The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1) Brad Magnarella (ink book reader txt) 📖

Father Vick moved a pile of prayer books from the seat of a wooden armchair and gestured for me to sit.

“So you’re back in the city?” He placed the books on a small desk beneath his lone window and beside what appeared to be a draped handkerchief, then turned his desk chair so he could face me.

I nodded a little uneasily, sensing the question in his raised eyebrows.

“Well, I hope you know you’re always welcome back at St. Martin’s,” he said.

I was pretty sure the threshold would beg to differ, as well as higher-ups in the denomination who hadn’t much cared for my published thesis on the First Saints manuscript.

“That means a lot,” I said. “Thank you.”

He studied me for a moment, hand on his cinnamon beard, before breaking into a pleasant chuckle. “I remember when you were in my beginning Sunday school class. You couldn’t have been more than five or six. The biblical stories fascinated you, but you never liked to hear about anyone getting hurt.” He chuckled again. “At the time, I thought, ‘Now here’s someone destined for the ministry.’ I sense, though, that you help people in other ways?”

“I do my best,” I said noncommittally.

His pale blue eyes studied me again until I felt my body wanting to shift.

“Before we get to your questions,” he said, “is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

As a shadow exorcist, he could perceive a person’s light/dark conflicts—a skill honed through faith and enhanced by the ley energy that coursed up through the cathedral’s foundation. By the subtle shift in his tone, I could tell Father Vick had seen something in me. Whether it had to do with my magical bloodline or my darker Thelonious nature, I couldn’t say.

“Thank you, Father, but I’m not here for myself.”

“Very well,” Father Vick said. He set his clasped hands on his lap to signal he was ready to begin.

“Would you mind going over what happened the, uh—” I fumbled for my pocket notebook. “—the night of Father Richard’s murder, leading up to the discovery of his body the next morning?”

“Following Wednesday night’s Mass, the four of us who live here—the groundskeeper, an acolyte in residence, Father Richard, and myself—we had a late dinner and then retired to our rooms, around ten. Father Richard must have gotten up at some point to go to the sacristy.”

“Would that be unusual?” I patted my pockets for something to write with.

Father Vick handed me a ballpoint pen from his desk. “No, he would often spend time there when he couldn’t sleep. An hour or so organizing the cupboards, polishing the chalices, preparing for the next day’s service.”

“Did everyone know about this?”

“Those of us here, yes. Though maybe not the acolyte. Malachi has only been with us for a couple of months. I don’t know if Father Richard’s habit was ever mentioned in his presence. In any case, nothing was heard that night. The next morning, Cyrus, our groundskeeper, found him…” Father Vick frowned severely as though to prevent tears from forming in his eyes. “Found him on the floor. Just as you probably saw him the other day.”

I gave the moment its solemn due before continuing. “Is the cathedral locked at night?”

Father Vick composed himself, then nodded. “It’s Cyrus’s duty to secure all of the doors and windows, and he’s very regimental about it. Our locks are security grade, reinforced by the power of the church. No one’s ever broken in, and there were no signs anyone had.”

“Was everything locked the next morning, as well?”

“Yes. Cyrus checked.”

I finished writing, then tapped the pen against my chin. That seemed to rule out someone slipping in with the day crowd, hiding until he could take care of the rector, and then stealing back out. But it didn’t rule out lock picking.

“In the last few weeks, did you notice anyone watching the church, staking it out, anything like that?”

“I stay so busy, Everson. I can’t say that I did.”

He seemed to be apologizing for his lapse in vigilance, which sent a fresh wave of guilt through me. Here I was, posing as a police investigator, interrogating my bereaved former youth minister, all so I might keep my day job. Despite what I’d told Father Vick earlier, I was here for myself.

“Had the rector received any recent threats?”

“Several from the White Hand in Chinatown. The church’s commitment to human rights had been butting up against their business interests. The police are supposed to be pursuing that angle.”

I nodded. Maybe I’d leave that one to Detective Vega. I still doubted a Chinatown hit man would have left an obscure message in pre-Latin. Why not the White Hand insignia, meant to inspire fear? I decided to go bolder.

“How about threats from less … mundane quarters?”

Father Vick looked at me thoughtfully before gazing out the window. The drizzle had become a steady rain, splashing over the courtyard’s dark-red flagstones.

“Father Richard came from a more conservative tradition,” he said after a moment, “one that believed all magic was the work of Satan or one of his horde. Even sacred magic could open one up to evil forces, he insisted. I tried to help him see otherwise, but he was very rigid in his mindset.”

I thought of the violence at the crime scene. “Were his views well known?”

“Well, he didn’t seem to think the city was doing enough about the ‘occult problem,’ as he called it.” When Father Vick turned from the window to face me again, it was with a look of apology. He sensed my magic. “He had been preparing to meet with city commissioners and police officials. He wanted them to start cracking down on the ‘openly-practicing’—another one of his terms.”

I doubted this was something Father Vick had shared with the investigators. If the druid cult had gotten wind of the rector’s campaign, maybe they had decided to preempt it. “Have you ever heard of a group called Black Earth?” I asked.

Father Vick frowned steeply in thought. “I’m aware