A medieval abbot is annoyed when, in the midst of his usual duties, he's called upon to solve the murder of a pilgrim. Little does he suspect that the solution will profoundly affect his faith.

Agitated voices echoed off the walls of the forecourt. Anselm shook his head in disapproval. But more than the usual number of pilgrims had passed through the priory today, the feast of St. Anne, and he was only too aware that not all of them came with pious motives.

He turned his face to the late afternoon sunshine. Even though the days were dwindling, still July was the best of the summer. Anselm supposed he could find a lesson in that, something about the waning days of one's life being the richest. But he was tired after the day's sacred labors and was content merely to bask in the warmth and light and the subtle scent of incense. Inside these walls was an enclave of peace, not quite of this world, on the threshold of the next. What better symbol could there be of that than the Holy House of Nazareth in the Lady Chapel behind the church, the replica of Our Lord's childhood home?

The sound of running steps shattered his reverie. He opened his eyes to see young Brother Wilfrid bobbing before him. "Father Prior, one of the pilgrims has been found dead in the chapel of Mary and Martha."

"May he rest in peace," Anselm returned, wondering why Wilfrid was so disturbed. Every few days an ill pilgrim gave up the ghost here in Walsingham, if unable to find healing in this world, then more importantly easing his passage into the next.

"Father, he was murdered."

Oh, thought Anselm. Yes, that was a problem. "Tell Brother Porter to shut all the gates and allow no one in or out," he ordered Wilfrid, and he ordered his own aching body across the forecourt to the church.