fragmentary

"But the thing is," she said, "I never said anything like that to him."
"So how did he know?"
"If you didn't tell him...?"
"No."
"Then I don't know. Also he lied about something else."
"What?"

We'd stopped in front of the church. The sign into the village had said it was 12th century, and even the little I knew about architecture was enough to confirm this. A rough arch framed the door, which was of old oak and open halfway. My eyes struggled with the contrast between bright sunshine and the dark interior, but it didn't look as if there was anyone inside.

"Shall we?" she asked.

Without waiting for an answer, she walked into the cool church and I followed, asking, "What did he lie about?"

"Something really odd. He said he didn't know the name of the church here, but he had a commemorative sticker in his rear window. Saint Guthlac Sur Mer, Fête des Marais 2000. Something like that anyway."
"Perhaps he forgot."
"Perhaps, but it seems an odd thing to forget."
"But why would you lie about something like that?"
"I've no idea. But I thought I should say."

She stopped in front of the altar, looked up at one of the dusty-looking stained glass windows. There was nobody else in the church, and as my eyes became accustomed I could make out more detail.

"So," she said, with a full stop. "Why is a no-longer fishing port in the Vendée named after an eighth century English saint?"
"Perhaps it's not the same Guthlac?"
"No it is. See, that window, that scene portrays Guthlac talking to the animals in the fens. And that one shows a crow or raven eating one of his eyes."