There went the vase.

Malachi stared after the thief's graceful departure, one side of his mouth curled in thinly-veiled disgust. He couldn't fault a man for reaching for things beyond his means, but could he not have some dignity?

"And you are... sure of this?" asked Malachi, in a tone that suggested he already knew the older man's response. Of course Mr. Fa'afili would be sure about it, he was the one that had sold to this place for years. Which could mean any number of things: the bishop might have told him wrong, for one; the bishop might have sent him with false information to make a fool of him, also likely; or... this was not the church he was meant to be in.

How could it not be? It was Saint Hilda's, he'd even confirmed it. Malachi corrected his leaning posture.

"There wouldn't happen to be another Saint Hilda's, would there?" That would be ridiculous. Two churches named after the same saint in one little town? No. Couldn't be that. With a shake of his head, Malachi looked back to Mr. Fa'afili and held out the bar of soap.

"Thank you. I should... sort out whatever is happening here and try to find this Father... Peter."