The Fallen by Tarn Richardson

Author:Tarn Richardson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gerald Duckworth & Co

FORTY SEVEN

THE VATICAN. VATICAN CITY.

Tacit and the others took the stairs at a jog and ducked into the corridor at the very top, once they knew it was clear. There was a ground-floor window halfway along it through which they had come half an hour earlier and they made for it, Tacit checking every passageway and doorway before they slipped past. Down here there were no lights save the moon’s pale glow through the windows. Suddenly Tacit stopped dead in his tracks and dropped to his haunches, Isabella following his lead, Sandrine and Henry pausing three paces behind her.

“What is it?” she asked, placing a hand on his broad back.

“Shhh!” he answered, his head turned to the side, as if trying to make out a sound from beyond. He rose and scurried down a bisecting corridor, his body low, his fingers spread wide. He dropped again to his haunches twenty feet on and listened, his head craned to one side, senses honed. Five seconds later he moved on once more, further into the depths of the new passageway.

“What is the matter with the man?” exclaimed Henry, breathlessly. “That’s not the way we’re supposed to go!”

Isabella swore and scuttled after him, the chain mail still folded across the crook of her arm.

“Tacit!” she called under her breath, feeling concern beat in her chest. This was no time for heroics, no time to get side-tracked. For once she agreed with Henry and Sandrine. They had to get out, get to Sister Malpighi’s quarters and see if she was able to shed any light on events, on the Darkest Hand, suggest a way forward. She knew the longer they dawdled, the greater the danger would be. Tacit moved forward again. Isabella cursed once more. She had always felt coming back to the Vatican was a mistake.

Tacit was looking down at something in the corridor in front of him. She joined him and felt the breath sucked out of her.

“Monsignor Benigni!” she hissed, looking at the figure lying prostrate on the floor of the passageway.

Tacit turned the dead man’s head to the side, Benigni’s blind eyes staring away into the black corners of the corridor.

“Broken neck,” Tacit muttered darkly, his mouth turned up with grim admiration at the manner by which his death had been delivered. A swift blow. A strike from a professional. An Inquisitor. “He never would have felt a thing.” He set the flat of his palm against the forehead of the leader of the Sodalitium Pianum. “Still warm. Only just killed. Missed it by minutes.” Tacit looked up into the darkness beyond. “Which means his killer is still nearby. Never had a chance to hide the body.”

“Come on,” said Isabella, pulling at his arm to get him to rise, “let’s get out of here. We need to go. Now.”

“Do you know if Benigni still lived at his old residence?” Tacit asked, stepping after her, but with his eyes fixed to the dead body behind them. His mind had begun to turn, homing in on this new and, he supposed, important discovery.

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