Coincidence? Another man named Anatole? However, a man by that name who was also a tailor?
He didn’t believe in coincidences. Experience had taught him there was no such thing.
He hadn’t had a chance to speak with the man from the confessional yet, and thought then of Father Sebastian.
If the attack wasn’t about robbery, then what was it? Was it possible that someone else knew of the man’s confession to Father Sebastian?
The church was quiet this hour of the evening in the middle of the week. Those who attended to confess their sins long since gone with only a handful of worshippers who knelt among the pews, perhaps those on their way home from work, or those who had no other place to go.
There was a stand near the altar with rows of candles that had been lit below a sculptured scene.
Afrieze, Mikaela had explained at another church in Edinburgh during an inquiry case. They depicted various scenes from the Bible, according to what she told him. His time in such places, admittedly, had been limited.
“I suppose people find comfort in such things,” she had remarked at the time.“Places filled with artwork, frescoes and priceless objects while lives are ruined, and children starve.”
That had surprised him. It came, he supposed, from her own past and her travels to those faraway places that gave her that point of view. That and her bloody independence that had a way of getting her into trouble from time to time.
Although she would have argued that“trouble”as he saw it, was merely doing something because she could. And that brought him back around to the small ceremony, merely signing a piece of paper in Edinburgh.
She deserved more, he thought at the time. A church ceremony, even with his somewhat questionable past, a fine gown to wear, and something more than the plain ring he had placed on her hand.
In her usual way, she had assured him that she didna need a church or a priest or vicar for something that was between two people.
And the license? A formality on paper to satisfy the local magistrate.
She didna need a piece of paper, she told him, only that he not get himself kilt any time soon.
He had laughed and asked the same of her— an odd way, he’d thought at the time, to begin this new part of their partnership.
He made his way now through the nave to the door at the back of the altar that led to the anteroom where Father Sebastian met privately with parishioners or prepared for his next service.
He entered the short hallway, then continued down the hall to the small office at the end. The door was slightly ajar. He knocked in case the priest was with someone, then pushed open the door when there was no answer.
Father Sebastian was there, sprawled on the floor.
Light from the hallway glistened upon the dark stain that spread beneath him. One hand reached out across the slate stones on the floor.
An attempt to protect himself? Or possibly a last act of absolution for the murderer as the priest lay dying?
The attack had apparently come as Father Sebastian returned to the office from afternoon prayers or perhaps meeting with one of his parishioners.
Was it the same person who killed the tailor? Or could it have been one of those Brodie had seen in the church.
For money?
The church was poor. He doubted there was anything in the offering plate.
For food or shelter?
Father Sebastian would have shared his last crust of bread and provided a place for anyone in need.
Brodie cursed as he knelt beside the priest and felt for a pulse even though he already knew what he would find.
His eyes narrowed. With only the light from the single electric in the hallway, a bloodied image appeared almost black on the slate stone beside the priest’s outstretched arm.
It was the image of a hand in the priest’s own blood that appeared almost black in the meager light.
A coincidence? Nothing more than the priest’s outstretched hand covered in blood as he lay dying?
