dead near the altar. We have not been able to retrieve many clues, nor do we know the motive of the crime, except for the fact that nothing appears to have been stolen’.
‘The fact that nothing was stolen is remarkable. Why was the caretaker killed?’ Bonheur asked.
‘The intent was not thievery, but something more complex in nature that cost this poor fellow his life’, I replied.
‘What are you suggesting, Inspector Cauvain?’ Captain Salazar queried.
‘If you examine the caretaker’s body carefully, you will see that the marks on the head were caused by a solid object. This leads me to conclude that the murderer did not plan on killing the caretaker’, I asserted.
‘How can you be so confident of that?’ Captain Salazar asked.
‘It is my intuition’.
The lighting in the church was dim, but as I searched for more clues, I smelt blood on the ground that had seeped into the ancient pillars. ‘There is a heavy smell of blood!’
‘Blood, you say? Where?’ Bonheur asked.
I told the men of the Civil Guard, who were present with us, to draw back the draperies from the windows. I then pointed to faint traces of blood on the ground leading towards the altar. ‘Look at the trail of blood. You will see it leads to the altar.’
When we reached the altar, I immediately pointed to the heavy gold chalice with drops of blood running down its side. I carefully picked up the chalice and saw that there was blood inside, along with a visible indentation on the bottom right side. One of the officers of the Civil Guard spotted partial footprints extending to the patio and, ultimately, the street outside. I examined the footprints thoroughly and saw that they led to the street closest to the main thoroughfare of the city.
It was difficult to surmise any plausible conjectures about where the criminal had fled, but I contemplated the bridge and its easy access in and out of the city. Certainly, this would have enabled the killer’s escape and an undetectable presence that would not have seemed too suspicious to curious onlookers nearby. Unfortunately, this theory was based merely on circumstantial evidence.
My pensiveness triggered a notion of the consecutive sequence of the murder, but there was a peculiar and overpowering sensation that the murderer was someone the caretaker recognised or did not perceive as an immediate threat. I could not reasonably believe that this murder was premeditated. The scant evidence suggested that the killer had not expected to murder the caretaker.
Thus, I pondered that there was no clear motive for the caretaker’s death, except that it had occurred incidentally. Bonheur was aware of my introspective aptitude for solving such complicated cases, but he was lost in his own thoughts.
There were no more clues to extract from the scene, so we left the church and returned to the Comisaría in the hope of new developments. Once there, we analysed the facts and evidence. We could not afford to overlook any trivial detail or inexplicable possibility. The murder of the caretaker, unlike the others, lacked the discernible signs of a crime of passion.
The proof we had established was minimal and linked to the secret society of the Brotherhood of Blood. The elusive nature of the agile murderer’s whereabouts was a major concern for us, as we were aware of the faint traces left behind. In spite of the anomalies in these murders, I concluded there was some measure of progress that would allow us to proceed with the investigation.
At the Comisaría, we were informed of the arrival of the Vicar General of the Catholic Church in Paris. His name was Maximilien Cloutier, and he had been sent by the Pope to return the cardinal’s body to Rome and learn the status of the case.
Although Bonheur had explained to me the reason for the cardinal’s visit to Seville, I was still unsatisfied with the explanation. There had to be something more profound behind the convocation the clergymen had attended.
His presence reflected the sudden urgency in Rome to solve these murders, and I sensed in Bonheur a heavy pressure to meet the vicar general’s demand for expediency. I sympathised with Bonheur, for I had experienced similar strains before.
I spoke briefly with the vicar general after he finished his conversation with Bonheur and assured him, not for Bonheur’s sake but for Rome’s, that we would resolve the murders and catch the criminal or criminals soon. He looked me in the eye and simply said there would be no objection from the Vatican and that he had confidence in our investigation. I was taken aback by his directness, but he did interject with one request: that there be no mention to the public of ‘the notorious Brotherhood of Blood,’ or, as he called them in French, ‘La Sange’.
There was a visible expression of concern in Bonheur that transcended the usual calmness of his analytical mind. I had not seen my poor friend so visibly unsettled before. The vicar general then left the Comisaría and was escorted to a private location where he would stay during his visit to Seville.
