Blood darkened the back of Rita’s uniform, and Phyllida could see where a blade had been shoved in, right into the heart from behind, and then withdrawn. A single, silent wound had done the deed—and the weapon was nowhere to be found.

It seemed the murderer had graduated from subtle, less precise methods to something more accurate—and desperate—in less than a day.

Phyllida suspected that had something to do with the perpetrator becoming concerned about being identified. Which meant she had been doing her job. She found herself looking out into the shadows of the church once more. Normally a peace-inducing place with its flickering candles, tall, graceful arches, and softly lit stained glass, now the church was eerily silent and forbidding—a somber witness not to life eternal, but to brutal death.

Once more assuring herself that she was alone, Phyllida turned again to the dead girl. Though she wanted to ease Rita down into a more respectful position or to at least cover her, she knew better than that. The inspector would want to see the scene of the crime just as she’d found it.

She did, however, cast the torch’s beam along the floor, looking for footprints or anything that might be helpful in identifying the culprit.

But other than the pool of blood that had run and dripped onto the stone floor and kneeler in front of Rita, she found nothing of interest. No footprints, no bloody fingerprints, no conveniently dropped button or item from one’s pocket . . .

The murderer was not only very clever but also slick and silent as a wraith.

The thought had Phyllida going still once more. She’d been here for at least fifteen minutes and hadn’t sensed the presence of anyone else in the church . . . and even now she didn’t feel as though she were being watched.

Still, she shined the torch around the church again and listened very carefully.

Nothing.

Phyllida had examined the floor and pews around Rita, but not the maid’s body itself. The single stab wound indicated a near-instant cause of death, but there could be more information to be had.

Carefully, so as not to move the body out of place, Phyllida continued her examination. Rita’s fingers had a rosary tangled within them, and those digits had remained curled tightly around the beads. Her weight had sagged forward as she died, the pew in front and the kneeler propping her upright.

Phyllida beamed the torch over Rita’s body on one side, then went around and did the same on the other, looking for anything of interest . . . and her diligence was rewarded when she saw the corner of a paper peeking from Rita’s apron pocket.