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"Blood," I said
"Well, well," came the voice of Mr.
Dedham, ambling down the stairs, "so the revels commence, do they?"
"Don't let him come down please, Mrs.
Lawson," I called out. "Or anyone else."
Edge was scanning the floor. "There's
another lot over there, near the corridor to the chapel."
"Do you still think this is part of the
game?" I whispered.
"I don't know what to think. There's not
supposed to be any more activity until tomorrow morning after breakfast.
But so many rules have already been broken . . ."
I sighed. "Well, I'm disqualified, and
you're the referee, so let's follow it up."
"Is it really blood?"
I shrugged. "I could be animal blood. Or
Red Cross blood. Or more likely stage blood. But I don't like it anyway.
Let's have a look in the chapel."
"You'll find that door locked," sang out
Mrs. Lawson.
But the chapel door was merely on the
latch. We turned the fluted iron knob and the door swung open.
"Where are the lights?" Edge asked.
"Just inside the door." Leaning my arm
through the doorway, I fumbled for the switches and turned them all on.
The chapel was bare. All the statues had
gone, all the stations of the cross, the sanctuary lamp, and the
holy-water font. Even the pews and the alter rails had been taken away.
Only the bare floor and the marble alter, the massive lectern, the
stained glass windows -- and the life-sized Father Time -- remained. And
halfway down the aisle, another pool of "blood".
"Where does that door at the side lead?"
"Vestry. Priest's changing room," I
explained.
Of course, all the vestments had long
gone. Just empty wardrobes, and a suitcase on the bench . . .
I swung the suitcase on to the floor. A
name painted in white: Fr. Connor. The catches were not secured.
The case was three-quarters full of clerical clothes.
Another door led to the spartan bedroom.
I rapped on it loudly, first with my knuckles and then with closed
fists. "Father Connor! Father Connor!"
"Try the handle," advised Edge. "Try the
bloody handle."
He wasn't swearing. The handle was
covered in blood. There was no help for it. I would have to put my own
fingers to it. The handle moved only slightly. I applied more pressure,
clutching the handle down and heaving myself against the door. It
finally thudded open.
There are nightmares that haunt the mind
for years and then -- after treatment or therapy or just pure chance --
suddenly vanish and are never repeated. And there are nightmares that
stubbornly occupy a pedestal in the brain from which nothing can
dislodge them, save death. The sight that met my eyes in Father Connor's
room will be with me until I die.
The body lay face down on the floor. |
