Isabella was still brushing the chalk dust from her clothes when Tacit wrenched on the door pull outside Alessandro’s house in a second and now even more heated attempt to try and raise some response from inside. The hand pull reminded Tacit of the bell used to announce guests at the residence of an old Father in Prague. Tacit had broken the Father’s front four teeth and his left arm the time the Father had laid a hand on his thigh when Tacit was fifteen. The Father later claimed he’d fallen down the stairs.
Isabella found herself smiling as she looked at him.
“You look like you’ve climbed out of the crypt,” she said, raising an eyebrow and a smirk.
Tacit scowled. “You shouldn’t say such things.”
“For the Lord’s sake. Does everything need to be so dark?” The tone of her voice caught Tacit by surprise.
“What’s there to lighten up about?” he replied, grumbling and dragging on the door pull again.
“Life! Look around you, Tacit.”
The Inquisitor peered about himself absently and then shook his head. His hand was back on the bell pull. “We lost our main suspect,” he moaned, dragging on the pull again. “That is nothing to cheer about.”
“Don’t you ever realise the beauty that’s around you?” asked Isabella, her face breaking with joy. Tacit caught sight of it, and didn’t like it. “Don’t you ever want to embrace what life is giving you?”
Tacit gave her a lean stare. “No,” he spat, shaking down the sleeve of his coat.
“What is it with you?” Isabella cried, surprising herself at her reaction to the Inquisitor’s dismissive attitude.
“We’ve chosen a path,” he answered, his hand still on the pull. “You’d be wise to remember that, Sister.”
“And why must the path be so dark, eh?” she hissed back, stepping towards him.
“You’re not an Inquisitor,” Tacit barked back, “you wouldn’t understand.”
“I understand people. I understand a little about life. Tell me, Tacit, when did it get so dark for you?”
The Sister was surprised to see Tacit turn his head away, as if he didn’t want her to see his face. “What is it?” she asked, looking to see what Tacit was hiding from her. She peered around his bulk and was sure she saw a pain in his eyes, a real human pain. “Tacit?” she muttered, coming forward with her hands raised to place on him. “I’m sorry if I’ve said anything …”
At once the Inquisitor’s face hardened. A blackness forged itself within it.
“Enough talk,” he snarled, heaving hard at the bell pull. “Like I said, you wouldn’t understand.”
A light from a lantern wavered at the far end of the butcher’s shop and a figure stepped slowly up to the front of the glass, drawing both Isabella and Tacit towards it. Alessandro stood behind the plate glass, dishevelled and unkempt, straining to see who was bothering him.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Alessandro?” Isabella called through the window.
“Who is it? What do you want?” The appearance of unexpected and unknown visitors when he felt at his most exhausted unnerved him.
“We’re here about your brother. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I’ve already spoken to the Church,” he answered.
“We’re not with them.”
“Then who are you?” he asked, looking them up and down and finding himself wondering if there was some carnival taking place in the city. “I’ve got nothing to say. And I’ve got none of his stuff, if that’s what you’re after.”
“Alessandro Dequois!” roared Tacit, his face tight against the glass. “Get this door open and save yourself having to buy a new one!”
The kitchen was heavy with the faint smell of rot and nicotine, the residue of animal blood staining every surface. A small rickety table, one leg damaged, stood in the centre of the room with two equally wonky, and seemingly broken, chairs. Alessandro pulled at his shirt and explained that he lived alone.
“Ever get visitors?” asked Tacit, noticing the large bottle of cognac, partially drunk, and two glasses beside it.
Alessandro said nothing about Sandrine.
“No,” he said.
“I heard you were quite the socialite,” replied Isabella, walking over to the far side of the kitchen and resting her weight against the side of the sink. The caretaker had heard of Alessandro’s political views, of his well attended gatherings, and had passed this information on to the Inquisitor and Sister. “Quite the radical, I was told.”
Alessandro put his heavy eyes onto Isabella and then onto Tacit. “What is this?” he asked. “What’s this all about? My brother dies of a heart attack and you come round, whoever you are, and start insulting and intimidating me?”
Isabella and Tacit’s eyes met. Alessandro caught the sign between them.
“What?” he asked. “What is it?” he demanded, his hands suddenly clenched tight together.
“Is that what they told you?” asked Isabella, resting back on her elbows. “The Cathedral?”
“About the heart attack? Yes. Why?”
“Mister Dequois,” grunted Tacit, “I suggest you sit down.”