The hard crunch of hobnailed boots on the tiled floor of Arras Cathedral drew the pale faced Cardinal out of the antechamber. “Cardinal Gérard-Maurice Poré?” Isabella called, as she and the imposing figure of the Inquisitor appeared out of the Cathedral gloom.
“Sister Isabella,” Cardinal Poré answered, stepping forward to peer at the figure she had brought with her. It had not been long since she had left him, alerted to the killing of the Father courtesy of the Catholic Church by means known only to them. She said she was intending to return with someone, but her reappearance so soon surprised Poré. “Good to see you again, I think,” he added, his cold eyes on Tacit. “So, I see you have found an Inquisitor to investigate this … attack?” Both Isabella and Tacit noticed how he picked the word ‘attack’ with care.
“This is Inquisitor Tacit.”
Even without the introduction from Isabella, Poré would have recognised the tell-tale signs of the Catholic Church’s most infamous of servants at once, the immense hulking figure of the Inquisitor, clad all in black save for the starched white of his dog collar, striding down the central aisle of the nave, his dark eyes staring coldly ahead from beneath his black capello romano hat. Poré was old and experienced enough to recognise what Tacit was, being well seasoned in all aspects of his faith’s arrangements. The sharp sting of past memory, when Inquisitors had intruded into his own childhood, could still catch him unawares all these many years later and leave him heaving for breath and clawing for answers.
Some wounds never truly heal.
Throughout his time as a Priest and then a Cardinal, Poré had delivered his services to all manner of people, devout Catholics, lapsed and heathen, angels and demons. But of all the people he had met, none were as distant or grim as Inquisitors and silently he hated their very existence.
There was never anything specific in their appearance which singled them out to be the people they were. Some Inquisitors were broad and strong like warriors, built for taking the battle to their enemies. Others were sly and slight like magicians, as quick with their hands as they were with their minds. It was always the haunted look which gave them away, as if they had gazed into hell and hell had left its reflection upon them. Nowadays, many Cardinals viewed Inquisitors as a vile and uncouth relic of a past age. Most Inquisitors were quick to remind Cardinals that it was they who first recommended their creation not far from a thousand years ago.
But Cardinal Poré also knew of Tacit by name and reputation. He tried to hide the swallowing in his throat and watched him with the cold of his eyes.
Just as Cardinal Poré knew Tacit, Tacit knew Poré, not because of Poré’s reputation, but because Tacit liked to make sure he was well acquainted with all senior members of the Church. When crimes were committed against it, experience told him that the crime usually originated within it. Knowing the suspect-list by heart was always a distinct advantage. He knew Poré’s rhetoric was as severe as his haircut, cropped short to his skull, as if he was undertaking some sort of penance. Tacit also liked a lot of what he’d been told about the Cardinal, that he was a straight talker, a devout Catholic, a scourge of minority religions and blasphemers. But he’d been made aware of inconvenient aspects too, that Poré’s parents had been removed for Inquisitional processing when he was younger, that he was a radical as well as a forward thinker, that he wanted to evolve and change the Church to better suit and serve the times. That sort of talk was dangerous, in Tacit’s mind. After all, Poré had recruited Father Andreas into his role at the Cathedral and that was a dangerous mistake, because Father Andreas was now dead.
A disapproving grimace spread across Poré’s face. “I didn’t think murder enquiries were your domain, Inquisitor? I trust you’ll find the decency to treat this murder with the dignity it deserves.”
Tacit ignored him and walked straight past to stare down at the pool of dried blood still staining the bottom step of the ambulatory. There were splashes, spots and trails across most parts of the ambulatory and over the first two rows of pews. Poré caught the odour of Tacit as he passed, a combination of stale alcohol and poor living, and scowled. He watched him through slitted eyes.
“This is where we found him,” the Cardinal spoke gravely, stepping alongside, dwarfed by Tacit’s size.
“He was found right here, then?” Isabella asked. Poré nodded, his eyes fixed to the dark crimson stain on the tiles.
Tacit grunted disconcertingly and turned his back on the spot. He stepped up onto the ambulatory, his heavy boots clacking hard on the white and black marble.
