"Whoa!" Father Wyck said grabbing Tommy by the arm as the boy ran toward the stables. "You can’t go down there just now, son."

    O’Connel, who was accompanying the priest back to the manor house from those very stables, stepped forward and seconded the holy man. "Aye, boy. You go back to the house with us."

    "But Mrs. Patchkins wants a mare saddled up, and brought to the main," Tommy said.

    "Now it’s not for discussing," O’Connel chided the boy.

    Tommy sighed, and his excitement at the chance of riding the horse up to the house simmered. He fell in behind the groundskeeper and priest as they resumed their long, silent walk back up the tree lined road to the Archbishop’s house.

    The boy, the impudent birth of the housemaid Aggie, began whistling and pointed out the buzzing insects and plant-life around them as they walked. Father Wyck found little solace in the estate’s beauty. His thoughts dwelled on the two dead men parked in the car outside the stable. Wyck shivered at the mental image. That eerie silence as he walked up from behind that old Buick would haunt him for some time to come. He had crept around the passenger side through tufts of high grass and saw a man’s head pressed against the glass of the door. There was such a stillness to the summer air that morning Wyck thought the man was sleeping, and raised his hand to rap on the glass-- The priest reeled back suddenly, and when he settled his gaze he realized the man was dead.

    The Father made the sign of the cross.

    Wyck recovered in a moment and peered through the windshield at the second man, the driver, sprawled with his arms wide and body slumped to the right.... Wyck backed away from the car.... Both men had been shot. Repeatedly shot.

The priest tried to compose himself, then ran to O’Connel’s cottage at the bottom of the hill. The stables were isolated, accessible by two paths, though a gated dirt road led to them as well.

    Wyck was newly appointed to Archbishop Wendell’s staff, and with Wendell hosting a private weekend conference.... A benevolent society with its five members gathered from around the world to meet behind closed doors ... these murders couldn’t have come at a worse time. O’Connel was level headed, and devoted to the Archbishop’s household. Surely he would help Wyck decide what to do.

    Wyck felt reassured once he saw the roof of O’Connel’s cottage. The white, crimple-haired Irishman’s first act was to talk Wyck out of calling the police, and returned with him to the stables.

    Braced this time, Wyck was able to make a few more observations about the murder scene. First on the hood of the car was an open briefcase, with its chief contents missing. He searched its inner compartments and found: peanut shells, a pen, paper clips, a month-old receipt, broken money bands, and bullets. O’Connel grunted a response when Wyck mentioned the latter.

    The fisher-capped groundskeeper rose from inspecting the bodies, and said. "They both have guns."

    "Guns? Here at Wendell’s estate?" Wyck said. "What were these men doing here? Did you hear the gunshots?"

    O’Connel removed his cap and gruffly scratched his hair. He said. "No, and the main gate was closed all night. After sunset I close it, you know. These two would have to buzz me to get it open."

    "So, they waited here until morning to drive out," Wyck said. The young priest looked up at the main house. The stone structure claimed the crest of a nearby hillside and oscillated in the day’s waxing heat. "And no one else left?"

    "Not by car," O’Connel said closing the car door. The groundskeeper held up a bloodied piece of paper and read it to himself. "This folded note was in the driver’s breast pocket. Apparently, these two here were supposed to meet someone at ten o-clock last night."

    Wyck examined the unsigned note, and then placed it in the briefcase. "So, they drove in earlier and waited for the author," he said.

    O’Connel nodded, and said. "I closed the gate around nine, Father."

    Again Wyck looked to the house. "Someone lured them here."

    "Lured? Met?" O’Connel said. "Someone killed them!"

    "We should call the police, I think," Wyck said. He began walking away. "Now."

    "Bah, man!" O’Connel said. "All well and good to do that, but if we call them the murderer might get away. Right now the killer is probably sitting at the Archbishop’s breakfast table." The groundskeeper pointed to the main house. "I know you’ve been thinking as I have. I saw you look at the hill. Whoever the killer is, they’d be waiting for someone to find these two, and in the confusion slip away. I tell you they have the knowledge of it in their eyes." O’Connel pointed his thumb at his chest. "I could tell which one of the blighters did it, if I saw him. Hell ... and forgive me Father ... I bet he asks one of us to the stables to fetch something." The groundskeeper shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled. "Probably put him off that no one has come across the bodies yet."

    "What are you suggesting?" Wyck asked, raising a hand to his collar. "That we not tell anyone about the bodies and the murder--The double murder?"

    "Aye, Father."

    Wyck stepped away from the man, and combed his curly brown hair with his hand. "I think that would be a sin...."

    The groundskeeper’s ire flared, and he said. "Murder is a sin, Father! And whoever did this is two up on you or myself."

    The young priest gulped, then nodded his concession.

    "Ah, good man ... Father, I mean," O’Connel said.

    "But I’m giving you ... us," Wyck said, "just one day to do this. If there’s a chance we can settle this matter quietly, and quickly, without hurting the Archbishop’s name, or the Church...."

    O’Connel made the sign of the cross, then raised his hands in a quieting gesture. "I think we can have the killer tied up for the police, and down at the gatehouse by morning’s light, Father. Besides no one is getting in or out with the gate closed."

    Father Wyck agreed, and then helped the groundskeeper push the car into one of the empty stable stalls. They draped several horse blankets over it, and headed to Wendell’s house, that’s when they ran into Tommy.

    "Mrs. Patchkins sent you down here, did she?" O’Connel asked Aggie’s boy. The groundskeeper cast Wyck a sideways glance.

    "I guess the Archbishop mentioned the stables to her last night," Tommy said.

    Wyck’s attention perked, and he darted his eyes over at the boy.

    "The Archbishop?" O’Connel said.

    The boy nodded.

    Wyck looked to the heavens, never acknowledging O’Connel’s accusatory leer. Silence again gripped the trio as they continued to the house, and then around to the kitchen.

    "Back from your walk already," the cook said seeing Wyck stroll into her kitchen. Her smile faded when she saw whom he had brought with him.

