The priest was dead.
Or sleeping. Or in gentle repose. Or in a state of quiet commune with his god.
Mr Samuels didn’t like art. In particular, he mistrusted portraiture, as this thing appeared to be. What he stood in front of was a large, full length painting of a priest, with his tall, black block hat, flowing grey beard and equally flowing robes. His arms were held to his side, but without tension. That much was reasonably certain. The eyes were closed, that was certain too, but Mr Samuels couldn’t read what all this added up to, if anything. Death, grace, sleep, prayer, it could be one of these or none of these. Frankly, the painting failed to call a spade a spade, and Mr Samuels did not like this at all. Now, put Mr Samuels in front of a photograph or indeed a real person and he cou
