Brother Finnlug’s face was white.
“You can’t prove it,” he whispered without conviction.
“Do I need to? Shall we go to search for the crucifix? Will you tell us where it is … or shall I tell you?” She stood up decisively as if to leave the room.
Brother Finnlug groaned, raising his hands to his head.
“All right, all right. It is true. You know it is still hidden in my cell. It was my chance to escape … to have some wealth, a good life.”
Later, Father Febal walked slowly with Fidelma to the gate of the complex of buildings which formed the community.
“How did you know where Brother Finnlug had hidden the crucifix?” he asked.
Sister Fidelma glanced at the grave-looking priest and suddenly allowed a swift mischievous grin to flit across her features.
“I didn’t,” she confessed.
Father Febal frowned.
“How did you know, then…? Know it was Finnlug and what he had done?” he demanded.
“It was only an instinct. Certainly it was a deduction based on the same facts, such as they were. But had Brother Finnlug demanded that I prove my accusation, I do not think I would have been able to under the strictures of the proceedings of a court of law. Sometimes, in this business of obtaining proof, more depends on what the guilty person thinks you know and believes that you can prove than what you are actually able to prove. Had Brother Finnlug not confessed, I might not have been able to clear up this business at all.”
Father Febal was still staring at her aghast as she raised her hand in farewell and began to stride along the road in the direction of Cashel.