    "Morning Martha," O’Connel said.

    "Madam," the boy said, then under the old cook’s leer scurried out into the house.

    Martha the cook turned her attention on the groundskeeper then, who like a stray cat had planted himself beside the nearest supply of food, the panty table where several muffins sat unattended. She was about to issue a harsh word when Wyck turned to her, and said. "Are they all eating now?"

    "The Archbishop’s company?" she asked. "They have been floating downstairs all morning Father. Except one. I’m going to take this up to him. Such a nice fellow."

    "What about Patchkins?" O’Connel asked with half a muffin in his mouth.

    Martha went stone-faced. Out of deference to the Father, though, she didn’t take the man outside and throttle him with a kitchen spoon. "Came and went," she said curtly.

    "Anyone seem more tired than the others?" Wyck asked.

    "A curious question?" Martha said, and set down her tray of food as she thought. "I didn’t think to notice how anyone looked. Besides," she said looking squarely at O’Connel, "it wouldn’t be my place, Father."

    The cook prepared to leave with the tray as O’Connel’s chewing slowed at the obvious rebuke.

    "Are they still in the dining room?" Wyck asked.

    "At least a couple of them," the cook replied, backing out of the kitchen door.

    "Father! There’s a place we can spy on the dinning room unobserved," O’Connel said. Wyck, and the groundskeeper headed into the pantry area, then entered a narrow hallway sealed by a long, black-curtain on either end.

    "This is where the big desserts are wheeled out from," he said in a whisper. The pair parted the far curtain’s center slit, and with the shorter Wyck crouched and the backward-capped O’Connel’s taking the higher position, they peered through the curtain at the three men sitting at the end of a long dining table.

    One was the Archbishop himself, and the others Wyck knew only by name and brief description from Mr. Sacks, the Archbishop’s personal secretary, notes. The first was Carl Bowls. Mr. Bowls was from Egypt and had the title: researcher. Next was Mr. Nivin, a barrister who was the Legal Officer for the Society. Missing were Mrs. Patchkins, and Mr. Ashbury, both of whom had the designation: board member scratched down on Sacks list.

    Wyck drew back from the curtain, and quietly asked O’Connel. "Do you see anything in their eyes."

    O’Connel removed his cap and scratched his hair again. "No," he said.

    "No?" the Priest repeated. "Well have you ever seen any of these men here before?"

    "No," the groundskeeper said. "But Bishop Wendell travels wildly, Father."

    Wyck nodded. He would have to check Mr. Sacks’ logs.

    "You, know," O’Connel said slyly. "Since they’re all down here we could probably get in their rooms and look around...."

    "You’re not suggesting," Wyck began at a harsh whisper, and then lowered his voice. "That we ransack the rooms of Wendell’s guests are you?"

    "Not ransack. Investigate," the groundskeeper corrected.

    The pair retreated down the hallway to the Martha-less kitchen.

    "Can you get the pass key to the rooms?" O’Connel asked as he ate another muffin.

    Father Wyck leered at the man, and then shook his head in frustration. "Yes," he said reluctantly.

    The groundskeeper nodded, and pocketed the last muffin. He followed the priest out into the main house. O’Connel didn’t see this part of the main often, but he swore this room alone was as big as his entire cottage. A great stair laid claim to the east wall, it’s bottom stoop and stairs almost equal in width to the rooms. Twenty carpeted stairs, which muffled their bootfalls, rose to the first landing with a broad, golden-tracery in the wall behind it. The partitioned, stained glass illuminated the landing, stair, and vestibule in a golden-splendor.

    The second floor held the north wall of the central chamber before turning and rising in to the third, and final story. The guest’s were all on the third floor, but staff, including Wendell’s personal secretary, had their rooms on the second.

    "I play chess with Mr. Sacks," Wyck said to O’Connel behind him. "I know where he keeps the key...."

    "Father!" came a woman’s voice from the third landing. It was Martha. The old cook held her hands to her cheeks as she leaned over the railing. "Father!"

    Wyck craned his head up towards her.

    "Father come quickly," she said. "I think he’s dead."

    The groundskeeper and Wyck bounded up to the third landing after her as she disappeared from view. In the corridor a shaft of morning light streamed into the darkened hallway via an open door. The pair followed the light and found the cook standing near the entryway with one hand over her mouth, the other pointing at the bed.

    Wyck and O’Connel inched past her and saw Mr. James Ashbury lying in bed, eyes opened wide, and stark naked from head to toe. He was also dead.

    "Bloody hell!" the groundskeeper said.

    Wyck looked away and saw where Martha had left her tray of food on a nearby table. The table’s original contents had been shoved aside, and Wyck couldn’t help but notice the numerous peanut shells scattered over its adjoining chair, the floor and table itself.

    "O’Connel!" Father Wyck said upon seeing the shells. He spun, and faced him just as the groundskeeper turned to him, and cut him off.

    "Where is Mrs. Patchkins?" O’Connel blurted.

    Wyck drew the obvious connection, and was about to mention the nuts when a woman started screaming downstairs.

    Wyck, O’Connel, and now Martha behind them, ran for the stairs and made their way down to the main floor. There they found Mrs. Patchkins standing in the vestibule.

    The Archbishop and the other men from the breakfast table had reached the entry hall moments before the trio. Mrs. Patchkins ran to Wendell and grabbed him by the shoulders as she shouted.

    "I found two men in the stables! And they’re both dead."

Part 2

    "Oh, I don’t believe he was naked like that," Martha said.

    The comment drew a disgusted look from Mrs. Patchkins. The older, plump lady turned away from the cooking woman then, dabbing a hanky to the edge of her right eye. Mr. Bowls padded his fellow Society member on the shoulder and cast a look around the dining room; where they had retreated from the vestibule just moments before.

    The Archbishop had sent O’Connel back to the gatehouse to await the police’s arrival and open the gate for them, while Wendell and Nivin phoned the authorities from the study. The only people around the table now were the ladies, Father Wyck, and Bowls himself.

