Reverend Fallowfield sat in the coffee shop with an open newspaper in front of him. He had picked up a taste for good coffee in Paris, but had struggled to find anywhere in London that served anything remotely drinkable. As if that wasn’t bad enough, there was the matter of the over-friendly waitress, who hovered over him holding the coffee pot, unable to see that he wanted to be left alone.
‘Terrible business, them murders,’ she said, holding the coffee pot threateningly near to his cup without actually pouring.
‘Yes,’ replied Reverend Fallowfield curtly.
‘What sort of man could do such a thing, Father? Surely that would be the devil’s work.’
‘The devil does his own work,’ replied Reverend Fallowfield. ‘This is the work of man.’
‘What kind of man, though? That’s what I can’t understand,’ continued the waitress, undeterred by his blatant hostility.
When finally she poured the coffee and found another customer in need of attention, Reverend Fallowfield pulled out a piece of paper tucked into his tunic. He ran a crooked finger down the list and found an address. He looked back at the newspaper. The same address was listed. He checked the others. Each one cited in the article was on his list. Each one had been ticked off his list. What did it mean? Were these killings meant as a threat? A warning? It would not be the first; Reverend Fallowfield had made a great many enemies over the years. There were many in the church who objected to the clerical collar he wore in spite of his never having been ordained. They failed to understand that he answered to a higher authority than the corrupt institutions of churches.
‘Sorry,’ said the waitress, returning. ‘Did you want my attention?’
‘No,’ he snapped.
‘Only you were talking. I thought perhaps you wanted something else. A refill, perhaps?’ She looked at his untouched cup.
‘I was talking to myself,’ he replied, irritably.
‘Oh.’ She let out a burst of intolerably loud laugher. ‘Not to worry. I do that myself sometimes. They say it’s the first sign of madness, but I’ve got plenty more of those. I think we’re all a bit mad, don’t you?’
‘I was saying that perhaps you were right,’ he said. ‘Perhaps this killer is doing the devil’s work.’
‘Well, let’s hope they catch up with him. Hanging’s too good for these people.’
‘Yes,’ said Reverend Fallowfield, picking up his cup of coffee to drink. ‘Yes, it is.’