Murder Most Holy

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The Dominican friar crouched at the prie-dieu in the deserted Church of Blackfriars, his gaze torn between the gold-encrusted crucifix and the pinewood coffin containing the murdered corpse of his colleague.

Brother Alcuin stirred restlessly. He chewed his lip and clasped his fingers tightly together. The others might think differently but he knew the truth. Brother Bruno had been brutally murdered. Alcuin was both angry and terrified: angry that such a foul act could be carried out in a Dominican monastery, terrified because he knew the murderer had meant to strike at him.

It had been so simple. Alcuin had received a note, written, of course, anonymously, telling him to come to the crypt just after Vespers. Angry at the farce which had recently been discovered and the pious mockery behind it all, he had gone — to find Bruno lying at the foot of the steep steps leading down to the crypt, his neck twisted, his brains congealing in the pool of blood from his shattered head.

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