I was told that he had been invited to remain in the city for the Holy Week festivities, and he later agreed. Naturally, for Bonheur, this added even more strain to both him and the investigation. I told Bonheur that perhaps it was best to return to the tower of La Giralda. When we arrived, a long procession was passing by the tower. We were fortunate enough to enter the cathedral through the rear door and headed up towards the top of the tower.
Bonheur was eager to know my intention in returning to the scene at La Giralda. I explained that my intuition and a lingering doubt since the death of the cardinal had driven me to seek answers.
We climbed the tower via a series of ramps once used by officials who rode their horses to the top in days gone by. We had been given special permission by cathedral officials to continue our investigation at the tower. The actual distance from the church to the tower was not as considerable as I had previously imagined.
‘What are we doing up here in the tower, Inspector?’ Bonheur asked.
‘Think, Bonheur, for a moment’.
‘About what?’
‘If my theory is accurate, the murderer not only had enough time to escape from the tower, but he was also someone the cardinal trusted’.
‘You are basing your assumption on an unfounded theory?’
‘Not exactly. Rather, on the sequence of events that night’.
‘You mean the pattern that developed?’
‘Exactly. You see, if the murderer had been a stranger or a thief, he would not have had accessible entry to the cathedral. Therefore, he would not have needed to be disguised, as we believed. Here’s the interesting part: we assumed the killer was dressed in some elaborate disguise, but he was probably wearing attire that was familiar to the cardinal’.
‘You always have a perceptive mind, inspector, and give such keen details of the murders’.
‘You can credit my noetic tendencies, but there is still much in this case to resolve, I fear’.
The methodical process of ordalium had always fascinated me, as it established the validity of facts in every investigation I conducted. From above inside the tower, we could see the impressive processions of Holy Week as the streets filled with faithful onlookers and participants. I had never witnessed such an immense demonstration of faith in all my years.
We were forced to exit the cathedral through the back door, since the procession had occupied the front. As we departed, I couldn’t help but notice the mysterious penitential robes with capirotes—tall, pointed hoods with eye-holes—worn by the church brotherhoods as they passed. The image of those robes and hoods left an indelible impression. I sensed that beneath all that religious garb, one of those concealed faces might belong to our killer.
Of course, this was extremely difficult to substantiate as a counterweight to the limited evidence we had. Bonheur was receptive to the notion and had arrived at the same conclusion. We kept our commentary to ourselves, not wanting to interrupt or make frivolous insinuations that could be interpreted as an affront to the Spaniards and their Holy Week traditions.
When we finally left the cathedral and the massive crowds of noisy processions, we returned to our rooms at the hotel to ponder our next move. Bonheur worried that with the start of the processions, we would be at a clear disadvantage and that the murderer would have the perfect cover to blend in. He was also deeply concerned for the safety of the vicar general, who would be exposed to the public as a potential target.
This did not go unnoticed by me, and I had realised that the impassable processions would exacerbate and undermine our ongoing investigation. The gradual interspersion of the throng of people had to be taken into serious consideration, which required an indicative degree of profound circumspection.
The continuous processions were hourly, and the sounds of the music of the marching bands were heard as the nazarenos walked in step along the cobblestone streets of Seville, accompanying the Paso. This was an evident matter that could not be overlooked, and there was no time to procrastinate over our options and concepts for any lengthy period.
Thus, we decided that we would concentrate our efforts on observing the processions whilst the vicar general was present among the people. Captain Salazar’s men were occupied with the processions, but reinforcements had been brought in from neighbouring villages to assist the Civil Guard of Seville.
We pondered, with our perspicacious cognition, what La Sange would do next. Bonheur was convinced that they would strike during one of the processions, but we did not yet have a valid profile of their possible victim. That concise viability of information had not developed enough to our satisfaction.
I could not dismiss the bell tower known as La Giralda of the Seville Cathedral, where the cardinal was viciously murdered. If the cardinal—a man with tremendous influence in French politics and religious affairs—was killed, then who could be the next victim of La Sange that held any significant power or posed a peril to them? There were so many disputatious themes within the Church that could easily irk the addle-pated minds of religious zealots.
This is when the pragmatism of our minds began to enhance the exploratory cause of La Sange, as we wondered about that next victim. We forsook, at that moment, the theoretical or ideological differences of the organisation. Instead, we united our rationality and judiciousness efficiently.
