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“Let’s go talk to the rectory people,” Dane said, and Delion just nodded.

They walked around to the back of the church to the rectory, which was set off by eucalyptus trees, a high fence, and more well-tended grounds. It was quieter than Dane thought it would be, the sounds of traffic distant. The rectory was a charming two-story building, with ivy trailing over the red brick walls, the tinkling of a small fountain in the background. Everything smelled fresh.

Michael was dead and everything smelled fresh.

FOUR

Father Binney immediately rose to greet them from behind a small reception desk. He was very short, and on top of his neck sat the head of a leprechaun. Dane had never before seen hair that red, without a single strand of white. Not even Sherlock could match this. Father Binney was also nearly sixty years old. Amazing.

He stuck out his hand when he saw Delion, but in the next instant he looked like he was going to faint. He grabbed the edge of a chair, staring at Dane.

“Oh, you gave me a start.” He grabbed his chest. “You’re Father Michael Joseph’s brother, that’s it. Our sweet Father in Heaven, you’re so much alike, you scared me there for a moment. Ah, do come in, gentlemen, do come in. Inspector Delion, it is good to see you again. You must be exhausted.”

“It was a long night,” Delion said as he followed Father Binney. He said to Dane, “I visited briefly with Father Binney this morning about eight o’clock, after the forensics team finally cleared the church for use again.”

And you didn’t say a word about it to me, Dane thought. He would have been surprised, though, if Delion hadn’t been camping on the rectory’s doorstep as quickly as possible.

“He spoke to everyone,” Father Binney said. “You didn’t find anything in Father Michael Joseph’s room, did you, Inspector Delion?”

“Nothing that one wouldn’t expect.”

Father Binney was shaking his head as he led them into a small parlor. It was packed with dark-grained Chinese furniture, old and scarred and graceful, sitting on an ancient Persian carpet that was so frayed in spots that Dane was afraid to walk on it. The heavy red drapes had black dragons woven into them. “Do sit down, gentlemen.” He turned to Dane. “I am very sorry for your loss, Mr. Carver. Everyone is. We loved Father Michael Joseph, it’s a horrible thing. Oh my, you look so much like him, it’s a shock even though I’ve seen a picture with the two of you—peas in a pod, the same smile. Oh my, this is very difficult. As I told Inspector Delion this morning, I’m the one who’s responsible. If only I hadn’t agreed to let that man come to the church for confession so late.”

Father Binney sank down onto an overstuffed red brocade chair, all black against all red, except for his white clerical collar. Suddenly he covered his face with his hands. There were red hairs on the backs of his hands. Finally he looked up. “Please excuse me. It’s just that I have to get used to looking at you, Mr. Carver, you’re just so much like Father Michael Joseph. To have him gone, just gone, it’s too much. Nothing like this has ever happened here at Saint Bartholomew’s, and it’s my fault.”

Dane said in his deep, calm voice, “It isn’t your fault, Father. It isn’t mine either. It’s this madman who killed him—he’s the only one to blame here. Now, please, Father, tell us what you know about this man.”

It steadied Father Binney. Slowly, he raised his head. He shuddered one more time as he looked at Dane. Dane saw that his feet barely reached the threadbare carpet, probably a good thing, since the thing was so tatty.

“As I told Inspector Delion, the man phoned late Sunday night, around eight o’clock, I think it was. I was on the desk for that hour, which is why I took the call. He said it was urgent, said he was very ill, that if he didn’t speak to Father Michael Joseph, then he might go to hell if he died. He was very fluent, very believable. You understand, we have set times for confessions, but he pleaded with me, didn