Curtain Call at the Lantern

"He didn't confess." Lund gave a small, tired smile. "He'd sit and listen. Once, over tea, he said something I've never forgotten. He said: 'Father, I'm tired of being an actor in my own life. The only place I can stop performing is somewhere nobody knows my name.'"

"He was going to stop, wasn't he? Tonight."

Lund looked at the altar. "He left something with me. Not under seal. Not a confession. A deposit. He said if anything happened to him I should decide, in good conscience, whether to hand it over." He turned back. "I have been deciding since half past ten."

Two obligations sat in the air between you: the sanctity of a man's trust, and the right of the living to know why a man had died.