Pewter fired a third round, blowing a blackened crimson hole clean through the eye socket of the Corporal Henry had comforted. Without pause he fired again and again, until only a single German remained, stumbling over his fallen colleagues, screaming and pleading with bewilderment and pain, his hands held up in prayer and for mercy. Pewter levelled the smoking revolver at the soldier’s forehead and pulled the trigger.
The gun clicked.
“Bloody thing!” he cursed. He pulled the trigger again. The cylinder clicked over empty.
“Sergeant,” said Pewter, spotting Holmes shielding himself tight to the far side of the trench. He turned his eye back onto the German and drove the side of the empty revolver into his face. He went down with a grunt in a shower of blood and broken teeth. “Kill him.” He stomped away, holstering his revolver and muttering vaguely to himself. “Lieutenant Frost!” he called sharply over his shoulder. “A word, in my headquarters, if you please.”
There was little which surprised Henry after a month on the front line, but the speed by which normality returned to the trench after the flash of violence almost choked him. The cries and clamour of the pistol shots were almost immediately replaced with the distant muffle of chatter and the labour of the digging crews, the mutter of soldiers as they passed, the bright cheer of a laugh somewhere in the trench depths.
Henry stared at the bloodied jumble of bodies and the German sprawled on the trench floor, clutching at his broken teeth and weeping. He was aware of Sergeant Holmes organising the disposal of the bodies around him, leading away the distraught figure of the last remaining soldier. But he didn’t realise he was alone until a passing Tommy interrupted his private thoughts and asked if he was okay. He nodded and closed his eyes, allowing the reverberations of the violence to pass out of him.
Exhaustion and anger hit him like an army transport train. He fought hard against the urge to weep, drawing a shaking hand up under his nose to fight back against his emotions. He remembered his rank and his officer training, and straightened himself, brushing himself down briskly and tugging at his uniform. But he never remembered being taught how to act during such times at officer training. He swallowed hard on his anger through gritted teeth, before taking firm strides away.
Major Pewter had reached his bunker by the time Henry sought him out. He turned from his desk when Henry entered the dugout, adorned with an elegance and style befitting his class back in Blighty. In his left hand he held a solid cut glass tumbler of amber liquid, in his right a square glass decanter.
“Ah, Lieutenant!” he called, chirpily. “I wondered where you’d got to. Whisky?” he asked, pouring a handsome measure into a tumbler on the desk.
“Thank you, sir, no,” Henry replied, flatly.
“Nonsense.” replied Pewter, setting down the decanter and picking up the freshly filled glass, which he thrust into Henry’s hand. He turned and looked for his favourite chair, placing himself slowly into it. “It must be said, Lieutenant, I have the most frightful of headaches this morning. Come on! Drink up, for God’s sake, Frost,” he demanded, noticing that Henry stood unmoving in the middle of the dugout. “You look like you’ve lost the bloody war!” He sat back and crossed his legs, sweeping the wisps of hair across his scalp whilst he sipped at his whisky. He grimaced and immediately wondered if he’d made an error in judgement, choosing to drink so early in the morning after last night. “Come on, take a bloody seat, Frost,” Pewter insisted, indicating a chair opposite him, his tone growing as cold as Henry’s demeanour. “Sit, before you fall down. You look half done in.”
“I am,” replied Henry. “Sir,” he added, to bring ratification to his exhaustion and grievance.
“Well, take a bloody seat then, you fool!” Pewter cried, waving at the empty chair. “Can’t have you collapsing, can we?” Henry begrudgingly stepped forwards and sank into it. To sit in the presence of the Major ran contrary to everything Henry believed in but he could also feel his legs rejoice at the weight being taken from them.
The Major drank deeply from his glass, his eyes firmly set on the officer opposite.
“It’s been a terrific few hours,” he announced. His eyes were bright but there was coolness within them, like a sharp winter’s frost. “We need to capitalise on these successes. Push on. You know, back there,” he said, waving absently. “That nonsense, with the Hun.”
