As a cage is full of birds, so are their houses full of deceit: therefore they are become great, and waxen rich. -- Jeremiah 5:27, KJV

A village in Italy
7 October, 19—

An observant person would have been suspicious at once when they saw the cab driver. In the first place his uniform didn't fit; the sleeves were a full inch too long and the jacket hung loosely on his shoulders. In the second the photo on his driving license was conveniently obscured by a black stain. It looked suspiciously like ink.

In the third, taxi drivers normally talked non-stop. Possibly they thought their passengers would give them extra money to make them be quiet. This one, however, helped the passengers load their luggage into the boot while maintaining such a stony silence that he might have been a Trappist monk.

In the fourth, he wore his cap with the brim pulled down over his forehead. In the fifth, on the only occasion when he did speak, he revealed a strong foreign accent and an imperfect grasp of Italian grammar.

Unfortunately for them, the two passengers were in too much of a hurry to be observant. They were, as the cab driver thought as he watched them, doing a bunk.

Father Stephen Keir had the most active role in the unfolding drama. First he emerged from the chapel's back door carrying two suitcases. He loaded these into the car's boot. Then he took a careful look around the street. No sign of anyone, especially not of the parents of a certain unfortunate young woman who would be looking for vengeance. He went back into the chapel and returned a minute later with Father Ricci. He practically shoved the other priest into the taxi. Then he locked the chapel door, climbed into the taxi, and ordered the driver to leave.

"Of course, sir," the driver said, and that was when the passengers should have noticed the fifth suspicious thing.

Neither of them did. They were too busy trying to look out without being seen.

Once they were on the main road and apparently hadn't been spotted, Keir spoke his mind. He harangued the other priest in a mixture of English and Italian.

"You idiot, you should have done what I did! Keep the girl as your mistress until you tire of her, then send her to a brothel on the other side of town! Tell her family you've found a good job for her somewhere far away! And if you've got her pregnant, put the blame on someone else! Now I've got to get you out of the country until this dies down. And I had such a good job in Rome!"

The car swerved suddenly as it turned onto a side road. The passengers were only interested in looking out the back window to make sure they weren't followed. If they'd paid more attention to what was in front of them, they might have wondered why they were heading into the mountains instead of towards the nearest large town.

Keir continued grumbling for the next ten minutes. Gradually it dawned on both of them that the road was very narrow and becoming terribly rough. Ricci frowned.

"This can't be right!" he said.

"But it must be. The driver was hired and given his instructions by..."

The driver slammed on the brakes. Both passengers were flung out of their seats. Keir hit his head on the window-frame. Ricci collided with the front passenger's seat and fell to the floor. The driver turned round while a woozy Keir was rubbing his head. Ricci picked himself off the floor. He looked up. His eyes widened.

A tremendous roar filled Keir's ears. Red stained the opposite window and the seats. Ricci's head — what was left of Ricci's head — was a featureless chunk of meat.

The car shook as the driver got out. He pulled the back door open. Keir stared up at a gun's barrel.

"Get out," the driver said. He spoke English. English, Keir realised with horror, with the unmistakable guttural accent of West Belfast.

It had been more than twenty-five years since Keir had left his parish there. Officially he'd been given a promotion to a better-paying parish, that completely coincidentally was in the middle of Canada where none of his parishioners could find him. Unofficially, of course, he'd had to flee under circumstances very similar to Ricci's, when his less-than-holy life had been about to be exposed.

Keir climbed out of the car with his hands above his head. He got a good look at the hitman. He was young. Under thirty. Black hair and blue eyes. One eyebrow was slightly raised. There was something familiar about the shape of his face.

"Turn around," the hitman said.

Keir obliged. The hitman put the gun at the back of his neck. Its barrel was still hot. Keir flinched away instinctively. The gun was shoved against his neck with more force.

"We're going to go for a nice little walk," the hitman said. "Up to that old house there."

The old house was a deserted farm. Keir expected to be directed into the remains of the building, possibly to meet representatives of a certain organisation. How he had offended them was a mystery. He hadn't meddled with any of their daughters. It must be a mistake. He could explain... He could offer them money...

