The Grimm Dossier

Chapter 17 - The Priest

West Coast
Devonshire, Dartmoor
St George, Chapel of St George
4 November 1898, 1:46 p.m.

"Excuse me. You want WHAT?!"

The priest's voice rolled over and echoed off the walls of the chapel like a roll of thunder. Kyle couldn't quite escape the surprise. During the hours he had been cooped up with this man, he had never struck such a tone or even seemed as if he could. He seemed like a soft-washed wimp from an abbey somewhere in the middle of nowhere, following in his father's outsized footsteps because he had to. And not because he wanted to. After all, his words in the carriage had confirmed that. But now his face had not taken on an ashen hue like a sheet that had been bleached too often, but rather a smooth transition of different shades of red. Blanched indignation bubbled out of the priest with every word and could easily have filled an entire holy water font.

Kyle pursed his lips, shifted his weight from his left leg to his right, and tried not to let on HOW uncomfortable he felt. Not because of the priest. He looked more like a gangly penguin trying to stamp his clumsy feet angrily. Dr Archer seemed to take all the time in the world, equally unimpressed by the outburst of the man of God regarding their request. The constable, on the other hand, reached for the collar of his coat to loosen it a little. As if it had suddenly become tighter. Kyle almost felt sorry for Baltimore, trying to rebel here in this nest against the gullible people who were as deeply entrenched in their traditions as the turf ditches in their fields. Unable to see beyond the edges.

"Father, this is a potential murder investigation. We need to consider..." put in Kyle magnanimously, coming to the poor village beadle's rescue.

"I thought you were a writer?!" the young village preacher said, lowering his gaze like the sword of Damocles at Kyle's lie. The imaginary head rolled off Kyle's shoulders and came to rest at everyone's feet. But instead of buckling, the accused remained standing as if he were a new Störtebeker and at least managed to shrug his shoulders.

Kyle didn't have the nerve for the pastor's evil shame-on-you look right now and instead grabbed his own hand behind his back to distract himself. He couldn't stand churches. And that wasn't an exaggerated expression. He really did. As soon as he had entered the chapel, his nerves had frayed into thin threads and were far too much under tension to be accountable to a priest. Even more so to one who had almost made a mess of his nicely pressed robe on the outward journey. But as soon as he was no longer in a misty, eerie forest but in the safety of his chapel, the little puppy turned into a cheeky yapper.

"Undercover investigation Father," explained Kyle therefore so curtly that he almost rivalled Dr Archer in his dismissive manner.

Father pushed his lower lip forward and pulled a pinched face like an offended child who had seen through Santa's lie. A mixture of reproach and his own criticism hid behind it because he realised that he had fallen for the hoax too easily.

"Well." his voice took on a serious tone and he straightened to his full height, still failing to tower over the constable and Dr Archer. "I will not have a couple of private investigators disturbing the peace of the dead!" he clarified. "These poor souls and the community have had to endure enough already. To scrape a man from his grave is blasphemy." Father raised his hand and crossed his chest as if he must already be asking his God for forgiveness for the very thought. Kyle closed his eyes and prayed for patience instead. His hands behind his back tightened and clenched as he took a deep breath.