We attempted to base our arguments on clues that did not controvert the facts or the confutation of the established evidence. This was an imperative and correctible approach that would allow us to circumvent the secrecy of the association. As Bonheur began his reiteration of La Sange, I centralised my thoughts on the message they had elicited—the secret of the real truth about the death and resurrection of the Nazarene.
‘I am no theologian of the Catholic Church, or of Christianity for that matter, but this story of the Nazarene must mean something to these people that exceeds a simple need for revenge’, I stated.
‘What do you mean?’ Bonheur enquired.
‘According to La Sange, Jesus never died and was not crucified. Then where are his supposed remains?’
‘The Brotherhood, or La Sange, alleges that they have in their possession the mummified body of Christ in southern France. Supposedly, the Nazarene was removed from the cross whilst only appearing to be dead, thus explaining his immaculate resurrection. This controversial claim was made by a French neo-Gnostic, Louis-Sophrone Fugairon, a psychical researcher, in the year 1897, and he based it on disputable information he had read. If we believe his version of Christian history, Christ must have been married and had a child’.
‘Now, from what I have read of this account, there was a text written in the south of France in 720 that referred to the construction of a dedicated underground tomb for the historical Jesus within the same geographical area in the first century AD, as suggested by this researcher in Narbonne. This coincided with the arrival of Mary Magdalene in France’.
Bonheur intervened, ‘This is all mere speculation, inspector, and whatever we read or hear of this unfounded theory is nothing more than fanciful rumour. It does not help in solving the murders’.
‘Perhaps it can be construed as mere balderdash, but you are incorrect in your analogy. This unusual belief may have everything to do with solving the murders’.
‘How?’
‘Simple! I shall elaborate my point until you have effectively understood its purport. Empowerment is a natural inversion that can be profitable when properly utilised. In this case, I am speaking of propaganda. What is important is not the thing that we dismiss as factual or impugn as an absurd fallacy, but what can be propagated for posterity. La Sange wants us to believe that this story of the Nazarene is the main inducement for their claim and for the murders—when it is not!’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Bonheur asked, confounded.
‘They want power. Where does that power currently exist? In the Vatican with the Pope’.
‘Mon Dieu, if that is true, then the murders are only a concocted ruse implemented by La Sange!’
‘Indeed’.
As we continued our ruminative thoughts, the sound of the next procession was heard passing by our hotel. We stepped outside onto the balcony of our room and watched the procession pass. The obstreperous sounds of the band were audible, but I noticed that, in the distance, there was a strange individual on the watchtower known as La Torre del Oro. ‘Look over there, Bonheur!’ I pointed.
‘Where?’ Bonheur asked.
‘At La Torre del Oro by the river!’
Bonheur saw the mysterious man, and we both immediately left the hotel to reach the tower. When we reached the streets, we were confronted with the advancing procession and the innumerable people who filled the streets at that hour. It was impossible to bypass them through that busy street, but we were impelled to reach the tower.
I had a predetermined premonition that the individual we saw was connected to the murders. Bonheur was not certain of my intuitive hunch, but he followed my impetuous lead. When we arrived at the tower, the stranger had disappeared. The vibrant sounds of the procession made it impossible for us to communicate verbally, but as we stood atop the tower, I noticed a strange coincidence. From the tower where we stood high, I could see the tower of La Giralda.
Bonheur saw me gazing at the other tower and perceived that I was contemplating a steady observation in my mind. Indeed, he was absolutely correct in his assumption, and I conceded this affirmation to him at once. There was an intrinsic connection I sensed betwixt these two ancient towers.
The problem was that I was not totally certain of the extent of its meaningful ramification. Therefore, I thought it wiser to keep that unique irony in mind. What was more urgent was the protection around the churches and processions. We descended the tower and walked towards the street, as the procession moved away. Then, we returned to the Comisaría to see whether or not there were any tidings of the case. One of the officers of the Civil Guard handed me a note that had been sent and addressed to me. There was no name mentioned, and the contents were succinct. The only pertinence acknowledged was the address of a street where I was to meet, unaccompanied, the author of the note. I was intrigued by this new revelation in the case.
Bonheur was preoccupied with his apparent uncertainty, and after learning of the note sent to me, he was sceptical about my meeting the mysterious stranger alone. I was aware of the risk I was taking in meeting the stranger by myself, but I accepted the feasible danger. I had assured Bonheur that, with the processions under way, the stranger would not dare to kill me. After all, what was not yet defined was whether the author of the note was a witness or a suspect.
