He kissed her cheek and led her to a chair by the window. “You’ll hear soon enough so I might as well tell you now. A man was murdered this morning at the cemetery.”
She gazed up at him blankly, those beautiful, useless, dark eyes fixed on some point beyond, and there was a complete lack of comprehension on her face.
“Murdered? I don’t understand.”
He sat down beside her and took both her hands in his. “I saw it. Anna. I was the only witness.”
He got up and started to pace up and down the room. “I was walking through the old part of the cemetery. Remember, I took you there last month?”
He described what had happened in detail, as much for himself as for her, because for some reason it seemed suddenly necessary.
“And he didn’t shoot me, Anna!” he said. “That’s the strangest thing of all. I just don’t understand it. It doesn’t make any kind of sense.”
She shuddered deeply. “Oh, Uncle Michael, it’s a miracle you’re here at all.”
She held out her hands and he took them again, conscious of a sudden, overwhelming tenderness. It occurred to him, and not for the first time, that in some ways she was the one creature he truly loved in the whole world, which was a great sin, for a priest’s love, after all, should be available to all. But then, she was his dead brother’s only child, an orphan since her fifteenth year.
The clock struck one and he patted her head. Til have to go. I’m already late.”
“I made sandwiches,” she said. “They’re in the kitchen.”
Til have them when I get back,” he said. “I won’t have much time. I’m being picked up by a detective-superintendent called Miller at two o’clock. He wants me to look through some photos to see if I can recognise the man I saw. If he’s early, give him a cup of tea or something.”
The door banged. It was suddenly very quiet. She sat there, thoroughly bewildered by it all, unable to comprehend what he had told her. She was a quiet girl. She knew little of life. Her childhood had been spent in special schools for the blind. After the death of her parents, music college. And then Uncle Michael had returned and for the first time in years, she had somebody to care about again. Who cared about her.
But as always, there was solace in her music and she turned back to the piano, feeling expertly through the Braille music transcripts for the Chopin Prelude she was working on. It wasn’t there. She frowned in bewilderment and then suddenly remembered going across to the church earlier to play the organ and the stranger who’d spoken to her. She must have left the piece she wanted over there with her organ transcripts.
She went out into the hall, found a raincoat and a walking stick and let herself out of the front door.
It was still raining hard as Father da Costa hurried through the churchyard and unlocked the small door which led directly into the sacristy. He put on his alb, threw a violet stole over his shoulder and went to hear confession.
He was late – not that it mattered very much. Few people came at that time of day. Perhaps the odd shopper or office worker who found the old church convenient. On some days he waited the statutory half an hour and no one came at all.
The church was cold and smelt of damp, which wasn’t particularly surprising as he could no longer meet the heating bill. A young woman was just lighting another candle in front of the Virgin, and as he moved past he was aware of at least two other people sitting waiting by the confessional box.
He went inside, murmured a short prayer and settled him-self. The prayer hadn’t helped, mainly because his mind was still in a turmoil, obsessed with what he had seen at the cemetery.
The door clicked on the other side of the screen and a woman started to speak. Middle-aged from the sound of her. He hastily forced himself back to reality and listened to what she had to say. It was nothing very much. Sins of omission in the main. Some minor dishonesty concerning a grocery bill. A few petty lies.