He dug his hands into his deep jacket pockets. A hand closed around the half-finished bottle of spirit from earlier. A sudden thirst gripped him. He cursed under his breath and then remembered where he was. He raised his eyes to the large cross hanging suspended on taut wires in the air above him, by way of an apology. He could feel the hard edge of the silver six-shooter in his holster hidden beneath his coat. Killing was, of course, against the Catholic faith but, two hundred and fifty nine Hail Marys later, he was still counting the corpses and the penances. He reasoned that he mostly only ever killed the bad guys. And Tacit met a lot of bad guys in his line of work, amongst other things.
He turned back to the front of the ambulatory, directly beneath the hanging cross, tracing an invisible line between the front of the pews and where the body had been discovered. The splatter marks showed how the body had been picked up and thrown, and where it had landed. Ten feet. That would take some strength.
“What have the parishioners of the Cathedral been told?” Isabella asked Poré. “They’ll want to know why the Cathedral’s closed, where Father Andreas is.”
“The Holy See have suggested the usual procedure of silence and denial. Temporary closure of the Cathedral to refurbish after recent bomb damage.”
“And Father Andreas?”
“Heart Attack.” The Sister winched. “I know,” nodded the Cardinal. “Unlikely. He was young, but there was obviously a deep-lying medical condition within him which none of us knew about. Clearly.” The lies came easily to this Poré but Isabella knew that few reached the heights of Cardinal without being able to lie and lie with sincerity.
Tacit turned his head from one side to the other, as if acquainting himself with the shape of the Cathedral.
“Well?” Isabella asked, stepping towards him.
Tacit turned and stepped with heavy, considered feet towards the vestry room, his head down, following the trails of dried blood left by the fleeing Priest. He stopped, all of a sudden, and crouched down onto his haunches, examining the appearance of a mark through one of the splatters of blood, at closer hand.
“It’s not human,” the Cardinal called, following Tacit from a distance and watching him hunch over the trail. “That which made the mark. Animal. Or something,” he added in a tone which suggested mystery, looking over at the Sister and nodding gently.
The Inquisitor lifted his eyes to the wall at the back of the Cathedral and sneered. Cardinals. They always had an opinion, always had a theory. When he was younger he’d been told by the Priests that he showed so much promise in his studies that he could become a Cardinal. He’d laughed at the suggestion. It was the last time he could ever remember laughing.
He flicked his eyes left and right, mapping out the route the Father had stumbled from the antechamber just ahead. He guessed Andreas had been unbalanced, stumbling mainly to the left. Tacit predicted that the Priest had lost his left arm.
“And the body? It’s in the crypt?” Isabella asked.
“Yes, in the crypt,” the Cardinal replied, his eyes falling to the dark archway to the right of where they stood. “I’m sure that will reveal everything.”
The cool of the crypt wrapped itself about them as they descended the first few steps into the darkness below.
“I’m surprised that the Vatican still remembers us here in Arras,” the Cardinal said, feeling his way into the gloom with the help of the stairwell wall. There was a lantern hanging on a metal hoop at the bottom step some fifteen steps below. He retrieved it and fumbled in his pocket for matches with which to light it. “Sometimes one can feel so very far away, especially during these times, what with the war.”
“Arras is very much within the thoughts of Pope Benedict,” Isabella assured him, reaching across and offering to light the lantern for him.
“That is good to hear,” Poré replied, accepting the Sister’s offer. She struck the match and held the small flame to the wick till it caught, whilst Poré said, “I didn’t know if the war had drawn the Pope’s eye to other places besides France? Already the conflict is so broad and wide.”
Sister Isabella handed the lantern back to him. “Not in the least, Cardinal. Benedict feels greatly for the peoples of France. The Mass for Peace in Paris in a week’s time is of particular poignancy to his worshipfulness,” she added, with a gentle smile.
The Cardinal took back the lantern with a nod of appreciation. “It’s the least the Church can do,” he said gently. “I am proud to have had a small part in its realisation. Having secured the services of Cardinal Bishop Monteria to help lead the planning of the event, surely we have a greater opportunity to achieve our goals.”
The flicker of amber torchlight caught in Tacit’s face, revealing a doubting sneer upon it.