Eventually, I made my way to the street where we were to meet, in the Triana neighbourhood, and the bridge was not far away. My main concern was whether, if it was the killer who had summoned me, he would dare to attempt my murder. There was an unsettling sensation as I approached the designated street for our meeting.
Bonheur had agreed to wait at the hotel until I returned from my encounter with the mysterious individual. At first, a few people were walking in the vicinity. When the street was empty, an imposing figure emerged from behind me, dressed as one of the Nazarenes in dark, shadowy colours that were reflected in his clothing. I was quickly startled by his sable appearance, and he swiftly began to speak in a voice that sounded foreign to my ears.
‘You were expecting me, Inspector Cauvain?’ the stranger asked.
‘Who are you? Are you the murderer?’ I enquired.
‘You can call me Santillán. Who I am does not matter. What is important is that you know who the killer is’, he responded.
‘Santillán...what is his name, if this is true?’ I pressed.
‘Cloutier. You have met him’, the stranger replied sarcastically.
‘You mean the vicar general? Why would he be the killer? He was sent by the Pope!’ I persisted.
‘Inspector, that is for you to unravel. Surely, a man of intellect such as yourself knows that the duplicitous nature of the criminal mind knows no moral boundary. I shall give you one clue: Cloutier has a mark on his right arm that is the symbol of La Sange. You have seen this symbol before’, the man retorted.
The sound of the band grew louder as the procession neared. The stranger abruptly ended the revealing conversation and slipped into the procession. My instinct told me to follow, and I did, but as I attempted to keep up, the stranger disappeared into the throng of onlookers gathered for the passing procession.
The baffling words uttered by the stranger left me with an indefinite sense of unease. I returned to the hotel and apprised Bonheur of my interesting encounter. When I mentioned that the man claimed the vicar general was the actual killer, Bonheur’s expression changed dramatically. He was too incredulous to believe that the vicar general was the killer and connected to the gruesome murders.
This created an immediate dilemma for Bonheur, and he was visibly shaken by my disturbing disclosure. It was not my intention to burden him more than he already was. My priority was solving the murders and apprehending the culprit or culprits before another death occurred. The intensity of the case had grown with my brief encounter with the stranger.
The secrecy of the murders and the Brotherhood of Blood had become further entangled in the thickening plot that was evolving surreptitiously. Without a doubt, discretion was necessary, and time was of the utmost importance. Captain Salazar arrived at the hotel and knocked on our door. Bonheur and I had agreed that we would not reveal the information given by the stranger until we could verify the claim.
‘Captain Salazar, I hope you bring good tidings’, I said.
His expression was genuinely troubled. ‘I’m afraid another murder has been committed, inspector’.
‘Where?’
‘Near the embankment of the river, by the tower known as La Torre del Oro’.
‘Who was the victim?’ Bonheur interrupted.
‘The victim has not yet been identified,’ Captain Salazar admitted.
We left the hotel and went to the crime scene. There was a natural eeriness about the place. The body of a man was found lying in the reeds and mud, surrounded by swarms of flies. The naked body bore evident signs of bite marks, most probably from river rats. I was not certain that this particular murder was connected to the others.
I examined the deceased man meticulously and estimated his height to be identical to that of the stranger I had met the previous day. Was this the stranger I had spoken to? Bonheur made the same assumption, but that theory was challenged when we later learned that the man was a member of the fraternities of the processions.
The victim, Mr Romero, had belonged to the procession that passed the exact spot where I had met the stranger, in the Triana quarter. This undeniable fact was no mere coincidence. Regardless of the victim’s identity, the link between him and the stranger could not be confirmed without proper evidence.
Indisputably, we needed a more solid clue to assist us in our investigation. Before long, we would receive a lead that provided consequential details. A witness came forward at the Comisaría, attesting that he had seen the deceased man in the company of another man dressed in religious attire resembling that of a priest or clergyman of high rank.
When asked to describe the other man, the witness said he was a middle-aged man of fairly lanky build. I was curious about the witness’s name and identity. Captain Salazar informed me that his real name was Juan Carlos Santillán.
