It wasn’t a grand building, nondescript would be the politest way of describing the residence. It was a cold stone construction tucked away at the very edge of the square where the Cathedral tower’s shadow touched at sundown. There were no ornate doors welcoming returning Fathers from their communion or Mass or their work within the community, no greeting of gold scripture or holy mosaic to inspire visitors of the Priests. A single, solid plain dark wood door standing slightly ajar, set back in the sandy brickwork and up a low step, was the lowly entrance to the residence.
Tacit pushed his way in, almost filling the passageway with his size. He stomped his way to the wooden railed stairway and peered around it to the corridor beyond. Something drew his eye upwards and he climbed, taking the steps two at a time.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Isabella called after him.
If he did, he didn’t tell her. The stairs reached a landing thirty steps up and turned back on themselves, climbing again. Isabella was sure she could hear Tacit breathing hard, as he took the second set of steps without pause. At the top, the corridor plunged left into darkness. Along the right hand wall were a number of doors. One stood slightly ajar and there was a shuffling coming from within.
Tacit powered into the room, ready for anything.
Inside the room stood a fat man, dressed in work clothes, grimy and sweat soaked. He had a double chin, which wobbled whenever he turned his head, and a belly upon which he could comfortably rest a plate. From his face it was clear that Tacit’s entrance had nearly shocked the life out of him.
“Where’s all his stuff?” Tacit growled.
“Whose stuff? The Father’s?” The man, dressed in trousers and a shirt, cuffs rolled roughly to his elbows, indicated the boxes. “All packed away.”
“Who told you to pack up his stuff?”
“Who wants to know? You can’t just storm into rooms scaring people.”
Tacit took a step forward. Isabella caught him by the arm and drew him back. He surprised her by doing as she guided.
“We’re investigating the Father’s sudden demise,” the Sister announced, stepping forward so that she could direct the conversation.
The man sized her up for a moment, and then stepped over to another box, which he manhandled to sit alongside the others had moved, huffing and straining with every ounce of his strength. “Yes,” he said, his manner warming. “A bit of a shock. Particularly for Father Andreas.”
“Who told you to pack up his stuff?”
“The powers that be?”
“The Vatican?”
“Cardinal Poré.”
Isabella heard Tacit’s breath harden. She didn’t peer around.
“Any idea why?”
“Why?” the man replied. “Why am I packing up his stuff?” He laughed thinly. “Because he’s dead!” The caretaker didn’t look like a man much used to exercise. His neck and armpits were ringed with sweat. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief and exhaled loudly. “They need the space,” he added, with a wave of it. “More Priests coming. One thing the Catholic Church has no shortage of is Priests.”
“Where are these going?” Tacit asked.
“These boxes? Storage. Strange though,” he said, picking up the penultimate box and struggling across the room with it.
“Strange? Why?” asked Isabella, as the man dropped it with a moan.
“Well, I’ve cleared out Priest stuff before. Usually it goes off to the family. You know, heirlooms, personal documents, keepsakes, all that stuff. But this stuff, it’s all for storage, every last box.”
“Perhaps he has no family?” Isabella suggested.
“No family?” the man laughed. “Father Andreas has family alright.”
Isabella looked back at Tacit. The Inquisitor’s eyes were fixed on the caretaker.
“Alessandro. Alessandro Dequois.” He said it in a way as if he expected both visitors to know the name. He saw their reaction and shook his head with a sigh. “Alessandro Dequois, one of the finest butchers in Arras.”
Tacit raised an eyebrow. “And can you tell us where this Alessandro lives?”
“I can do better than that. You help me shift this stuff downstairs and I’ll take you directly to him. He’s my neighbour.”