    "Where is everyone else?" he asked. "I think it would be helpful if we found everyone in the house and gathered them here before the police arrive."

    The mention of the police made Wyck think about what O’Connel had said earlier. Could the killer really be counting on the police’s arrival to help him escape? Wyck ran his hands through his curly brown hair.

    "Yes, yes." Mrs. Patchkins said. "An excellent idea, Mr. Bowls." The plump woman did her own inventory of the people in the room, then asked. "Who’s missing anyway?"

    "Where is Aggie?" Martha asked.

    "And that boy of hers," Mrs. Patchkins’s blurted. "I haven’t seen that straw of a man Sacks, either," she added.

    "Well," Mr. Bowls said. "There are three missing people then."

    "Luckily the rest of the staff is off for the weekend," Martha said.

    "By the way, when was the last time you saw the maid, Aggie?" Mr. Bowls asked the cook.

    "Last night, after we cleaned up from supper and everything," she said. "She was in very good spirits."

    "So, I’m guessing that was around eight-thirty, or nine in the evening," Bowls said. Martha agreed with a nod.

    "Are you suggesting she is a suspect?" came Wendell’s voice from the dining room’s doorway. Everyone turned to regard the Archbishop as he crossed to the head of the table.

    Bowls addressed Wendell. "Given Mr. Ashbury’s condition, and the attractiveness of...."

    "She did have that bastard son too!" Mrs. Patchkins said.

    "But what about the two dead men in the stables?" Wyck asked. "Did she also go and shoot them?"

    "Shoot?" Mrs. Patchkins asked. "I don’t believe I mentioned that the two men were shot."

    Father Wyck touched his collar as he shifted his weight on his chair. The gatherer’s eyes were upon him. He coughed, and then confessed his role in discovering the bodies that morning.

    Mr. Bowls stormed toward Wyck. "Lucky for you, I can see no reason for you kill Ashbury," Bowls stated. "Tampering with a crime scene is no small matter, Father. Valuable clues may have been lost."

    The Archbishop cleared his throat, and took his seat. He said. "Father Wyck was thinking of the Church and my name. And on that count I will not begrudge his actions."

    "Archbishop?" Bowls said reeling around to the balding man. "I can not believe you would...."

    Wendell’s raised hand stilled the excited Mr. Bowls. "You yourself were about to hang my maid when I came in just a moment ago. Now you would like to convict a member of my staff."

    "What do we know of him anyway?" Mrs. Patchkins objected.

    "Now wait a minute," Wyck said. "I’ve killed no one."

    Wendell laughed, stealing the energy from the Father’s bluster. "Father Wyck came highly recommended for his post. He has not killed anyone." The chubby, Archbishop chuckled as he removed his glasses and cleared the lens on his sleeve’s cuff.

    Mr. Bowls and Mrs. Patchkins frowns told of their doubts on the Archbishop’s latter point.

    "Still," Bowls said. "The location of the car, and the bodies may have provided further clues Father Wyck failed to notice. Like could they have been shot from another direction. Perhaps this very house?"

    Wyck’s neck went rigid as he looked up suddenly at Bowls. In his mind he tried to see whether that was possible. "Yes," he said aloud. "There was a clear line of sight from the car to the house."

    "Only the rooms on the east side of the house, though," Wendell said. He fitted his glasses on, and looked to the ceiling. "That would be Mr. Sacks, and above him would be ..." he looked at Bowls. "Mr. Ashbury’s room."

    Mr. Nivin entered the dinning room then. "The police are on their way," he said, and seated himself on the far side of the room by the black curtain.

    "Archbishop," Mr. Bowls began, "I don’t need to explain to you or anyone here that solving this matter before the police arrive is preferable over having them ransack the estate looking for answers."

    Wendell nodded.

    "I suggest that we gather everyone in the house here, then investigate the matter ourselves. Perhaps we can discover quickly who murdered these three men and why."

    "Yes, yes," Wyck said. The priest stood. "That was my intention from the very start."

    "I was going to suggest first that we split up into teams and collect everyone in the house." Bowls continued, ignoring Wyck as the Father sat himself.

    "How can we be sure the murderer isn’t one of us?" Mrs. Patchkins asked.

    Mr. Nivin laid his arms over the table and clasped his hands. He said. "We can’t, in all likelihood."

    Mrs. Patchkins eyes widened as she craned her head from Mr. Bowls to the Archbishop. "Are you suggesting that some of us team up with the killer then?" she asked.

    "In numbers we should be safe enough," Bowls said. "There are only three people to find."

    Patchkins sat up in her chair. "Frankly, Mr. Bowls I don’t like the idea."

    "It’s a reasonable first step," Wendell said standing. "Mr. Bowls why don’t you divide us up."

    Bowls proceeded to create three groups: one with Wendell, and Mrs. Patchkins, the other with Wyck and Nivin, and lastly his, which was made up of himself and Martha.

    "Now," Bowls continued. "I think it’s best if each of us takes on a specific task. Father Wyck why don’t you find Mr. Sacks. The Archbishop and Mrs. Patchkins here can go and locate the boy. And Martha and I will go and search for the maid."

    "Why must I ..." Patchkins began when the Archbishop cut her off.

    "No more debate," Wendell said. "I trust Mr. Bowls’ judgment in this matter." And with that the guests and staff stood and divided themselves into their respective groups. They headed out on their searches with just minimal bickering over where to begin. The Archbishop’s, and Mr. Bowls’ group headed toward the women staff’s quarters in hopes of finding the maid and her boy, while Wyck and Nivin headed to the second floor and Mr. Sacks’ apartment.

    Wendell had given Nivin the passkey. Wyck looked at the key as the barrister flipped it through his fingers, thinking of his walk up these very stairs just and hour before with O’Connel.

    "I play chess with Mr. Sacks," Wyck said.

    Nivin grunted a response, and the pair stepped into the second floor hallway. It was as dark as the third floor had been earlier. The house's middle corridor held seven doors, with the odd-numbered one at the head rounding out its eighty-foot length. Mr. Sacks' door was the seventh. Nivin knocked on the large paneled door several times, before giving the priest a gentle nod and using the passkey.

