Holmes returned that night sometime after I had gone to sleep, because when I awoke the next morning he was making noise in the sitting room. I drew my house robe around me and ventured out into our shared room to see what he was doing. He was in fact, fast at work lighting different objects in the room ablaze, and then promptly dousing them with his newfound solution, apparently running some sort of trial. I grabbed his arm to stop him when he moved to set my trousers on fire.

"Good morning, Watson," said he congenially. "I was merely biding my hours until the time of confessions."

"Sleep did not seem a better way to use your time?" I wondered, glancing at his dark and fatigued eyes. "So, you plan to question Elisabeth Godber's priest, I take it?" The obvious choice, as I was quite certain that Holmes had never and would never step inside a confessional to repent of his own shortcomings.

"Indeed," said Holmes. "I believe that he is at least involved, if not in fact the leader of the cult himself."

"Excellent," said I. "How did you determine this?"

"All in good time, dear Watson. Before I give you my reasons for thinking him guilty, we must pay a visit to the man and conduct a thorough search of his offices."

**

A few hours later found us at the front of a very spectacular cathedral several miles from our home. I stared in awe at the stained glass panes and distinguished brick towers that adorned the massive church. It was portentous, and with a certain sense of intimidation about it.

"This is Father McKinn's chapel," said Holmes evenly. "This is where he holds the rituals of the cult." He was running his hand along the iron railing leading up the stairs.

"You believe that he would hold those awful rituals here? At his otherwise Roman Catholic cathedral?" I asked in disbelief.

"Observe," he said, motioning to a few potted plants next to the entrance. "They are blatantly growing an herb which can be used for its mind-altering effects and spiritual visions. I assure you that this plant is used during some of their rituals. Anyhow, shall we venture inside to speak with the dark lord himself?" he asked with a kind of sinister smile.

My stomach tightened as I entered the realm of the unknown. I did not know what to expect or what to watch out for. Holmes brazenly walked straight down the foyer and through two heavy wooden doors. Upon entering, it appeared to be a harmless, but immodest chapel. Light wood benches faced a dais, which was adorned with a golden cross. The ceiling was 100 yards at the very least with great rafters and stained glass art lining the walls and ceiling. Lanterns were lined up all the way down the aisles. Built into the far wall behind the pulpit was the confessional, tall and ominous, draped with a velvety red curtain.

I turned to Holmes as he said, "Let us have a look around while the good Father is busy at work." He paused, then sighed. "Never mind, I believe that's him approaching now."

"Hello, gentlemen," said a voice behind us. I hadn't heard any indication that anyone was there until hearing his voice. "Are you here for confessions?" he asked meekly. I faced the man that Holmes believed to be the mastermind of the horrors forced upon Elisabeth Godber. Never have I seen someone who looked so impossibly humble and innocent of any wrongdoing. The priest had white, soft hair which rested in a sort of halo around his balding head. He was a portly man, with big blushing cheeks that sat in a constant smile. He wore a long white robe with golden tassels tied around his waist. For all eyes to behold, he was the perfect image of a grandfather and a pious man of the cloth.

"Father McKinn, I presume," asked Holmes in way of greeting. McKinn gave a slight nod and smiled. "Father, we are actually here for a different purpose. May we speak with you privately, perhaps in your office?"

"Why of course, follow me," said McKinn, leading us into a side room.

The priest sat behind his meager desk and Holmes and I sat across from him in two tall, uncomfortable chairs. "Would either of you like to have a cup of tea?" the gentleman wondered, amiably.

"Most assuredly not," said Holmes. "Now about the business of our visit: a member of your congregation was recently abducted and murdered."

"Ah, yes, poor Elisabeth," the priest lamented. He took off his glasses and put his face in his hands momentarily. I glanced at Holmes, who was not impressed by this show of grief. "We'll be holding a service for the poor girl later in the week."

"Are you aware of the circumstances surrounding her death?" Holmes pressed.

The priest did not falter. "I have heard say that she was missing three days and found dead, hanging." He gave a visible shudder at these words. "She was such a kind and virtuous woman, sir. I feel as though I don't believe that it really happened." He placed his glasses back on his face. "Are you gentlemen police officers?" he asked.

I apologized, realizing that Holmes and I had not introduced ourselves. "I am Dr. Watson, Father. And this is my colleague Sherlock Holmes. He is investigating the case of Miss Godber."

"Ah, yes, I have heard of your successes in crime-solving, sir," said McKinn. "It is very much a pleasure and relief to know that you will be getting to the bottom of this dreadful ordeal."

"Well, it is quite the tricky situation," Holmes drawled facetiously. "Miss Godber was a member of a satanic cult, and a willing party in her murder. She was sacrificed in some sort of ritual killing."

The priest appeared confused. "I balk at those insinuations, sir! Elisabeth Godber was as kind and honest a woman as they come. She was certainly not a member of any cult!"

"What's more, I believe that the ritual took place in this very sanctuary," said Holmes fearlessly. "My friend and I were witness to your ceremonial plants outside."

I was uneasy with all of Holmes' accusations. Perhaps it was the priest's calm demeanor and placid appearance, but I began to feel that we were cornering the wrong person. Holmes, on the other hand, was full of resolve and assured that his suspicions were correct.

"Those herbs are simply used in cooking, Mr. Holmes," said McKinn, calmly. "Once a week my congregation and I provide a meal for the homeless." The priest stood, seemingly hurt that he or his church had become embroiled in the scandal. "Gentlemen, I would ask that you leave. Your claims are not wanted in this sanctuary of peace." He moved to the door and opened it, gesturing that we should move through it. To my astonishment, Holmes graciously left, apologizing to McKinn as he passed. Staggered by the events, I mumbled an apology and followed Holmes.

Once in the foyer, I said, "Holmes, did we have the wrong man? He seemed innocent enough."

Holmes balked at the suggestion. "Innocent enough? What meaning has that? Watson, that man is most certainly involved in the cult, and he personally laid his hands on Miss Godber to kill her. I am even surer of it now than I was previously." We walked outside, adorning our gloves and wrapping our scarves in the cold. "This case shall be solved very soon. I only need one more piece of evidence and we can place Father McKinn and his entire congregation in handcuffs."