so. A walk through the grounds would be enjoyable, actually.
Using the vestry’s rear door, the priest went outside. He rubbed his hands together to try to ward off the biting chill, and took a deep lungful of the fresh morning air.
But, he realized, suddenly growing tense, there was something else present in the air that morning - a heavy odor that almost certainly wasn’t fresh. He frowned and looked again towards the hawthorn tree.
Was that it, he mused. Had the magpies come across a dead animal – a badger or squirrel perhap s and were feasting on the remains? In these parts, squirrels were almost as plentiful as magpies so that wasn’t unusual. Well, whatever had the birds’ attention, he noted, it was in the vicinity of the tree.
Shuddering, but this time not from the morning air, Father Byrne strode in the direction of the tree, all the while watching the magpies and their delighted swooping dance.
But when the object of the birds’ attention suddenly came into view, the priest immediately revised his earlier belief. Reeling back in horror, he fell to his knees and invoked all the angels and saints in heaven to protect him.
Far from feeling close to God, right then Father Byrne was certain he had come face to face with Satan himself.
Reilly was taken aback by the size of the hulking stone church.
Located in a small town just outside Blessington, an area famous for its beautiful mountain lakes, the church had been shrouded in the cold gray of the early morning fog on Reilly’s arrival,.
Although the Wicklow countryside was only a short drive out of the city, Reilly was unfamiliar with the area and she had forgotten to bring the GFU van’s sat nav. After she’d taken a few wrong turns, Chris had sent a patrol car to meet her and guide her to the location of what he’d described on the phone as ‘yet another brain-fry murder’.
As the sun rose, the church appeared huge, but an almost menacing darkness still clung to it, as though the mist had not moved on, but rather simply condensed back down into the masonry.
As the clouds parted further, the church grounds sparkled with droplets of moisture, each diffracting so that everything seemed rainbow light, except the church, which brooded with a heavy gothic gravity of mass. It sat upon a raised mound, and a macabre cast-iron spiked fence encircled it protectively.
Entering the sanctified space, Reilly noticed that the building felt cold and forbidding, far removed from the vibrant and resplendent churches she had come across elsewhere.
It was decorated in an austere manner that suggested respectful worship a great distance removed from an unsympathetic deity.
‘Who found the body?’ she asked Kennedy.
‘The priest, Father Byrne. Chris is interviewing him now.’
As Reilly followed Kennedy through the doorway, a woman popped up from the long wooden pew upon which she had been praying.
‘Hello,’ she bubbled. ‘You must be the crime scene people. Father Byrne asked me to assist you – he’s with that nice-looking detective at the moment.’ She turned and shook their hands with a perfunctory grace obviously acquired by glad-handing her way through many church socials. ‘My name is Henrietta. I’m the chairperson of the lay committee. I help Father Byrne with the admin, and also make sure that nobody walks off with the donation box. This is just terrible,’ she babbled. ‘I really can’t believe such a thing could happen, especially around here. It’s such a quiet little place; nobody bothers anyone else and you’d never think ...’
The woman’s words went right over Reilly’s head when she looked down the aisle towards the altar.
‘Wow,’ she gasped.
A larger-than-life-size Technicolor statue of Jesus suffering horribly on the cross towered above the altar, backed by large stained-glass illustrations of the stations of the Cross.
‘Erm, very nice,’ Kennedy said, obviously confused as to what the interior of
Using the vestry’s rear door, the priest went outside. He rubbed his hands together to try to ward off the biting chill, and took a deep lungful of the fresh morning air.
But, he realized, suddenly growing tense, there was something else present in the air that morning - a heavy odor that almost certainly wasn’t fresh. He frowned and looked again towards the hawthorn tree.
Was that it, he mused. Had the magpies come across a dead animal – a badger or squirrel perhap s and were feasting on the remains? In these parts, squirrels were almost as plentiful as magpies so that wasn’t unusual. Well, whatever had the birds’ attention, he noted, it was in the vicinity of the tree.
Shuddering, but this time not from the morning air, Father Byrne strode in the direction of the tree, all the while watching the magpies and their delighted swooping dance.
But when the object of the birds’ attention suddenly came into view, the priest immediately revised his earlier belief. Reeling back in horror, he fell to his knees and invoked all the angels and saints in heaven to protect him.
Far from feeling close to God, right then Father Byrne was certain he had come face to face with Satan himself.
Reilly was taken aback by the size of the hulking stone church.
Located in a small town just outside Blessington, an area famous for its beautiful mountain lakes, the church had been shrouded in the cold gray of the early morning fog on Reilly’s arrival,.
Although the Wicklow countryside was only a short drive out of the city, Reilly was unfamiliar with the area and she had forgotten to bring the GFU van’s sat nav. After she’d taken a few wrong turns, Chris had sent a patrol car to meet her and guide her to the location of what he’d described on the phone as ‘yet another brain-fry murder’.
As the sun rose, the church appeared huge, but an almost menacing darkness still clung to it, as though the mist had not moved on, but rather simply condensed back down into the masonry.
As the clouds parted further, the church grounds sparkled with droplets of moisture, each diffracting so that everything seemed rainbow light, except the church, which brooded with a heavy gothic gravity of mass. It sat upon a raised mound, and a macabre cast-iron spiked fence encircled it protectively.
Entering the sanctified space, Reilly noticed that the building felt cold and forbidding, far removed from the vibrant and resplendent churches she had come across elsewhere.
It was decorated in an austere manner that suggested respectful worship a great distance removed from an unsympathetic deity.
‘Who found the body?’ she asked Kennedy.
‘The priest, Father Byrne. Chris is interviewing him now.’
As Reilly followed Kennedy through the doorway, a woman popped up from the long wooden pew upon which she had been praying.
‘Hello,’ she bubbled. ‘You must be the crime scene people. Father Byrne asked me to assist you – he’s with that nice-looking detective at the moment.’ She turned and shook their hands with a perfunctory grace obviously acquired by glad-handing her way through many church socials. ‘My name is Henrietta. I’m the chairperson of the lay committee. I help Father Byrne with the admin, and also make sure that nobody walks off with the donation box. This is just terrible,’ she babbled. ‘I really can’t believe such a thing could happen, especially around here. It’s such a quiet little place; nobody bothers anyone else and you’d never think ...’
The woman’s words went right over Reilly’s head when she looked down the aisle towards the altar.
‘Wow,’ she gasped.
A larger-than-life-size Technicolor statue of Jesus suffering horribly on the cross towered above the altar, backed by large stained-glass illustrations of the stations of the Cross.
‘Erm, very nice,’ Kennedy said, obviously confused as to what the interior of
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