“You don’t share the view that the Mass for Peace is a good thing, Inquisitor? That the power of prayer can achieve great things?”
“A massed prayer or massed armies facing each other?” replied Tacit. “I know which my money would be on.”
“We have attracted the attention of Britain’s foreign secretary!” Poré retorted sharply.
Tacit yawned and thrust a fist across his nose. He thought it strange that a bitter, radical Cardinal like Poré should share a vision with an arrogant old man like Monteria and for them to then work together to try and achieve it. Tacit made a mental note to visit Monteria after his assignment in Arras to ensure the Cardinal was not getting above his station.
“The Mass will take on extra significance with a Cardinal so senior within the Church,” remarked Isabella, breaking the rising tension between the Cardinal and Inquisitor, but also genuinely impressed that Poré had recruited one so highly respected within the Church as Cardinal Bishop Monteria to help plan the service.
“If the power of diplomacy fails to halt this dreadful and bloody war, perhaps the power of prayer will have more luck?”
“We certainly hope so,” said Isabella.
Poré caught the lack of interest shown by Tacit, staring into the depths of the crypt, and took the hint. “Shall we?” he suggested, before squeezing past the pair of them and into the gloom of the passageway.
The tunnel leading into the crypt was tall and broad, with walls smooth as marble and china white. Such was the wall’s finish that it possessed a sheen like glass.
“These are incredible tunnels, Cardinal,” said Isabella, impressed at their size and finish, brushing her hand along them as they walked.
“It’s the chalk rock,” replied Poré, waving the lantern light to indicate the white stone. “Very easy to mine and work. Arras is built on it. The whole region is. There are tunnels under Arras which go on for miles and miles, some dating back to medieval times. Used for the storing of goods during the rich times and people during the less favourable.”
Isabella swept her red hair behind an ear. “Are they still used?”
Poré shook his head. “The ones beyond the city’s limits, no, but the ones directly under it most definitely. People have been using them during barrages on the city. As you can see,” he said, knocking the stone with the flat of his hand, “they’re solid. As good as any shelter.”
“So, was there anything which suggested Father Andreas might have had any enemies?” Isabella called after the Cardinal, who was walking the tunnels ahead of them at a fair pace, his gown rippling between every urgent stride. “Anyone who might have had a grudge against him or the Church?”
“No, nothing,” Poré replied, as he hung the lantern on a nail on the wall and unlocked the rusted iron gate to the main crypt. “Father Andreas always seemed so … complete.”
The gate creaked open on heavy hinges and the Cardinal led on, holding up the lantern so that as much light as possible penetrated the path ahead. The further they walked the colder the air became, till their breath turned to mist in front of them.
“He was a good man, Father Andreas,” Cardinal Poré continued, peering back as if to assure them of his words. He turned left into the blackness of a side passageway. “I cannot believe anyone would wish him dead.” He stopped at an open doorway and turned to face them both. “But then again, there are some who are unable to control their actions.” He said the words with the raise of an eyebrow and tone in his voice, clearly meaning to leave some impression on the visitors from the Vatican.
With that, Poré looked towards an ornately carved archway, its rim a mesh of interconnecting stone strands. He turned, as if he was about to say something, but deemed whatever it was he was going to announce, unnecessary. He stepped to one side and gestured for them to enter the room beyond.
On a slab in the centre of the room was laid the body of Father Andreas, the sweet aroma of death hanging around him in the cool air. The Cardinal followed Tacit and Isabella in and hung the lantern from a hook in the ceiling so that the room and body were as fully illuminated as possible.
Tacit looked down at the body. He was suddenly aware of the growing dull ache of a headache etching itself to the left side of his brain. He needed a drink. He pinched the side of his head and eye and rubbed hard. The dead Priest’s skin had taken on a vague pearl sheen and the skin around the face had tightened as one would expect in a body so freshly deceased. He peered over it, breathing in the cool air, trying to detect anything within the smell of cadaver which might provide evidence the Church would have undoubtedly missed.