    Brilliant sunlight poured into the corridor, blinding Wyck and Nivin. Both men raised hands to their eyes as the door swung open, and then stopped, prematurely on its inward tack. Mr. Nivin pushed on the door, once and again-- An arm fell limply across the opening’s span.

    "No!" Father Wyck said. "Not another one."

    The Priest squeezed past Nivin and through the span to see that it was indeed his friend Mr. Sacks.

    "My God," Nivin said as he came to stand next to Wyck. He bent down and looked at the body as Wyck backed away into the room. When he nearly tripped over an overturned couch he stopped and noticed for the first time that the apartments had been ransacked.

    "He was bludgeoned," Nivin said, rising and joining Wyck in beholding the devastation. "And robbed, apparently."

    "I’ll be glad when the police get here," the Priest said wading into the center of what was once Mr. Sack’s living room. A pile of discarded papers, whole file cabinets worth, had been dumped in the room’s center. Chairs and the couch sat like roped steer, legs up and innards cut out to either side of the mess. Sacks’ desk stood as a skeleton with its drawers missing, the bulky thing moved away from the wall. Odd to both men was the fact that Sacks’ clothing, his shirts at least were still on hangers and hung throughout the chamber. A half dozen shirts hung off the fireplace’s mantel, while others dangled from nails where pictures once hung, or from window sashes. The other knickknacks of Sacks life were littered about the apartment, some smashed, or snapped in two.

    Wyck reached into the pile and pulled a plant he had seen Sacks fuss over from time to time. He walked into the bathroom and put it in the sink when he couldn’t find a pot.

    "You said the men at the stables were shot, right?" Nivin asked.

    Wyck came out of the bathroom and nodded.

    "Was Ashbury shot as well?"

    Wyck took a second to acknowledge the man’s last question, looking from Sacks’ body to the debris of his apartment. Finally he rubbed his eyes and regarded the stocky man.

    "I’m not sure. We really didn’t get a chance to.... Mrs. Patchkins started screaming then, and...."

    Nivin nodded, and stepped toward the priest. "It’s okay Father. But I think we should go find out. It may provide a clue as to who has done all this." Wyck was unresponsive to his suggestion. "The police have teams of people to search through a scene like this," he said. "Piece it all together. It will take days Father before they can narrow down what the killer wanted in this room."

    Wyck’s wide, brown eyes looked away from the barrister.

    "Or discover the purpose behind your friend’s death," Nivin went on.

    "Only God, knows what purpose ..." the priest’s comments trailed off.

    "That’s true, Father. But unless the Almighty cares to share his insight we’ll have to search for who did this ourselves." Nivin put a hand on Wyck’s shoulder. "And that path leads to Ashbury’s room."

    Wyck gulped, then grimaced as he looked over at Sack’s body.

    "You’re right, Mr. Nivin. But before we go we’re going to anger Mr. Bowls again and disturb the crime scene. I’m taking my friend off the floor." Father Wyck nudged past the barrister then and righted the room’s sofa.

    Stone-faced, the barrister helped the Priest lay Mr. Sacks out on the couch, then drape a sheet over him as Wyck offered a short benediction.

    The unlikely pair, barrister and priest locked Sacks’ apartment before heading up to the third floor and Mr. Ashbury’s room. The house was deadly quiet around them, their footfalls muffled by the stair’s carpet.

    "What does the Society do?" Wyck asked. Nivin snapped a cold look back at the Priest behind him on the stairs. Wyck continued. "The Archbishop has never discussed it with me directly, and since all probability says one of your members is the killer.... Well, it may have something to do with your organization. Knowing more may shed some light on the situation."

    Nivin continued walking as he said. "We’re an international charity, coordinating the Church’s works around the globe."

    Wyck digested that as the pair stepped on to the third floor’s landing. It was nearly pitch-dark.

    "Someone’s been up here," Father Wyck said, stepping past Nivin. "The hallway should be lighted with sunlight from Ashbury’s open door. Someone has closed it."

    "It may have closed by itself," Nivin said.

    "The doors here don’t do that," the Priest said, and began the walk toward Ashbury’s door. He needed to feel for its doorknob, and once opened the sunlight again blinded the men. Inside Wyck studied the chamber for any sign that it had been disturbed. He found none, but then again he wasn’t in the room very long when he was there last. Ashbury laid where he had died, in bed, naked, the covers torn down, and left arm bent at the elbow and his hand near his shoulder. Martha’s tray was still where she had set down on the night table, with the stand’s contents squished under it or pushed to the side, or fallen to the floor . . . including the nuts.

    "Is everything as it was?" Nivin asked.

    Father Wyck nodded, as he eyes fell on the body.

    The barrister moved to the bed and stood over Ashbury. "Did you see this?"

    Wyck stepped closer, reluctant to get too close to another dead body. He wondered if people ever got used to it, then he looked at Nivin and watched as the barrister gently moved Ashbury’s head to show a blackened, and purplish, quarter-size hole next to the right eye on the side. It was a bullet’s exit wound. The priest’s stomach churned. Nivin pivoted the head to the other side, and pointed at the small black hole above Ashbury’s left eye on the side of the head. "That’s the entry wound." Suddenly, he abandoned the head, and studied Ashbury’s hand. He sniffed the limb, then regarded the silent priest.

    "Powder burns," he said. "That almost confirms it."

    "Confirms what?"

    "Suicide, Father."

    Wyck made the sign of the cross.

    "Where’s the gun then?" Wyck asked upon further observation.

    "Yes," Nivin said. "Where is the gun?" He bent down and looked under the bed, then stood and quickly gazed around the room. The desk, Ashbury’s suitcase, the fireplace.... The latter perked his interest. He crossed to it and crouched to peer inside. He put his hand in and started flipping through burned sheaves of paper. "This isn’t regular fire material," he said. "It looks like Ashbury burned a telephone book worth of papers, and ... these curled strips may have been film."

