I missed them all.

‘Did I awaken you?’ Brother Prosper demanded.

‘Yes you did,’ I answered, frankly.

‘I couldn’t rest,’ Brother Prosper muttered (as if his not resting was sufficient reason for me – a lesser mortal – not to, either). ‘My cell was stifling. My nostrils were so full of the damn smell.’

‘Smell?’ I echoed.

‘Disinfectant.’

‘Ah.’ I nodded.

‘Other saints smell of lilies or violets I’m told,’ Brother Prosper confided, ‘sweet scents. The Holy Virgin is reputed to carry a heavenly aura of roses. But not her. Her scent has a … a bleaching quality, a sharp, harsh, antiseptic quality …’

He paused, thoughtfully, still breathing heavily.

‘What’s the difference?’ he wondered. ‘Between the two?’

‘Sorry?’ I wasn’t quite following.

‘Antiseptic and disinfectant. The difference?’

‘Well I suppose the one is used to kill germs on the body – has a medical application – while the other is used mainly in the—’

‘Not pine …’ he mused, interrupting.

‘Eucalyptus?’ I hazarded a wild guess.

‘Exactly.’

‘I think it possibly has two types of application,’ I persisted (determined to complete my intelligent analysis), ‘one medical, the other domestic.’

‘Are you mad?’ Brother Prosper enquired.

‘Pardon?’

I wasn’t sure whether Brother Prosper was objecting to my former definition (which I was pretty certain was spot-on) or making further – and unrelated – enquiries as to the overall state of my mental health.

‘Am I talking to a madman?’ he repeated.

Ah. The latter, it seemed. I paused before responding since I was (I openly confess) somewhat perplexed by this question. I had never really considered myself ‘mad’ before. Maverick, wilful, tough, free-spirited, certainly. Although …

‘Am I talking to a madman?’ Brother Prosper enquired for a third time.

… although I could easily imagine how some of my behaviour hitherto could conceivably have been construed as … well, as slightly …

‘I paddle my own canoe, Brother,’ I said (feeling as though only a thoroughly sane person – at root – would have the calm self-assurance to respond in this manner).

‘I won’t speak candidly to a sane person,’ Brother Prosper helpfully followed up.

‘I see.’

(Well that was certainly going to cast the cat amongst the pigeons!)

‘I took the photographs,’ Brother Prosper muttered, ‘I stole them from your bag while Linus ran off to get help – earlier, after you collapsed …’

A measure of grunting followed as Brother Prosper pulled the envelope of photographs out from under his robe and pushed them back into my bag which – it appeared – was presently stationed under his chair.

‘They’ll have checked your bag when you first arrived,’ he whispered, ‘but I think they’ll leave it alone now – now that you’re fully conscious.’

‘They?’ I echoed, slightly panicked.

Brother Prosper didn’t respond.

‘Did Father Hugh leave this morning of his own free will?’ I asked.

‘Of course!’ Brother Prosper snorted. ‘Father Pietr does exactly as the abbot tells him. It’s a matter of obedience. It’s his choice to always do as he is told.’