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“Please follow me.”
He's definitely a bit bossy for a dead guy. Do I mind? Considering where we are and how insecure I am, I comply without flinching. We walk through two icy corridors and up stone staircases. When we reach the first floor, he goes off on a tangent.
“I'm going this way,” he tells me as we leave the building to go into the cloister that leads to the gardens and outdoor areas.
As I had feared, the premises are immense and the idea of completing the circuit in such a short space of time seems compromised. Come to think of it, the logical thing to do would be to dedicate the upper floors to the cells, where I have little chance of finding a body. I might as well concentrate my search on the common areas.
Determined to proceed methodically, I rush down the corridor and open the doors one by one. First the refectory, lined with antique wooden tables hollowed out by centuries of use and benches so frail that I doubt they'll be able to support the weight of healthy monks for much longer. I continue on to the kitchens, then two rooms dedicated to relaxation—obviously, we don't share the same definition of the term—and finally, visiting rooms so austere that they would make those in today's prisons pale in comparison. The monks can barely make out their visitors through the wide claustra. The paintings, on the other hand, are breathtakingly beautiful. Depicting the surroundings, they cover every centimeter of the room, right up to the ceiling.
The rooms are so minimalist that I have little to examine. So, I head for the end of the corridor, which heralds an important annex: the abbey cloister.
Here, the stone walls are no longer clad with wood from furniture but are now expertly crafted with a careful paneling that reminds me of solid oak.
I'm walking toward the main hall when I hear voices. Someone's coming! If I just stand here, I'll be discovered. Where can I hide in this bare corridor?
The footsteps are getting closer; I've got to take cover now!
I can make out a curtain in front of an alcove containing a statue in a sorry state. It's so bulky that it leaves me little room. I crawl into a recess and fold back the heavy curtain.
Holding my breath in the folds of the dusty curtain where I've taken refuge, I hear voices arguing.
“I don't think you appreciate the scale of the problem: the body isn’t decomposing! We've tried burning it, but it's indestructible!”
“You're making this up, my dear man. It’s impossible!”
“I can confirm: the body hasn't changed in over a week. You'd think he was asleep—”
“It's imperative to find out what's wrong and how to solve the problem. It can't just sit there!”
“Well, I know, but what to do?”
“You've got some good ones! How do you expect us to identify the problem? Everything has been done according to your instructions.”
“Even the Sin Eater?”
“Even the Sin Eater.”
I feel like I recognize that voice.
“Did you attend the ceremony?”
“Are you kidding? I have no desire to be damned! I simply showed her the way. She managed.”
So it was Sir Jones who welcomed me to the manor. But what role does he play in this affair?
“Her?”
“Yes. It was a young woman. I couldn't tell you more, I hardly looked at her. When she left, the bread and beer were gone, and the candles had burned out...”
“You showed such courage,” replies the other voice in an ironic tone. “And what do we do now? We've got to get rid of Ember Crow, and that means the body!”
“What do you suggest?”
“You tell me; you're the paranormal specialist! It's a matter of public order, I remind you. Use your brains!”
“As you just pointed out, I'm a paranormal specialist. I can't invent a solution to a problem I know nothing about.”
“So you're no use to us at all!”