His thoughts stopped abruptly. Instead of going to the building, he was marched up to an old well. The cover was still intact. Before he had a chance to react, the hitman had bound his wrists and knees. He yanked the ropes as tight as possible. Keir screamed. The hitman straightened up and struck him across the side of the face. He staggered.

While he regained his balance, the hitman removed the cover from the well.

He put the gun back in its holster. From his pocket he took out a cigarette case and box of matches. He lit one and calmly began to smoke. The whole time he stared at Keir with the disgusted expression of someone who had been out for a walk and had stepped in something unsavoury.

"Thank God I don't take after you," was his verdict.

A horrible suspicion took root.

The water was very close to the top of the well. It reflected the clouds overhead. It looked peaceful. That was the most frightening thing about it.

"I'm going to tell you a story. Allow me to introduce myself first. My name is Leopold Colman. That isn't the name I was born with, but this story isn't about me yet. It's about a fifteen-year-old girl named Agnes McIlwee."

Colman paused to see what effect that name had on Keir. It was familiar, but at first Keir couldn't place it. There had been so many teenage girls. In the end Colman's accent was all that helped Keir remember her. She'd attended his chapel when he worked in... He'd sent her away when...

She'd had a pretty heart-shaped face and cornflower-blue eyes. Her hair had been black. If she had lost weight so her cheekbones became more prominent, if the line of her jaw had been sharper and her chin more pointed, if her nose had been long and straight instead of snubbed, she would have looked exactly like Leopold Colman.

The clouds had drifted on. Now the water reflected only the sky.

"You didn't remember her," Colman said. His tone was light. His eyes were as cold and merciless as the well. "At least I have the decency to remember everyone I've killed."

December 1891. That was when Agnes had told him she was with child. That was when he had told her he'd send her somewhere to take care of it. She thought she was going to a doctor but he'd sent her to a nun who made sure girls like her disappeared. If her child had lived it would have been born around May 1892. It would be twenty-five.

Like Colman.

Keir had never given much thought to Agnes after her departure. He'd assumed the baby had never been born, that the nun had taken care of it.

Colman finished his cigarette. He dropped it and ground it into the earth with his heel. He used much more force than necessary. When he looked up he stared at Keir's head as if calculating how easy it would be to do the same to him.

Then he began to speak. He told a grim, sordid story. Keir knew the first half. The second didn't surprise him. And with each word he felt the noose tightening around his neck.

Finally Colman paused. His mouth twisted into something more reminiscent of a wolf's snarl than a human expression. He looked at Keir as if he wanted to tear his throat out with his teeth.

"Agnes died fourteen years ago."

He looked down at the well. His fringe concealed his face. In the echoes of his words Keir heard his death knell.

He struggled against the ropes. They cut deep into the back of his wrists. The blood soaked the rope but didn't do anything to help him squeeze his hands out of it. Trying to free his knees ended with him sprawled on the ground. He twisted and writhed like an earthworm.

In his struggles he didn't notice the shadow that fell over him.

Colman's foot landed between his shoulder-blades. Keir was shoved down into the ground. Dirt filled his mouth and nose.

"I've hunted you for years. I thought for a long time about how I'd kill you. Not with a gun; it must be slow. Lingering. Painful. I ruled out fire because it takes too long. So water it is."

He hauled Keir to his feet. "They used to test people accused of being witches this way," he said with a grin — or rather with baring his teeth. "Tie them up, throw them into the water, and if they sank they were innocent[1]."

He turned Keir around so he was facing the well. The water was still. The sky was cloudless. Overhead the sun was shining.

~~~~

A tremendous splash startled a few birds from the trees.

~~~~

A thousand miles away, neighbours raised the alarm after seeing no one around the house for several days. The police broke the door down.

The smell of death choked the air.

When they searched the house they found five corpses. Two adults. Three children. All shot in the head. All with at least one finger missing.

Chapter Footnotes:

[1] Believe it or not, this is true. It was called the swimming test or witch-swimming.