    "Some of the paper may be intact," Wyck said, stepping around the bed to the fireplace. "When thick stacks burn, sometimes the center ...."

    "No," Nivin said as he continued poking the ashes. "It’s destroyed."

    The priest sighed, and looked around the room.

    "So did Ashbury commit suicide, or was he murdered?" Wyck asked.

    The barrister stood and looked at the right side of the bed, while slapping his hands clean against his jacket. "Well, a medical examiner will have to make that determination, ... but this is interesting." He stepped back to the bedside, and threw the covers over the body. The top third of the fabric was stained in blood and Ashbury’s reddened gray matter. Nivin positioned the left arm over the covers as it had lain without them. "This looks like a suicide to me."

    The priest threw his hand up in the air. "Without a gun, or even a suicide note?" Wyck asked.

    The barrister nodded. "I said it was interesting."

    The sounds of people yelling brought both priest and barrister’s attention to the door. Wyck and Nivin darted looks at one another then dashed out into the carpeted hallway. The corridor’s darkness ebbed only near the head of the stair to their left and directly where they stood in the open doorway. Meanwhile to the right the corridor continued several paces in shadow before turning to the right at its head.

    "This way," Nivin said, and headed toward the darkened shadows to the right.

    "No," Wyck said, "it came from this way!" The priest motioned to the stair. The men’s feet were weighted with their opposing convictions. "We shouldn’t split up."

    No further calls came.

    "You go," Nivin said waving Wyck toward the stairs. "I’ll go this way. Which ever one of us is wrong will backtrack along the other’s course."

    "Agreed," Wyck said watching Nivin back away then run off into the darkness. The priest turned and ran for the sunlight beaming across the head of the stair from the great, golden hued tracery in the wall. Three strides from the top stair a shadow-figure emerged on an ascending course. A woman. Wyck almost ran into her. He jumped back a step. He noticed her hair was up in a bun. It was Aggie. Wyck reached out for her arm, but the wide-eyed maid reeled backwards.

    "Father?" she said, just before she mis-stepped and fell.

    For his part Wyck’s outstretched hand felt the fabric of her frock slip over the edge of his fingers as, wide-eyed himself, he stepped to the top of stair and witnessed her descent. Her crumpled form lay on the landing between the third and second floor.

    "Aggie!" came a second woman’s voice. Martha’s voice broke the priest’s tunnel vision, and he saw the others rounding the landing from the first floor. "Aggie!" Martha said again as she ran to the fallen maid. Mr. Bowls, and Mrs. Patchkins were right behind, while Wendell was slow in exerting himself up the stairs. Wyck looked once to the dark hallway, then took the next stair down. The Egyptian, Mr. Bowls, crouched beside the maid as Martha rose and squared her considerable form in front of the other woman.

    "You’ve killed her!" the cook said.

    "I did nothing of the kind," Mrs. Patchkins said peevishly. "Why did she run from us." The Society’s lone surviving board member regarded the Archbishop as Wendell came to stand beside them. "Silly girl."

    Wendell nodded. "I can’t see why she would run," he said. "Or why she’s hiding Tommy?"

    "That boy could be anywhere on the estate," Martha said. "He’s got more hiding places than a mouse." Her tears started to swell as she looked down on the young maid’s body. "But I don’t want to be the one to tell him he’s an orphan now."

    "Wait!" Bowls said. "You won’t have to. She’s not dead. Just unconscious." He craned his head up at Wyck. "Give me a hand Father, we’ll carry her to someplace were we can tend to her."

    "Mr. Sacks’ room is ..." Wendell began.

    "No!" Wyck said. "My room is right down the hallway here." Father Wyck stepped over the head of the stricken maid and hoisted her up by the shoulders as Bowls got her feet. As they shuffled toward the staff’s quarters Wyck filled them in on the discovery he and Nivin had made in Sacks’ room.

    Mrs. Patchkins huffed aloud. "Father Wyck, there seems to be a litany of corpses following you around this house."

    "Mrs. Patchkins," Wendell said. "You and your accusations are becoming most tiresome."

    "Father," Wyck said to Wendell. The priest motioned with his head at his door. "Mr. Nivin had the passkey for my group, and my key is ...."

    "Of course." Wendell nodded, and then positioned himself in front of the door, and he asked. "Where is Nivin, Father?"

    Wyck grimaced and looked at Mrs. Patchkins disapproving glare. "I don’t know. We split up once we heard the commotion. He headed toward the back of the house."

    The door opened and the procession entered behind the bearers. "Let’s put her on my couch," Wyck said leading Bowls around a central coffee table to a couch sitting before a double window. They set Aggie down, and Bowls sat beside her to position her comfortably.

    "Father Wyck!" Patchkins voice spun the priest around to face the woman pointing at his coffee table. He followed her gesture down .... "Father have you always owned a gun?" she asked.

    Indeed there was a large gun lying brazenly on top of a stack of books. Wyck’s jaw gaped. "I ... I don’t know what to say. That’s not mine."

    "Father Wyck," Wendell said.

    "Archbishop, I assure you, I...."

    "Wendell," Patchkins began with a tone of vindication. "Are you still so resolute in support of your staff?"

    "Archbishop?" Wyck said, picking up the gun. "I assure you someone planted this here." He turned to face the others with the weapon in hand, and drew a gasp from Patchkins and Martha. "Probably when I went for my walk this morning," he went on.

    "I don’t believe the Father had time to come back to his rooms and leave the gun." Mr. Bowls, a piece of paper in his hands, said from the couch.

    "He could have done it when he and that solicitor came upstairs," Patchkins said, folding her arms across her chest.

    "I was with Mr. Nivin the whole time?" Wyck defended himself.

    "I doubt he would have recommended us using his room for Aggie’s recovery if he had left such a volatile piece of evidence out in the open," Bowls countered.

    "Unless he wanted us to find it," Patchkins said.

    "Enough!" Wendell said. "Where is Mr. Nivin, Father?"

