I crouched down beside the woman and checked that it was, as I’d suspected, Francisca. Or her avatar, or spirit, or whatever it was we were doing here. It was definitely her, her face serene, her eyes closed and her lips moving in silent prayer.
I looked back up at the man.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked him.
‘Cristoval Romano,’ he said. ‘Magister. Once called the wise.’
‘Once called?’
‘In an educated man, hubris is the worst sin of all,’ he said, and gave a spluttering cough that I realised was a laugh.
‘How long have you been here?’ I asked.
‘It seems an eternity,’ he said. ‘At first I steeled myself to patience, then I sought to amuse myself through games and the recitation of poetry. For a while I tried to lose myself in erotic thoughts, then in dreams of vengeance against those that had urged me to this foolish action. Particularly that venal dog de Pruda. More recently, I have found comfort in prayer.’
I had so many questions, but also a real sense that it was better to get the fuck out while I could. How he’d done it, I decided, was less important than why.
‘This is a terrible work,’ I said. ‘Why did you do it?’
‘The usual reasons,’ said the Magister. ‘I told myself it was piety and duty to the Church, but a thousand years of contemplation will batter down the doors of one’s own delusions.’
But not your tendency towards tortured metaphors, I thought.
‘In truth, it was a test of skills,’ he said. ‘We had always been rivals, Enrique and I, and I was eager to prove myself the better philosopher.’
I glanced at the naked avatar of Francisca, kneeling, head bowed, also trapped within this VR recreation of an Inquisition prison. A thousand years of contemplation didn’t seem to have revealed the fucking awfulness of what he had done to her. Perhaps he needed another thousand years for that.
But I didn’t see why Francisca had to do time with him.
‘Perhaps it is time for you to let her go?’ I said.
‘Ah,’ said Romano the no longer wise. ‘I fear you have not properly comprehended my circumstances.’
He glanced down and I followed his gaze to his hands. Francisca’s work-strong fingers had a tight grip on the Magister’s wrists. It was she who was holding him.
‘What will happen to you if she lets go?’ I asked.
‘Perhaps I will be set free,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I will fall into oblivion or Heaven or Purgatory or Hell – I no longer care.’
I thought of the airmen of the moors, and the eager way they had boarded the Glossop’s cargo cult passenger plane. They hadn’t seemed to care where they were going, as long as they went. And I thought of Heather’s narrowboat, its journey down from the North, and its cosy double bunk.
I had to think carefully about the next question – my Latin isn’t that good.
‘Did you make a weapon of this woman?’ I asked.
‘For my sins,’ said the Magister.
‘What did you offer her in return?’
‘Offer?’ The Magister seemed genuinely puzzled by the question. ‘Nothing. She was a servant, a woman – obedience to her master and to God was enough.’
Right, I thought, let’s hope my counter-offer is better.
I shifted so that I could see Francisca’s face and called her name.
At first, nothing, and then the slightest frown appeared upon her forehead.
‘Francisca,’ I said again, and then in English, ‘Your work is done. It’s time to go home.’
She turned her head to look at me.
‘A casa?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Heather is waiting.’
Francisca definitely reacted to Heather’s name, but it seemed disconnected.
‘You haven’t finished unpacking the shopping from Sainsbury’s yet,’ I said.
Her frown deepened and became a real worry attached to a real problem. I put my hands on hers and gave an experimental tug. Her grip stayed firm.
‘Some of that stuff is going to go off if we don’t put it away,’ I said.
Suddenly her hands slipped off the Magister’s. I didn’t hesitate, and used my grip to raise her up and turn her to face me.
‘Heather needs you,’ I said, and we turned and walked away hand in hand.
I heard the Magister’s coughing laugh, and looked back to see him turn into vapour and drift away. Exactly like Beverley’s water balloon or Nightingale’s crimson flower – then the bench and wall behind his chair did the same.
I resolutely faced forwards and tried to pick up the pace.
Back through the corridor of pain and smoke, the cathedral of stone and light.
The courtyard of water and orange blossom.
I opened my eyes to what was left of the atrium. Ahead of me, Francisca was standing and looking around with amazement. When I took a step forwards, something caught my foot and I nearly stumbled. I looked to see what I’d tripped on and saw that the black and white floor tiles had been rucked up in concentric circles centred on the spot where Francisca stood.
‘Stay still,’ said Nightingale.
He was standing to my left with his right hand raised above his head, palm facing upwards, his left across his chest and clenched into a fist. Above us, the air shimmered in a curve over our heads. Raindrops were splattering on the shield and running in rivulets off the sides. I looked up further and saw that the Victorian glass and cast-iron dome that roofed the atrium was mostly gone. As I watched, a final section of iron girder with some attached glass tumbled down to smash on Nightingale’s shield. It slid down to join the ring of debris I saw surrounded us.
Oh God, that’s going to make a dent in the budget, I thought. Maybe we can get a Kickstarter going.
‘I trust that you have resolved the angelic aspect of the case,’ said Nightingale.
‘I think so,’ I said. I glanced at Francisca, who had slumped down to sit on the floor. ‘Was anyone hurt?’ I said.
‘Not that I know of,’ said Nightingale. ‘But I doubt Molly will be pleased.’
‘Lesley?’
‘She bolted when the roof fell down,’ said Guleed, picking her way through the debris towards us. ‘If she’s sensible, she won’t ever come back.’
‘She will,’ I said. ‘She won’t know why, but eventually she’ll come back.’
Francisca looked up at us – the cuts on her face were going to need the paramedic who, according to the plan, should be parked up in the courtyard.
She looked at me, her eyes wide.
‘Am I free?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And no.’
20 Reconstruction
Duress is not a defence in murder cases. But balance of the mind is. And with that, and a sympathetic judge, prison could be short and then out on licence. Back to Heather’s narrowboat and the glamour of the open canal.
Which means we’d need to devise a new offender management set-up for Falcon cases.
Which meant I’d made more work for myself, but not that afternoon. Once Francisca had been reunited with Heather and introduced to our custody sergeant, I was sent packing by Nightingale.
Guleed drove me home.
‘Done?’ asked Beverley after I’d kissed her.
‘All bar the paperwork,’ I said.
‘Good,’ said Beverley. ‘Get in the bath and tell me about it.’
So I soaked in our enormous tub while Beverley sat on the stool beside it, listening, eating a plate of rice and soup and occasionally reheating the water. I left out the bit where I deliberately threw myself into a trans-dimensional rift, but even so Bev had that deceptively calm look that told me she was shelving her complaints for a more convenient moment.