“The prisoners.” Henry replied.
“The enemy,” Pewter corrected. “I didn’t like what I saw there, Frost. Really shouldn’t have happened, Lieutenant. We can’t afford to take prisoners in this war. Jerry wouldn’t do the same to us, we shouldn’t with them. We have enough of a challenge ahead of us as it is without taking half of the bloody German army into our care. Understand?”
Henry looked into the corner of the bunker.
“You’ve got a good heart, Lieutenant, but you’re not here for your kindness. Consider hardening yourself up. You’re not at Eton now, Frost.”
“Winchester, Major,” Henry corrected. How, his college seemed a world away to him now.
“Crikey, no wonder you’re soft,” Pewter retorted. He allowed himself a smile but, as soon as the warmth appeared, his features hardened again: “Don’t let it happen again,” he warned. “Understood?”
Henry nodded, directing his eyes briefly towards the Major and then casting them aside.
“Good. Now,” said Pewter, draining his glass and stepping over to the sideboard to refill it. He felt mildly revived by the alcohol. A noise at the entrance to the dugout drew both of them to it.
“Excuse me, Lieutenant Frost, Major Pewter,” said a soldier, ducking into the narrow mouth of the bunker.
“Stevens!” Henry called, climbing out of his chair.
“There’s no one in the trenches. Looks like they’ve retreated back beyond Fampoux, sir.”
“Excellent!” called Pewter, setting down his glass and striding into the centre of the room. “Seems like you’ve been let off the hook, Lieutenant!” he said, accusatorially. He looked at the soldier at the entrance to the dugout. “Go on, push off now,” he ordered, shooing him with a hand. The Major switched his eyes, enflamed with excitement, back towards Henry. “Let’s get over to Fampoux and secure it without delay! It’s a big gain. We should expect a retaliation from the bastards.”
“Yes sir,” replied Henry gloomily. His men were exhausted, battered and frayed. Even deserted as the village seemed, he felt Fampoux was a stretch too far, knowing the Germans would make them work hard to keep it.
“Hopefully we won’t live to regret your decision not to have pushed on last night. I don’t quite know what is going on out there at Fampoux, but it sounds like what was discovered in that trench was nothing short of a miracle. And you can put that in the unit’s diary. The miracle of Fampoux!” he barked and chortled into his whisky.
NINETEEN
1893. THE VATICAN. VATICAN CITY.
Tacit supposed he’d never see his friends again. It was the way the man in black had called their names, the way they risen from their desks, as if called before a firing squad, and filed from the room without ceremony or cheer, out from the hall, past the black clad man who watched each passing acolyte with cold unwavering eyes.
The finality of proceedings struck Tacit. As if days were coming to an end.
His friends had grown and they had been recognised. They were now men, at least in the eyes of those who had selected them. Their journey, whatever it was that lay ahead of them, was about to begin. No longer would they look behind to the remainder left in the classroom, with their jotters of bible phraseology, left to tidy the hymn books, nor extinguish the candles at the end of Mass, nor hang the cloaks after choir practice. Their focus now was on the future.
“Where are they going?” he asked Father Adansoni later, as they walked together around the Vatican grounds. He felt grievous and barren.
“Have you ever heard of the Inquisition?” Father Adansoni asked absently, his feet crunching through
the last of the morning’s frost on the grass.
“Of course. Why do you ask? And why are you speaking to me in French?”
“To make sure you’re doing your studies!”
“Well I am.” He slipped seamlessly into German. “Just to prove to you I am.”
“I’m impressed.” Adanonsi replied, now talking in Latin. “I don’t know why I need to say I’m impressed. I’ve long been impressed by you and told you so many times. Your head must already be swollen.”
Tacit laughed but then thought of his friends now gone away and the joy was snuffed out of him.
“Why do you ask about the Inquisition?” he asked, burying the sadness deep within him.
“What do you know about it?”
“That is was a bad time.”
“And?”
“That the Church had to act, to try to bring honour and faith back to the world. That the world had grown dark. That, through the actions of the Church, light was returned to the dark places of the world when it had gone out and it was feared that it would never return.”
