Sebastian Gloom and Benson returned to the museum later that day frowning with disappointment. Timothy Grenfell had not been able to help them, despite trying various herbal medicines and sitting in meditation for over an hour, and in the end the investigator had thanked him, paid him for his time and started home.

     “Such is the life of a private investigator,” he said to his manservant philosophically as they drove along the street, the last remaining petals of cherry blossom blowing around their heads. The trees were almost bare now. It would be a couple more weeks before their buds broke and they began producing leaves. Gloom wondered how many more cherry blossom springs he would see before the various illnesses and weaknesses that afflicted his body finally carried him off. The positive side, he told himself, was that it made him appreciate all of life's pleasures all the more. People with healthy bodies took so much for granted that it was as though they went through their lives asleep. He, on the other hand, was wide awake and appreciating every moment that he had left.

     “So what now?” asked Benson, walking beside him.

     “I have no idea. I have no leads left to investigate, we are at a dead end. I'll think about it a little more, but we may have no choice but to leave the affair in the hands of Inspector Bailey and hope that he has more luck. As a member of the police force, he has avenues of enquiry that are not open to us.”

     “And if he fails?”

     “Then we will have to consider our options. I would hate for Father Anthony to go unpunished for the murder of Doris Kettle. I never knew the girl, but it seems perverse to me that we only feel sympathy and compassion for those we know personally.”

     “If you need me to perform some act of chastisement on your behalf, then I would be happy to do so. I did know the girl, even if only briefly, and she seemed like a good young woman who didn't deserve what happened to her. She deserves justice, and I'll be happy to deliver it.”

     “Thank you, Benson, but hopefully such drastic action won't be necessary. I have faith in the good inspector. I think he'll come good for us.”

     Arriving at the Museum, they were met by Albert, the housekeeper. “Your pardon, Sir,” he said as Benson helped Gloom into the indoor wheelchair, “but you have a visitor. A man of the church, I believe. He seemed to be in a state of some agitation, if I may say so. I've shown him to the waiting room.”

     Gloom shared a look with Benson. “Thank you, Albert,” he said. “If you would ask him to be patient for a couple of minutes longer, I’ll see him in my office as soon as I’ve gotten myself settled in.” The housekeeper nodded and went off to convey the message.

     Fifteen minutes later, Albert showed the priest into the investigator's office where Benson and Gloom were waiting for him. “Thank you, Benson,” said Gloom. “You can go now.”

     “Are you sure, Sir?” asked the manservant doubtfully. Father Anthony was a trained killer and had reason to hate Sebastian Gloom. The investigator had ways of defending himself, it was true, but leaving his frail, disabled master alone with his enemy still seemed like the sheerest madness.

     “Quite sure, Benson. I'll be fine.”

     Benson gave the priest a look that promised death if any harm should befall his master, and the priest met his gaze steadily. Then the manservant left, closing the door with a click that reminded Gloom of the sound of a coffin lid closing.

     The two men examined each other for a few moments before Sebastian Gloom spoke. “I'm guessing that the reason you're here is that you've received a visit from a certain inspector of the Manchester police force.”

     Father Anthony ignored the statement. “You've interfered with church business, Gloom. You have taken the side of Satan in the war between good and evil.”

     “And for that you've come to kill me. That’s why I sent my manservant away. He's been trained as a soldier, it's true, but you're an assassin. A killer. He wouldn't stand a chance against you. I sent him away to protect him. Tell me first, though. If you intend to murder a cripple in cold blood, how does that make you the good guy?”

     “Nothing done in the name of God is evil.”

     “Not even the murder of an innocent young woman? What did Doris Kettle do that she deserved to die? You killed her to stop her from incriminating you, and you claim to be the good guy.”

     “I didn't come here to debate morality with you...”

     “Just as well, because you'd lose. What does your God know about morality?”

     “He saves people from Hell. If not for Him, everyone would burn. He created paradise, a place of unending bliss where those who have proven their worthiness can dwell for ever. Only the most perverse individuals would fail to drop to their knees and thank him for this incredible gift.”

     “Listen to yourself! We have to prove our worthiness in order to be saved? Why? If you saw a man drowning in a lake, would you demand that he prove his worthiness before you saved him? Of course not. You'd just save him, or at least most decent people would. Why doesn’t God just save everyone?”