At once, I recalled the name given by the stranger I had met earlier. When Bonheur heard the name, he deduced that this Santillán chap was directly involved in the murders. It was a provisional presumption implying an incriminating piece of evidence, but it was still an indeterminate clue that required further investigation. I pondered the significance of the witness’s account, and as I mused, I suddenly remembered that another witness had reported that the stranger he saw exiting the cathedral was not lanky. I asked Captain Salazar where I could speak to this witness. He provided the address, and I went to see him.
His name was Mr Dominguez, and he was kind enough to answer my questions, but his replies were vague and inconclusive, much like the other witnesses’. Before I finished speaking to Captain Salazar, I asked if any processions were scheduled from the cathedral that day or night, and he told me the next one would be later that night. This gave me enough time to investigate something that was beginning to consume my thoughts. We left the hotel and headed once more to the cathedral, and along the way, I explained my theory to Bonheur in detail.
‘Let’s hasten to the cathedral again!’
‘What for, Inspector?’ Bonheur asked bemusedly.
‘Time is of the essence, Bonheur. I’ll explain on the way. Now, let’s go!’
‘Have you deciphered the mystery?’
‘If I’m right, then we have no time to waste!’
We hurried to the cathedral to investigate my growing suspicion. I suspected that the solution to the murders lay within. By fortunate chance, as we entered the cathedral, I stared at its structure and noticed something I had previously dismissed: the numerous doors in its façades, which I hadn’t paid much attention to before. Bonheur was gazing at the cathedral’s interior.
Then I began to look closely at the columns and recalled that there had once been a private tunnel used by the Caliph to move freely between the mosque and the Alcázar Palace, so that he could pray in the Mihrab whenever he chose.
According to Muslim tradition, the direction of prayer from Seville to Mecca was southeast. I calculated the direction as I stood in the cathedral, and it pointed to the monument of Christopher Columbus. His tomb is held aloft by four allegorical figures representing the four kingdoms of Spain during Columbus’s lifetime: Castile, Aragon, Navarre, and León. We had previously found a note from the Brotherhood of Blood there, and I began to search for any visible clue.
As I searched, I noticed that in one of the countless chapels was a secret, narrow door that appeared to be closed. When I pushed it, it opened. Apparently, someone had recently entered through this door, which led to a mysterious passage. Bonheur was as surprised as I was. We looked at each other and then cautiously entered the long passage, but not before inspecting the cathedral to make sure no one was deliberately watching us from behind. The passage was extremely dark and dreary as we advanced, until we reached its end.
At last, we came to a hidden chamber used for human torture and flagellation. The tunnel led to the entrance of the magnificent Alcázar Palace. There, in one of the chambers of the tunnel, stood three hooded and disguised men dressed as Nazarenes. I ordered them at gunpoint to remove their hoods. When they did, I saw the faces of the vicar general, Captain Salazar, and an unexpected guest: Mr Galván. It was unclear what the three of them were doing together in the tunnel whilst the processions occupied the rest of the city.
Bonheur was bewildered, holding his pistol tightly in his hand. The immediate recollection of what Santillán had said made Bonheur apprehensive in his judgement. The purpose of their gathering was either deliberate or coincidental. Had they been in full collusion with the Brotherhood of Blood, or had they been deceived into appearing at the tunnel by the brotherhood? Bonheur attempted to remain composed and attentive, but he was too impatient in his bearing and interjected.
‘What is the meaning of this? Why are you here, Vicar General?’
The Vicar General, along with the others gathered, was dumbfounded to see us. ‘Did you not summon me to come, Inspector Cauvain?’ the Vicar General replied.
‘Yes, I received a note instructing me likewise’, Captain Salazar said.
‘What do you mean?’ Bonheur queried.
‘We all received a note informing us of this urgent request from the inspector and were told to come in disguise’, Mr Galván interrupted.
‘It would seem, gentlemen, that either we have been deceived by the murderer—who is amongst us—or we are in the midst of a perilous game of duplicity, concocted solely by the murderer’, I asserted.
‘What are you implying, inspector? Who is the murderer then?’ Bonheur asked.
‘That we shall soon discover, Bonheur!’ I exclaimed.
‘How?’ Bonheur uttered.
‘Gentlemen, we are all aware of the murders in Seville. It is untrue that I requested your presence here at the palace. Mr Galván, you are the only witness to have truly seen the possible murderer. Captain Salazar, you have known every detail of the murders since the beginning. And you, Vicar General, were supposedly sent by Rome’, I said.
