Free Blood Brotherhood by Robert Barnard

passage, the door to which is at the end of this corridor. This central block is entirely shut off from the rest of the Community’s buildings at night.’
    â€˜I see,’ said the Bishop faintly.
    â€˜The main door is, of course, locked and bolted from the inside at night,’ pursued Father Anselm remorselessly. ‘Brother Dominic is — was — my assistant and personal servant. Only he and I sleep in this part of the building as a general rule. And then, of course, there are the guest-rooms . . .’
    There was silence for a moment.
    â€˜I see,’ said the Bishop. ‘So he must have been killed either by you, or by one of us.’
    â€˜As far as the police are concerned, that is so,’ said Father Anselm austerely. ‘As far as I am concerned, he must have been killed by one of you.’
    â€˜Quite, quite,’ said the Bishop feebly. He made a heroic effort to collect his thoughts. ‘But of course you must in any case ring the police,’ he said finally, gesturing in the direction of the discreet telephone in the murkiest corner of the room.
    Father Anselm’s mouth tightened. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Now I have your permission.’ He rose, and was proceeding in the direction of the telephone when both men were arrested by a sound.
    The Bishop sat bolt upright and felt a tingling in his scalp which made him wonder if his hair was about to stand on end. It had been, to be sure, a very slight sound, and it seemed to have come from a long way off, penetrating the substantial door of Father Anselm’s study. But it was a sound which unmistakably suggested a human being, and presumably one somewhere in the central block. The Bishop’s look showed what he undeniably felt — that he had already had as much as, or more than, a human being could take. He was to feel that several times more in the course of the night.
    Father Anselm, too, had been riveted to the floor by the sound. His deep, unfathomable eyes stared into the distance. Then he said: ‘There’s someone out there. It sounded like the main door. But that’s impossible.’
    Noiselessly he turned towards the door of his room.
    â€˜Come with me,’ he said to the Bishop.
    â€˜But don’t you think — ’ the Bishop began. But Father Anselm had swirled out of the room, and a second’s meditation convinced the Bishop that the prospect of staying there alone, even with a door between him and whatever it was, was infinitely more terrifying than the prospect of following. He showed remarkable nimbleness in pattering out after his masterful host, whose undulating outline he perceived at the end of the dark corridor leading to the Great Hall. He started after it, but then he saw it stop suddenly. Involuntarily he stopped too, then, slowly and reluctantly, he made his way towards him, and finally stoodshoulder to shoulder with him at the point where the corridor opened out into the Great Hall.
    The sight that met their eyes was a horrifying one.
    The main door had been swung open, and framed in the wash of moonlight stood the Bishop of Mitabezi. He too was wearing a white robe — though his was of African cut and style, and of richer material. He too was terrifyingly stained with red, one long splurge reaching from waist to toe.
    He was standing there, in heaven’s spotlight, gazing crazily ahead of him. The whites of his eyes seemed to pierce across the expanse of the Great Hall towards them, though his eyes were rolling. His bearing was that of a powerful man, but slouching, and with his hands outspread in a generous gesture, like a tenor finishing an aria with a sob and soliciting applause. But the tenor’s hands would not be red. His were, both of them, very red indeed. They had stained the door-handle, and even as Father Anselm and the Bishop looked, their sticky coating began to drip down to the floor of the hall.
    And then, to crown