Fiction

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Father Francis Anderson was ushered into the small oak-panelled office. The cardinal sat opposite him, the other side of the desk. His superior rarely looked up from the papers spread across the desk.
“Good morning, your eminence.” Father Francis said. “I came as quickly as I could, as you requested.”
“Good. Father Stoker is dead.” the cardinal said bluntly. “He was found in his church this morning, lying in front of the altar.”
“I heard.” Father Francis replied. “Heart attack, wasn’t it?”
“Murder.” the cardinal replied.
“Sir?”
“I said, he was murdered.” the cardinal looked up and removed his glasses, looking into Francis’ eyes, as if looking for a response. Francis’ head whirled, he wondered how this information could have gone unreported.
“And the papers are covering up for this?” he guessed, “I don’t understand, the media has always been a useful tool…”
“No, his death was, to all intents and purposes, a heart attack. That’s what killed his body. But his soul, his mind, was murdered.”
“I’m not following you.”
“No, you won’t, yet. Father Stoker was working on something for us, something extremely secret, on orders direct from the Vatican. We need someone to carry on his work. It needs to be someone young and strong, who can stand up to the thing that killed him.”
“The thing that killed him? Sir, I need a bit more of an idea what it was…”
“And I wish we could tell you, but I’m afraid that would do more harm than good. Read through his papers, examine his sources. You’ll reach your own conclusions, and only that way can you prepare yourself.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“We’re counting on you, Francis. When this is all over, you’ll realise the true importance of what you’re undertaking. I would love to be able to help you more, but you will understand in time why I can not. You’d better go and pack, you’re saying morning mass in Weystone in two days’ time.”

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