“It concerns the spate of unexplained murders occurring in Silesia of late…” he said, when the screaming had subsided once more. “Sir Albrecht of Bart, murdered near Strzelin. Sir Piotr of Bielawa, killed somewhere near Henryków. Sir Czambor of Heissenstein, stabbed to death in Sobótka. The merchant Mikołaj Neumarkt, attacked and killed on the Świdnica highway. The merchant Fabian Pfefferkorn, murdered on the very steps of Niemodlin collegiate church. The bishop must have heard about them. As have you.”

“This and that has reached our ears,” the Wallcreeper acknowledged indifferently. “Neither I nor the bishop have concerned ourselves unduly with it. Since when is a murder such a sensation? People never stop killing each other. Instead of loving their neighbours, people hate each other and are liable to send them to meet their Maker for any old thing. Everybody has enemies, and there’s never a shortage of motives.”

“You read my thoughts,” Hejncze declared, equally indifferently. “The same thing applies to these unexplained murders. Apparently, there’s no lack of either motives or enemies on whom suspicion quickly falls, be it neighbourly wrangles, or marital infidelity, or family feuds. You think you have the guilty within reach and that everything’s clear. Then you examine the case more closely and nothing is clear. And that’s what is sensational about these murders.”

“Is that all?”

“No. There is in addition the astonishing skill of the criminal—or criminals. In every case, the attacks occurred suddenly, literally out of the blue as they were all carried out at noon.”

“Interesting.”

“Now you begin to see why these murders are so sensational.”

“Something else is fascinating,” repeated the Wallcreeper, “which is that you don’t recognise the words of the psalm. Doesn’t ‘from the arrow that flieth in the day’—a sagitta volante in die—mean anything to you? An arrow striking like lightning, a bolt from the blue bearing death? The destruction that wasteth at noonday doesn’t remind you of anything? I am indeed surprised.”

“So, a demon.” The Inquisitor brought his hands with fingertips touching to his lips, but didn’t manage to entirely hide a sarcastic smile. “A demon is roaming around Silesia committing crimes. A demon and a destroying arrow. Well, well. Incredible.”

“Haeresis est maxima, opera daemonum non credere,” the Wallcreeper retorted at once. “Is it fitting that I, an ordinary mortal, should have to remind the Papal Inquisitor about it?”

“It is not.” The Inquisitor’s gaze hardened and a dangerous tone entered his voice. “It is entirely unfitting, Lord Grellenort. Better that you concentrate on answering my questions than on reminding me of things beyond your understanding.”

The agonised scream from the crypt was a meaningful counterpoint to his statement. But the Wallcreeper didn’t even flinch.