     “Some people don’t deserve to be saved. But even the most undeserving can still be saved. All they have to do is confess their sins and beg forgiveness. Even such a wretched soul as you can enter paradise if you confess your sins.”

     “I don't believe in the concept of sin.”

     Father Anthony stared in astonishment. “You what? Murder, rape...”

     “Those are crimes. I have no problem with the idea of crime. Do you know the difference between a crime and a sin, Father?”

     “A crime is to break the laws of man. To sin is to break the laws of God.”

     “Oh no, it goes a lot deeper than that. A crime is an act that a group of people have decided must be forbidden for the good of society as a whole, and the important point is that the law applies to everyone. Everyone, including...” He sat forward in his wheelchair to emphasise the point. “Including the people who made the law. No-one is above the law, not even judges and the nobility.”

     “God is above even the mightiest king...”

     “God makes laws, but they don't apply to Him. He can do what he likes. He can kill whoever he wants...”

     “Because He is God! That gives him the right!”

     Gloom stared at him. “You really believe that, don't you? Read the bible. God's hands are dripping with blood. The most profligate mass killer in history.”

     “God loves us. All of us. Even a crawling worm like you, Gloom.”

     “But he tortures everyone who won't worship him. If you found out that a member of your congregation was torturing people, would you say that he loved them?”

     “The wicked must be punished. Even you must see that.”

     “The wicked? I heard a story recently about a man who devoted his whole life to caring for the sick and injured. He's in Hell now for the sin of not being Christian. Why? What did he do that was so wicked?”

     “Everyone in the world today has heard the word of God. Everyone knows what they have to do to be saved; the incredible generosity of God that allows even the greatest sinner to enter paradise if they accept God's offer to worship him. If a man throws that offer back in God’s face they know what to expect. They can't act all surprised when they suffer the consequences.”

     “Worship me or else. Is that right?”

     “Worship Him and be saved.”

     “Saved from what He'll do to you if you don't worship Him.”

     “God doesn't want people to go to Hell, but He can't save those who reject His offer to worship Him.”

     “He can't? I thought He was supposed to be all powerful. How can there be something He can't do?” Gloom found that he was actually enjoying the debate, even though he knew it would almost certainly end with his death. He carefully moved his finger to the trigger of the tiny spring powered poison dart concealed in the arm of his wheelchair. He moved it on its oiled hinge so that it was pointing at the priest.

     “That’s just the way it is.”

     “If He’s all powerful, it can be any way He wants it to be.”

     “It is not for us to question the wisdom of God. If it seems unjust to us, we must just accept that there is a reason that we are unable to perceive.”

     If it seems unjust to us... Gloom felt a glimmer of hope that the priest might be wavering a little. Maybe the good man that had been his friend for so many years could still be reached. “So God loves us and doesn’t want to punish us but we leave him no choice?” he asked.

     “Exactly!”

     “You know what that reminds me of? An abusive husband who beats his wife. He claims to love her, but then she doesn't have his dinner on the table on time and he beats her black and blue for it while saying ‘Now look what you made me do.’ The relationship between God and man is an abusive one.”

     “Every blasphemy you utter condemns you more, Gloom.”

     Gloom laughed. “I'm already condemned to an eternity of suffering. What more can He do to me? That's the problem with promising infinite punishment. It leaves you with nowhere else to go.”

     “Then go!” roared the priest, rushing forward. Gloom's finger tightened on the trigger and the tiny dart flew, penetrating the fabric of Father Anthony's trousers and piercing the skin of his thigh. The poison acted fast but not nearly fast enough and the priest's hand shot out towards the investigators neck, snapping it before Gloom had time to flinch.

     The door burst open and Benson, who'd been waiting outside listening anxiously, came rushing in, but Gloom was already dead. Benson stared at the priest, who was wobbling on his feet as the strength left his limbs. Father Anthony stared down at his leg and reached with a trembling hand for the tiny dart sticking out of his skin.

     “Your master has killed me,” he said as Benson stared in horror at the scene before him.  “I go joyously to judgement, and Sebastian Gloom goes to Hell.” He stared at the limp form in the wheelchair. “Too late to repent now, my friend. The book of your life is closed.”

     “You bastard!” cried Benson, rushing forward, but the priest was sinking to his knees, his face and hands growing red and feverish. There was nothing else for him to do but stand there and watch as his breath grew harsh and laboured, and then stopped.