The nave was shadowy and dark, and its high ceiling rose in a series of gothic arches above Phyllida’s head. Faint red, blue, and gold light spilled over the altar from the moonlight shining through stained glass behind it. Six very small lamps were lit along the sides of the rows of pews in the nave—three lanterns on each side—and did little more than to provide long shadows and dark patches. Seven offering candles winked and danced in their red holders in one of the small alcoves off to the side.

“Oh, there you are!” Phyllida said when she saw the figure kneeling in one of the pews next to the offering candles. “Rita?”

She hadn’t expected to need Bradford’s torch so soon, but here she was. The light beamed bright and strong and she shone it toward the maid, who still hadn’t moved.

That was not good.

Phyllida’s heart surged into her throat as she approached. Her fingers had suddenly gone stiff and icy.

“Rita?”

But she already knew it was no good. The flashlight shone over the maid’s inert body, which was slumped over the pew in front of her—not in prayer, but in death.

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 16

PHYLLIDA TOOK A MOMENT TO OFFER A PRAYER OF GODSPEED FOR the poor maid’s soul. Then, using the torch, she began a cursory examination of Rita’s body . . . which was still slightly warm to the touch.

This realization had Phyllida straightening sharply to look around, beaming her light slowly and carefully into the shadowy corners of the church. Whoever had killed Rita was not long gone.

She hesitated, then, much as she wanted to finish her examination of the body, Phyllida hurried toward the closest door, reasoning that whoever had murdered the maid would have made for the nearest exit in order to melt into the night. She certainly hadn’t seen or passed anyone near the main entrance of the church, so they hadn’t come that way.

The side door was only a few feet from the stand of red offering candles, and Phyllida pushed it open slowly, peering into the churchyard, which was cloaked in shadows from the trees that grew in a stately line next to the church. Surely this was the direction the killer had gone; it was dark and unobtrusive. She kept her torch turned off in an effort to not give away her presence, listening and straining to look into the shadows, but the night was still and silent. The only sound was the scream of a fox in the distance.

After a moment, Phyllida eased back inside the church, closing the door behind her and, after brief consideration, bolting it from the inside.

Now she returned her attention to the body of the unfortunate maid, shining her torch over the scene.