‘Are you insinuating that one of us is the murderer? That is preposterous, Inspector!’ the Vicar General rebuked.
‘Perhaps, but one of you is actually Santillán’, I stated.
‘Surely, this accusation is grievous’, Bonheur remarked.
‘It is not a matter of codes of ethics, nor is it based on arbitrary supposition; instead, it rests on the incontrovertible facts of the case, which will reveal the truth’, I said.
‘What truth?’ The Vicar General asked, intrigued.
‘The invariable truth, Vicar General’, I replied.
‘What reason would any of us have to commit these atrocious murders?’ Mr Galván asked.
‘The wealth of the Catholic Church and the consistory in Rome’, I told him.
‘What about the Brotherhood of Blood?’ Bonheur asked anxiously.
‘Mere subterfuge to disguise the original intent’, I answered.
It was then that I stared into the penetrating eyes of the murderer and pointed at him, nodding to Bonheur. ‘You almost fooled me, Santillán—or should I say, Mr Galván! Yes, I can finally reveal that Mr Galván is the elusive Santillán. But this is not the only revelation. The Vicar General and Captain Salazar are also members of the Brotherhood of Blood. Santillán was merely a figurehead designed to mislead our investigation, Bonheur. Their objective was to steal the riches from the treasure troves of the grand cathedral and secure the Vicar General a place on the new council of cardinals in the Vatican. The cardinal was an unfortunate victim of their scheme—simply in the wrong place at the wrong time’.
‘What about La Sange?’ Bonheur asked.
‘As I said before, it was a clever ruse, entwined with the death of the cardinal and Holy Week’, I replied.
‘How did you reach that conclusion?’
‘When we were at the cathedral, I remembered a small detail from Mr Galván’s statement to the first officer on the scene—something that was easily omitted by Captain Salazar. In Mr Galván’s report, he stated he had recognised the man he saw as tall, whereas in his initial statement to the officer, he said he was not tall. Galván forgot that the Vicar General was due to arrive sooner or later. Santillán wanted us to believe the murderer was solely the Vicar General, but this backfired. Who else would have ample access to the cathedral and the crime scenes if not the Vicar General, the captain of the Civil Guard, and the ‘innocent’ caretaker?’
I ordered the Vicar General and Mr Galván to roll up their sleeves, and both bore the distinctive symbol of the Brotherhood of Blood. As we held our pistols at the three men, I demanded their admission of guilt. ‘It is over, gentlemen. You are all under arrest for the murders of the caretaker, the monk, the priest, and the cardinal!’
‘You are astute, Inspector Cauvain, but no one will believe you. La Sange will live on, beyond our deaths!’ Mr Galván declared.
‘Perhaps you are correct, and the memory of La Sange will continue to grow. But it is highly unlikely you will live to see that day, Santillán. As for your claim that no one will believe me, I suggest you do not attempt to flee—for you will not get far’, I told them.
Their instinct was to abscond, but it was too late. Officers of the Civil Guard were already waiting to apprehend them at the cathedral and the Alcázar Palace. I presented the undeniable evidence to them. The culprits were all arrested and found guilty of their heinous crimes, driven by greed and fervent wickedness that blinded them. In the end, we solved the mystery—the case of The Purge of Maleficence.
The familiar tranquillity of the city was restored, and the daily processions of Semana Santa resumed without the shadow of imminent danger. It marked the end of a harrowing week of terror and death.
The day following the arrests was spent immersed in formalities and written statements, but an uncanny sense of incompletion nagged at us both. That evening, under a sky heavy with dusk, Bonheur and I found ourselves drawn back to the cathedral, as though some unseen thread was pulling us towards unfinished business.
The grand doors creaked open, and we stepped inside, the nave engulfing us in shadow and silence. The familiar scent of old incense and damp stone lingered, and though the cathedral was empty, it felt—somehow—inhabited by the weight of what had passed.
Bonheur’s voice was quiet, almost reverent. ‘Even now, it feels as though eyes are watching. Strange, isn’t it? The case is closed, but my mind is far from settled’.
I scanned the towering arches, my footsteps echoing in the vastness. ‘Cathedrals keep their secrets well. Sometimes...too well’.