“And?”
“That witchcraft and sorcery was usurping the honesty of religious faith, that heretics and non-believers were poisoning the world with their lies. That our wise leaders felt they had to act, had to adopt more determined techniques to correct the misguided, punish the wicked, restore the faith.”
“And?”
“Father!” Tacit cried, a little annoyed he was being both tested and teased by his master. He looked at Adansoni and whilst he saw that his eyes were on him, they were kindly. He continued, the words coming easily to him; years of study and recital proving their worth. “That in 1834, the Inquisition was finally brought to a close and a more considered and conservative approach was adopted by the Church to spread its message and teaching.”
Adansoni nodded and smiled. “I’m impressed. Now, what would you say if I told you the Inquisition had never ended?”
“I would laugh.”
“Really? And why would that be?”
“Well, of course it ended!” laughed Tacit, and then he saw the Father’s face and the laughter was swallowed up. “How could it continue?” he asked. “I mean, look at our times today. We’re not savages any more. Nor is the world full of them. The Inquisition’s work was completed. We no longer need to behave as we did. And anyway, we couldn’t behave as we once did, surely?”
“If only that was true.”
Adansoni stopped and looked up into the sky, his eyes closed, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. After a little time he spoke again. “What if I told you the Inquisition was still very much alive. But was now hidden from public, its actions covert, underground, unspoken, unrecorded; that its work continues, continues with more energy and determination than ever before? But no trace of it you will find amongst ordinary people, no knowledge of its servants’ existence is apparent or is reported. That they work in secret. Complete secret. That those friends of yours who have left – they are going away to train to work for the Inquisition.”
“I’d say you had been at the sacramental wine!” Tacit chuckled. But then he stopped and thought of the black clad man and a shadow passed over him. He studied the gravel of the path onto which they had now walked. “I know there are bad people in the world. I am not naive. But is it really the place of the Church to behave in such a way? Surely we should be better than that?”
Adansoni smiled and looked across the Vatican grounds.
“Your honesty and faith does you credit, Poldek,” the Father said.
Tacit nodded, supposing he should be pleased at the response. But privately he felt wounded with sorrow and envy towards those friends who had been chosen and had now gone away. Their path sounded far more tantalising than the one offered to Tacit leading to the rigours of prayer alone.
“You would have liked to have joined your friends, wouldn’t you? You know where they’ve gone, don’t you, Tacit?” Adansoni watched Tacit turn away. “I’m sorry. I don’t think you’re ready. After everything, I don’t know if you’ll ever be ready. I’m sorry.”
Tacit turned his eyes towards the Father. They were heavy with tears but he smiled and fought against his emotion. “You’ve done so much for me, Father. You have nothing to apologise for.”
TWENTY
11:41. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 13TH, 1914. ARRAS. FRANCE.
The hard crunch of hobnailed boots on the tiled floor of Arras Cathedral drew the pale faced Cardinal out of the antechamber. “Cardinal Gérard-Maurice Poré?” Isabella called, as she and the imposing figure of the Inquisitor appeared out of the Cathedral gloom.
“Sister Isabella,” Cardinal Poré answered, stepping forward to peer at the figure she had brought with her. It had not been long since she had left him, alerted to the killing of the Father courtesy of the Catholic Church by means known only to them. She said she was intending to return with someone, but her reappearance so soon surprised Poré. “Good to see you again, I think,” he added, his cold eyes on Tacit. “So, I see you have found an Inquisitor to investigate this … attack?” Both Isabella and Tacit noticed how he picked the word ‘attack’ with care.
“This is Inquisitor Tacit.”
Even without the introduction from Isabella, Poré would have recognised the tell-tale signs of the Catholic Church’s most infamous of servants at once, the immense hulking figure of the Inquisitor, clad all in black save for the starched white of his dog collar, striding down the central aisle of the nave, his dark eyes staring coldly ahead from beneath his black capello romano hat. Poré was old and experienced enough to recognise what Tacit was, being well seasoned in all aspects of his faith’s arrangements. The sharp sting of past memory, when Inquisitors had intruded into his own childhood, could still catch him unawares all these many years later and leave him heaving for breath and clawing for answers.
