The Blame Game

The distinctive baying of a crowd in uproar raged beyond the wooden shutters, voices rising and falling, melting together like waves crashing on some hellish beach. Father Denham’s hands somehow managed to move faster, grabbing the rosary from the table and dropping it over his head as his feet struggled to work their way to the end of his ill-fitting boots. With a frustrated growl he pulled them on, ignoring the pain as the leather rubbed hard against his blistered heels.

He’d been on the roa...