Tacit peered fiercely but not for long. Significant blow to the head, destroying left eye socket and removing eyeball in the process. Wound caused by clawed hand or talon. Significant strength required to tear skin and – he peered in towards the Priest’s yellowing head – partial skull bone.
He looked down to the Father’s chest. The gaping wound in it was made all the more dramatic by the tearing of the cassock robe through which the clawed had ripped. Well, that’s the killing blow, Tacit thought to himself. He looked over at the left arm and was delighted to see it was missing.
“Anyone else witness the attack?” Isabella asked, noticing Tacit’s vague pleasure at something. It was the first time she’d seen him show anything approaching satisfaction since she’d met him. “Did anyone see his attacker?”
“No. Father Andreas was alone.”
“What about any other Priests?”
Poré lowered his head and shook it. “No. No. It was the end of Mass. Everyone had left.”
“Including the choristers?” Tacit asked, looking up through his hooded eyes.
“Choristers? How’d you know about them?”
Tacit shrugged. “Saw their cloaks hanging up in the antechamber. Besides, it’s a church service. You have choristers.”
“Yes, you’re right,” the Cardinal replied hesitantly. Tacit’s eyes drilled into him. “The choristers, they left after Mass. The head chorister, he left a short time before the attack. Thankfully just in time, so to speak.”
“You have spoken to the boy, then?” Sister Isabella asked, gentler in her questioning than the Inquisitor.
“Uh, yes, the boy says he saw nothing. Which is good. Would have been awful for him to have witnessed … to witness a werewolf attack.”
Tacit’s eyes narrowed on the Cardinal. “It’s not a werewolf attack,” he growled, looking back down at the body.
Tacit was surprised to find the Cardinal chuckle thinly. “Not a werewolf attack?” he retorted, closing his eyes and shaking his head, as if Tacit had muttered an obscenity in front of him. “So, how else would you explain this?” he asked, raising his hands to indicate the wounds on the body. “No normal human could have –”
“Not a werewolf,” Tacit repeated forcefully, his nostrils flaring.
The Cardinal lowered his gaze onto the black clad Inquisitor. “Inquisitor Tacit. There’s no need for us to be quite so coy. Let us not play games. I know of the cursed ones and unlike some of my colleagues I am not afraid to utter their name. Hombre Lobo! Werewolf!” He almost shouted the words, so that his voice echoed through the labyrinth of tunnels. The Cardinal’s eyes blazed with a fire.
Isabella leaned across the body towards him, her voice almost a whisper.
“Cardinal Poré, you have been warned about uttering such things openly by the Holy See.”
“And I am not afraid to utter them here, within my Cathedral!” he called back, as if delivering the final lines of a sermon. “I know the history of the Church, what has gone before, what has been and what has been created by it. So let us put aside our little game of denial. Let us not talk falsely or in riddles. I know of this. You do not need to shield me from such things. We both know what it is.”
“Not werewolf,” Tacit spat back, in a voice as hard as iron.
The Cardinal scratched at his forehead, rubbing the flat of his hand backwards into his short cropped hair and folding his arms. “So, Inquisitor, how else would you explain –”
“Murder.”
Poré scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed, his hands dropping to his sides. “Very well, call it murder if you will! But that is exactly why I say it is a werewolf attack. Look at the wounds!”
But Tacit shook his head, his face darkening like the shadows of the crypt. “This is murder. Intentional. Werewolves don’t act with intention. Werewolves attack to feed. Consumed by hunger and rage. They don’t set out to murder. They set out to fulfil their bestial desires, to satiate the insatiable.” He looked down at the poor figure on the slab. “And they don’t leave much behind when they do. Certainly not this much.” He looked up under his eyebrows, passing his eyes from Isabella to Poré and then back again. “Someone took on the form of a werewolf intentionally to kill the Father, but they’re not a true wolf, not Hombre Lobo.”
Tacit stood back from the body and bowed his head, as if in a final act of respect for the fallen Father. Then he turned and vanished into the dark of the outside passageway. “Murder,” he called back assuredly, as he traced the path back to the steps.
Poré and Isabella caught each other’s glances, whilst Tacit’s footsteps were lost into the depths of crypt tunnels.
“And send for the chorister,” they heard him call. “I want to talk to him.”