    The priest set the gun down and regarded the open door to his chamber. "He should have joined us by now. I don’t understand.... Hold it." Wyck snapped his fingers. "The hallway was dark." The priest stepped over the coffee table and strode out of his apartment to Patchkins’ objection, and others questioning stares. Wyck headed to the stairs, and third floor. There with the others climbing the flight behind him he stared at the dark hallway for a second, then waved the stragglers forward. He marched them to Ashbury’s room and threw open the door.

    The room had become very warm. Its heating source wasn’t hard to ascertain.

    "No!" Wyck said running to the fireplace, which was then fully engulfed in flame. Too late.

    Meanwhile, Mrs. Patchkins entered and moaned at the sight of the dead man in his bed. Martha grimaced, and the late-arriving Wendell put a hand to his heart.

    "What are you doing Father?" Mr. Bowls said. "Nivin did this!" Wyck said. He crouched down and seized the poker, then began to stab the stacks of paper burning within. He hooked one and flipped it out on to the carpet. Mr. Bowls had arrived by then and began stamping out its burning pages while Wyck continued his salvaging. He managed to retrieve a few loose papers from that thick stack in the center, but the whole was lost.

    "These last few papers are newspaper," Bowls said crouching down to inspect the priest’s salvage. "We’re lucky they survived."

    "I can’t read this ..." Wyck said, studying the paper.

    "No," Bowls agreed. "They’re pretty badly burned, but the articles are written in Arabic."

    Bowls and Wyck exchanged wordless stares, before moving onto the first item the priest had saved.

    Wyck rose with its cracked, leather bound cover resting between his palms. "This is part of Mr. Sacks’ travel log," he said. "I’ve seen it before."

    "Why would anyone want to burn the Secretary’s travel log?" Bowls asked as Wyck privately flipped through its singed and blackened pages. Mr. Bowls looked to the entryway. The others had retired to the hallway with the dead body’s disturbing presence. "If you show me your clue, I’ll show you mine?" he asked quietly.

    Wyck closed the logbook and regarded the Society’s researcher. Mr. Bowls held up a folded piece of paper.

    "I found this in Aggie’s pocket," he said. "I only managed to steal a glance at it with everyone around, but I’d say it should shed some light on Mr. Ashbury’s death for you."

    Wyck snatched the paper from the man and handed him the book in the same motion. "The suicide note!" Wyck said. "Nivin and I were wondering where it was."

    "You and Nivin?" Bowls said. "You knew Ashbury killed himself?"

    "Nivin pieced it together ..." Wyck’s words died in his throat as he thought on Nivin’s possible new role in all this business. Silently he read the note as Bowls studied the logbook.

    The note was a handwritten admission to the murder of the two men in the stables, and Sacks. It went on to describe a blackmail plot that Ashbury had committed upon some unnamed persons, and his attempts to cover his tracks by means of murder, and with the realization that his plan had failed, ultimately his own death. Sacks apparently was attempting to blackmail the blackmailer; setting the catalyst of suicide in motion.

    Both men lowered their reading at the same time and regarded one another.

    "You said you found this in Aggie’s pocket?" Wyck asked.

    "Yes."

    Wyck looked at the folded note in his hands. He said. "Nivin and I found the chamber here had been disturbed. Someone had removed obvious signs of Ashbury’s suicide."

    "Aggie?"

    The Priest nodded. "It would appear so."

    "Perhaps, she and Ashbury were lovers?"

    "Or, perhaps she discovered the body in the morning when she cleaned?" Wyck posed.

    Bowls scoffed at the holy man. "Then, why didn’t she tell anyone about it. Why did she go into hiding, and run from us?"

    "All valid points. I will concede it suggests a relationship between the two...."

    "A possible explanation for that bastard son of hers as well," Mrs. Patchkins voiced from the doorway. "I would say Mr. Nivin has some explaining of his own to do, Father." The plump woman cast a quick, cold-glance at Ashbury then addressed the two men further. "The Archbishop has escorted Martha back downstairs so she can get some things to help tend to the other servant. Perhaps when that maid recovers she’ll answer some questions as well."

    "Yes, perhaps." Bowls said. "In the meantime I suggest that we look for Mr. Nivin, and the boy."

    "Well I’m not going with either of you two," Patchkins announced. She held up the gun from Wyck’s room. "I’ll search by myself."

    "Just don’t shoot anyone," Bowls said.

    "I feel safer now that I have the pistol," the woman exclaimed.   "At least I won’t be getting shot."

    Wyck looked over at Bowls. "Hell of way to spend your first visit here isn’t it?"

    The researcher nodded as Mrs. Patchkins huffed, raised her eyebrows and left on her search of the house. The priest and Mr. Bowls left Ashbury’s room moments later. They closed the door, and lost sight of one another as the corridor’s shadows fell over them.

Part 4:

    Father Wyck and Mr. Bowls emerged into the light by the top of the stair.

    "Where do you think Nivin ran off to?" Wyck asked leaning over the railing and looking down to the main floor.

    "I don’t know," Bowls said. "But what bothers me is the question of whether he acted alone."

    "An accomplice, you mean?" Wyck said. "Interesting."

    "Four murders is a lot of killing for one person."

    Wyck raised an eyebrow as he thought over Bowls’ point. He said. "I wouldn’t know."

    Bowls strode forward and clasped the banister. "Think about it, Father."

    "I don’t want to."

    The men’s eyes locked, and then fell away. After a moment's reflection Bowls turned toward the lightless hallway behind them.

    "Where are you going?" Wyck asked.

    "I want to check out Nivin’s room since we’re here," he said.

    Wyck straightened, and said. "I think I’ll go with you. The last time I was left on my own a murderer escaped, and Aggie almost died."

    Bowls found something in the comment amusing, and managed a smirking-laugh as he searched for his passkey. The pair headed down the hallway.

    "I wish the police would get here," Wyck said. "I’d feel a little safer."

    "They do seem to be taking their time," Bowls commented.

    A moment later they stood in front of Nivin’s darkened portal. Bowls fiddled with the key in the lock when Wyck suddenly grabbed his wrist. "What if he’s hiding inside?" The priest posed.