We moved slowly through the sanctuary, past the darkened chapels, the flickering of votive candles casting shifting patterns on the walls. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the stones themselves were pressing us back. Our eyes wandered to the confessional, the choir stalls, and the grand altar, lingering on every familiar landmark of the investigation.
Suddenly, as we approached the transept, the sound shattered the stillness—a deep, resonant toll of the bells from the tower above.
Bonheur froze mid-step, his eyes wide. ‘That can’t be. It’s not the hour’.
‘No,’ I said sharply, my pulse quickening. ‘And no service is scheduled’.
We needed no words beyond that. We both turned instinctively towards the narrow spiral staircase leading to the bell tower, each hurried step accompanied by the relentless tolling above us. The climb seemed interminable, the walls closing in, the shadows flickering with each twist of the staircase. The air grew colder, thick with the metallic scent of old iron and dust.
We emerged at last into the bell chamber, breathless and tense, half-expecting to find a figure retreating into the shadows. But the room was empty—eerily so. The massive bells loomed overhead, their iron mouths now stilled, the ropes dangling with innocent laxity.
Bonheur swept his torch around the chamber, his voice taut with confusion. ‘No one. Nothing’.
And yet, the stillness did not reassure. The room felt...disturbed, as though we had interrupted something ancient and secret. My eyes roamed the space, and then they landed on it—half-shrouded in shadow near a small alcove in the corner.
A chalice.
It gleamed faintly in the dim light, its silver body etched with delicate, archaic symbols, almost imperceptible beneath centuries of wear. I stepped forth, drawn as though by an unseen force. My breath caught as I saw it clearly.
From the rim of the chalice, thick, crimson drops slid lazily down, each one falling with a quiet but unmistakable splatter on to the cold stone floor.
Blood.
Bonheur inhaled sharply, his torchlight fixed on the relic. ‘My God...is that what I think it is?’
I didn’t answer immediately, transfixed by the grotesque beauty of the scene. The blood was fresh, vivid, impossible to mistake. It dripped rhythmically, defying any logical explanation.
‘It’s a chalice of blood’, I finally said, my voice low, each word deliberate.
Bonheur stepped back instinctively, crossing himself. ‘But...but how? This place was cleared. There’s no one here’.
I crouched beside the chalice, examining it more closely but careful not to touch. The symbols etched along its rim seemed to pulse faintly in the dimness, and the dark stones set within its base seemed to drink in the feeble light.
‘This...this is no accident’, I murmured. I paused then continued, ‘It’s deliberate. A message. A sign that what we uncovered—what we thought we uncovered—was only the surface’.
Bonheur’s eyes were wide, the tension palpable. ‘You mean the Brotherhood...?’
I shook my head slowly. ‘We arrested those directly involved, yes. But this—this is different. Someone else... someone still loyal. This was left here intentionally. A secret member of the order, perhaps—someone we didn’t catch, someone who wants us to know they’re still watching’.
We stood in heavy silence, the echo of the last bell strike still vibrating faintly in the iron above us. Then, without warning, a sudden gust of wind swept through the bell chamber, extinguishing Bonheur’s torch and plunging us into near darkness. The ropes swayed violently, and for a fleeting second, the shadow of a figure seemed to dart across the far wall—gone as quickly as it appeared.
Bonheur relit his torch with shaking hands, his eyes scanning wildly. ‘Did you see that?’
I said nothing for a long moment, my eyes fixed on the chalice, now still once more.
‘I saw...enough’, I replied at last. ‘Enough to know that the case is far from over’.
We stood there a while longer, as if waiting for something else to reveal itself, but nothing came. Eventually, we descended the staircase, the echo of our footsteps seeming to trail behind like ghosts.
Outside, the city of Seville lay peaceful beneath the veil of night, Holy Week processions moving solemnly through the streets, candles flickering in the hands of the faithful. Life continued, serene on the surface.
But in the tower above, the chalice remained, its silent message etched into stone and blood—a grim testament that the shadows we fought had merely receded, not disappeared.
And as Bonheur and I stepped out into the cool night air, we both knew: some mysteries are solved, but some linger—waiting, watching, biding their time.
We stayed for the remainder of Holy Week, after which I returned to London to complete my memoirs and expound upon the methodical study of the criminal mind. As for Bonheur, he returned to his diligent duties at the Prefecture of Police in Paris.
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