Some wounds never truly heal.
Throughout his time as a Priest and then a Cardinal, Poré had delivered his services to all manner of people, devout Catholics, lapsed and heathen, angels and demons. But of all the people he had met, none were as distant or grim as Inquisitors and silently he hated their very existence.
There was never anything specific in their appearance which singled them out to be the people they were. Some Inquisitors were broad and strong like warriors, built for taking the battle to their enemies. Others were sly and slight like magicians, as quick with their hands as they were with their minds. It was always the haunted look which gave them away, as if they had gazed into hell and hell had left its reflection upon them. Nowadays, many Cardinals viewed Inquisitors as a vile and uncouth relic of a past age. Most Inquisitors were quick to remind Cardinals that it was they who first recommended their creation not far from a thousand years ago.
But Cardinal Poré also knew of Tacit by name and reputation. He tried to hide the swallowing in his throat and watched him with the cold of his eyes.
Just as Cardinal Poré knew Tacit, Tacit knew Poré, not because of Poré’s reputation, but because Tacit liked to make sure he was well acquainted with all senior members of the Church. When crimes were committed against it, experience told him that the crime usually originated within it. Knowing the suspect-list by heart was always a distinct advantage. He knew Poré’s rhetoric was as severe as his haircut, cropped short to his skull, as if he was undertaking some sort of penance. Tacit also liked a lot of what he’d been told about the Cardinal, that he was a straight talker, a devout Catholic, a scourge of minority religions and blasphemers. But he’d been made aware of inconvenient aspects too, that Poré’s parents had been removed for Inquisitional processing when he was younger, that he was a radical as well as a forward thinker, that he wanted to evolve and change the Church to better suit and serve the times. That sort of talk was dangerous, in Tacit’s mind. After all, Poré had recruited Father Andreas into his role at the Cathedral and that was a dangerous mistake, because Father Andreas was now dead.
A disapproving grimace sprea
d across Poré’s face. “I didn’t think murder enquiries were your domain, Inquisitor? I trust you’ll find the decency to treat this murder with the dignity it deserves.”
Tacit ignored him and walked straight past to stare down at the pool of dried blood still staining the bottom step of the ambulatory. There were splashes, spots and trails across most parts of the ambulatory and over the first two rows of pews. Poré caught the odour of Tacit as he passed, a combination of stale alcohol and poor living, and scowled. He watched him through slitted eyes.
“This is where we found him,” the Cardinal spoke gravely, stepping alongside, dwarfed by Tacit’s size.
“He was found right here, then?” Isabella asked. Poré nodded, his eyes fixed to the dark crimson stain on the tiles.
Tacit grunted disconcertingly and turned his back on the spot. He stepped up onto the ambulatory, his heavy boots clacking hard on the white and black marble.
He dug his hands into his deep jacket pockets. A hand closed around the half-finished bottle of spirit from earlier. A sudden thirst gripped him. He cursed under his breath and then remembered where he was. He raised his eyes to the large cross hanging suspended on taut wires in the air above him, by way of an apology. He could feel the hard edge of the silver six-shooter in his holster hidden beneath his coat. Killing was, of course, against the Catholic faith but, two hundred and fifty nine Hail Marys later, he was still counting the corpses and the penances. He reasoned that he mostly only ever killed the bad guys. And Tacit met a lot of bad guys in his line of work, amongst other things.
He turned back to the front of the ambulatory, directly beneath the hanging cross, tracing an invisible line between the front of the pews and where the body had been discovered. The splatter marks showed how the body had been picked up and thrown, and where it had landed. Ten feet. That would take some strength.
“What have the parishioners of the Cathedral been told?” Isabella asked Poré. “They’ll want to know why the Cathedral’s closed, where Father Andreas is.”
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