    Bowls looked up and down the door’s height. "I think he could find a better hiding place Father," he said. "Besides, I have some things to ask him." The latter Bowls said gruffly. He twisted the key and flung the door open. Nivin’s room was on the corner of the manor house, and faced west so the light didn’t blind the two investigators. The roof’s angled truss formed an elongated nook with a large day-window at its head. Opposite the nook was an unmade bed, and the room itself was littered with implements of travel: A portable iron, alarm clock, writing pads, clothing, and Nivin’s monogrammed leather suitcases and traveling bags. A fifth, plaid suitcase, lay on the bed with a suit jacket folded over it.

    "He must travel quite a bit," Bowls said.

    "Don’t you all?" Wyck asked stepping toward the bathroom’s open door.

    "I must, yes," Bowls said. "I can’t speak for the others, but my work takes me to many places around the world."

    "Research for the Church’s charities," Wyck said.

    "Church?" Bowls’ words stung with contempt. "Perhaps if they could afford my services."

    "You mean you don’t work for the Church," Wyck said from the bathroom.

    "No," Bowls stated.

    Wyck returned to the main room in time to see the man’s sour expression.

    "Then what are you doing here?" Wyck asked. Bowls’ dark eyes bore into the priest from across the room. "Nivin told me you all were here to confer on the Society’s charitable works," the priest went on.

    "At this point I would discount Nivin as a reliable source," Bowls scoffed, and plopped himself down on the bed.

    "Mr. Bowls I think we must be completely candid with one another." Wyck said, sitting on the edge of the bed himself. His extra weight on the mattress angled the plaid suitcase, so the jacket slid off and into his lap. "Why are you here?" he asked again.

    "Is this a confessional, Father" Bowls said, getting to his feet.

    A wrap of hundred dollar bills slid into Wyck’s lap with the researcher’s sudden motion off the bed. The Priest held up the wad of money.

    "I’ve seen this before," Wyck announced. "Yes, this is one of the wrappers from the stables. I found it in an empty briefcase."

    "That one came from the jacket, though?" Bowls asked.

    "No, it came from the...." Wyck reached over flipped opened the plaid suitcase. Both men’s eyes widened as they gazed, slack-jawed, at the money packed suitcase. Several more packets of bills spilled out onto the bed. The Priest stood. "My God." Wyck said, making the sign of the cross.

    "That’s a lot of money, Father," Bowls said.

    "Quite a bit, my son."

    "Enough to kill four people over?" Bowls asked.

    "There is no such sum," Wyck countered. He faced Bowls, determined then to resume his questioning. "Mr. Bowls, why are you here?"

    The man from Cairo stepped away from Wyck. He said. "Personal business."

    "Are you being blackmailed!" Wyck demanded.

    "I...."

    "Who is blackmailing you!" Wyck asked.

    "I never said I...."

    Wyck stepped toward the researcher, and said. "Those papers in the fireplace. One’s in Arabic. Ashbury is a blackmailer according to the maid’s note. Are you being blackmailed, sir?"

    "We’re all being blackmailed, Father!" Bowls said. He walked to the day window. "I can’t speak about the others. I was invited to this place by anonymous letter. A letter from the person blackmailing me. It mentioned a union of common souls. Once I got here I realized that commonality was blackmail."

    "Then Wendell is being ..." Wyck began.

    "Blackmailed," Bowls said. "Or is the blackmailer."

    Wyck reeled away from the man. "No," he said.

    Suddenly two gun shots echoed through the house.

    "Mrs. Patchkins!" Wyck said.

    "She’s shot Nivin, I’ll bet," Bowls blurted.

    The two men ran from Nivin’s room, but instead of going to the main stair they took the back stairwell. Their route led them through the kitchen, and dining room before emerging into the main hall. Outside the study’s door stood Wendell, Martha, and Mrs. Patchkins.

    "What’s happening?" Bowls said. "Did you fire that gun?" he asked the plump woman.

    "Well, I didn’t want to scream again," she said.

    "Why did you need to scream?" Wyck asked.

    "I’ve found Mr. Nivin," she stated. "Inside the study. He’s dead."

    "Was he shot?" Wyck asked.

    Mrs. Patchkins looked to the ceiling. "I didn’t get that close. I thought you ... men could take on that duty."

    Bowls and Wyck exchanged glances as Wendell pushed himself into the study. The others followed with Martha bringing up the rear.

    "Oh," the cook said, seeing the body. "I’m going back to my kitchen again. I can’t stand to see any more of this."

    No one stopped her from leaving; they were all too engrossed with the latest murder. Nivin sat at the desk, slumped forward over the blotter. Bowls inspected the murder suspect. "I can see no sign of a wound .... Wait! There are red lines across his neck," he said.

    "Strangled," Patchkins said, and cast an accusatory glance at Wyck.

    "There are also marks on the chair’s back rest," Bowls went on. "The killer used the chair as leverage in the killing." Bowls glanced at the desk .... There was something . . . the pens, a paperweight, the phone, an overturned wine glass had stained many of the papers in red.... Bowls tried to think. It was something Wyck has said earlier. Something about.... He picked up the phone.

    "Well," Mrs. Patchkins said, "someone killed the killer. Who ever did it, I for one am thankful. Now all we have to do is wait for the police...."

    "There won’t be any police," Bowls said. He flipped the receiver through his fingers and held it out for Mrs. Patchkins to take. The society’s board member huffed, then took the phone from the researcher. If it was possible for the solemn looking woman to frown, she managed it.

    She looked at Bowls, and said. "It’s dead."

    Bowls spun to the Archbishop. "Father, who called the police before? You or Nivin."

    Wendell turned his head sideways, and said apologetically. "I’m afraid Mr. Nivin was the one who made the actual phone call, I was off looking for Aggie in the cellar."

    "Then we can assume Mr. O’Connel is waiting at the gatehouse in vain."

    "I would like to know what Mrs. Patchkins was going to tell the police?" Wyck blurted the question then stepped forward. "That one of us murdered the murderer, and it’s okay; they can go home now."

    "Don’t be absurd," Patchkins said. "The police will fulfill their function, whatever that entails. I for one am glad to see a little incentive was taken by someone in this house. In fact I’m going to see what if anything that cook has ready for lunch. I’m famished."

    "You’re going to eat!" Wyck said.

    "One must keep their strength up, now shouldn’t they," she said. Then with another huffing sound she left the study.

    "The police aren’t coming anyway," Wendell said, after she was gone.

    "We’ll see about that," Bowls said. He stormed toward the study’s door.

    "Where are you going?" Wyck asked, quick to follow.

    "I have a portable phone in my room," he said.

    Wyck and the Archbishop exchanged glances, and then the priest dashed after Bowls. "Mr. Bowls wait," he said from the bottom of the stair.

    The Cairo native was halfway up the stair’s first flight. He said. "Meet me back downstairs, Father. In the dining room."

    Wyck watched Bowls make his way past the second floor’s landing. The priest followed anyway. He wanted to go and check on Aggie, at the very least lock the door to his room, so she would be safe until the police arrived. On the second floor he gazed up at the third landing to see Bowls disappear into the shadows of the hallway. Wyck walked to his room and discovered the door open. He strode into the entryway, then stopped.

    The sofa where they had laid her was empty. Aggie was gone. Wyck searched his apartment for her, but she was nowhere to be found. The Priest sat on his sofa. He leaned back and rubbed his eyes, trying to make sense of it all.

    A gunshot snapped Wyck out of his reflections. He sat forward then jumped to his feet. The priest ran to the landing. It sounded as if it came from above him, so Wyck, who had become apt at discerning such things recently, ran up the stair. There an open door allowed a shaft of light to further mark the source of the gunshot. Wyck ran toward it. It was Bowls room, and Mr. Bowls lay in the middle of the floor, dead.

    Wyck entered and looked around the room for the killer’s exit. There was only one. The priest ran back to the darkened hallway, and then headed toward the back of the manor house, and rear stairs. He headed carefully, down the flights. The priest felt he knew who was doing all this now. He didn’t know the why, but when he discovered the body of Martha before the black curtain on the kitchen’s pantry table, a knife sticking out of her back, he was relatively certain who he would find alive in the next room.

    The priest backed his way out of the kitchen and into the dining room. At the head of the room’s table sat Mrs. Patchkins, the plump woman sitting up straight in the high-backed chair, the pistol lying on the table in front of her. To the woman’s left, his face down on the table, arms sprawled out before him was the unmoving body of Wendell.

    "Mrs. Patchkins," Wyck shouted. "Who’s left to accuse who of murder?"

    She didn’t answer, but smugly stared ahead at the large French windows behind Wyck. The priest strode closer. "I presume you have to kill me now? There aren’t many of us left, Mrs. Patchkins."

    Again she didn’t answer, and Wyck came closer crossing to the table’s right-hand side. "Do you have enough bullets, Mrs. Patchkins." The Priest slapped his hand on the table and said. "Have you gone mad!"

    She said nothing, and it was then Wyck noticed the thin golden cord tied around her neck, the twine in effect keeping her sitting upright. Wyck backed away from the table.

    "My God," he said. "My God."

    "I believe it’s too late for that," Wendell said, rising, and seizing the gun as he sat back in his seat. He laughed.

    "Father," Wyck said. "You’re the blackmailer. Why?"

    "Let’s not forget killer too." He rolled a glance over at Mrs. Patchkins. "Oh, Mr. Nivin was very helpful, but in the end I had do my own work, again. As for the why," Wendell stood. "I’m just cleaning house, Father. These people have been on the hook for too long. One must set their catch free, or cook them, eventually."

    "The stables?"

    "Ah, my collection agents," Wendell said. "They were retired."

    "How do you hope to get away with all this?" Wyck asked.

    "Well, it was easier with Ashbury taking all the blame," Wendell said.

    "But Aggie stole the note and made the whole thing look suspicious," Wyck answered.

    "Yes, I’ve taken notice of my Aggie’s role in all this, and I intend to deal with her next. Besides with a shovel, I wouldn’t have to explain all the deaths. And there’s no record of anyone visiting this house."

    "The travel logs survived, even though, you killed Sacks," Wyck said.

    "Mr. Nivin did that little deed, but Mr. Sacks was becoming bothersome anyway."

    "He had your travel records, and could connect you to the others."

    "Exactly, Father," Wendell said. "As for the others travel plans, each of them is far too scared of exposure to leave traces of their coming here. I could count on them for that." 

    "I assume you’ve already dealt with the boy then?" Wyck asked.

    "What?" Wendell said. "He’s safe enough, tied up in the cellar."

    "You didn’t hurt him?"

    "Father? Why would I hurt my son? Are you sick?"

    "Am I ...?" Wyck began when O’Connel knocked on the French doors behind him. Wendell pivoted the gun’s aim toward the groundskeeper....

    "Bloody hell ..." the gardener’s screamed. He dove for the ground as the Archbishop fired once at the window.

    Wyck, meanwhile, had stepped further to the right, and saw as he did the black curtain at the head of the table open. Aggie rushed out from the pantry area, with the bloody knife from Martha’s back raised high. The maid angrily charged the Archbishop.

    Wyck held off diving under table to hear her scream as she ran: "You bastard! He’s not your son, and you killed his father!"

    Ashbury, Wyck decided she meant, but then lost track of the thought as he watched Aggie sink the blade deep into Wendell’s back.

    The Archbishop staggered forward a step or two. He fired twice more, shattering small glass panes in the French window as O’Connel swore and shouted outside. Then the shooting stopped. Wendell fell to the floor. Dead.

    Sobbing, the maid collapsed into the nearest chair. "You bastard. I’m not your Aggie!"

    The groundskeeper knocked on the window again. "Is the bloody shooting over with in there, Father!" O’Connel shouted.

    Wyck sat himself across from the maid. He cast one last look back at Patchkins, made the sign of the cross, and said. "I sure hope so."