"If you could drop me at Dr. Stephenson's surgery, I'd be grateful. A headache powder would probably help him. He doesn't eat regularly, I'm afraid, in spite of our efforts to see that he does, and I suspect that's the root of the problem."

"I'll take you and then bring you back."

"No, please. Peter sometimes uses the church as sanctuary, when it's cold or wet. He knows I go there often; it doesn't seem to bother him. But if you came in-"

"Whatever seems best," he told her.

They walked together toward the motorcar, and she said, apropos of nothing, "You don't believe Matthew Walsh killed Father James, do you? I wonder why."

He studied her face. "Why should you think that?"

"A woman's intuition, I suppose. And the way you go on asking questions. As if you seem to be waiting for something. A mistake. A false step. I don't know. I have this rather uncomfortable feeling that one day quite soon, you'll pounce!"

It was a very different att.i.tude from Hamish's.

And it made Rutledge feel ashamed.

How did one touch the spirit to test its its scars? The reasons a man did things, the unconscious pressures behind ordinary decisions . . . scars? The reasons a man did things, the unconscious pressures behind ordinary decisions . . .

As he opened the door for her and went to crank the engine, Rutledge realized that he'd missed his chance to ask her about the photograph.

Outside Dr. Stephenson's surgery, Rutledge stopped long enough for Miss Trent to thank him again and then disappear through the waiting room door.

He pulled out again in the wake of a milk wagon, and was halfway down Water Street when he saw Blevins walking in the same direction.

Blevins turned at the sound of a motor and recognized Rutledge at the wheel. He called out curtly, "You're a hard man to find when wanted!"

"I've been to speak to Mrs. Wainer again."

A greengrocer's cart came up behind the motorcar, the horse snorting uneasily at the smell and noise of the vehicle. Blevins said, "Don't clog traffic. I'll meet you on the quay."

Rutledge nodded. He left the motorcar in the hotel yard and walked out to the quay. Inspector Blevins was already standing there, staring down at the water. Sun streaked it as the tide trickled in. It was moving the narrow stream sluggishly now, but would do so with more method later.

Blevins's shoulders were stiff, angry.

Rutledge said, coming up to the other man, "What's happened?"

The Inspector turned, looking around to see if they could be overheard.

"I hear you've been hobn.o.bbing with the gentry." There was cold fury behind the words.

"Lord Sedgwick? He invited me to lunch. I was interested in knowing why."

"Did you find out?"

"No. At least-I'm not sure," Rutledge answered truthfully.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Rutledge held on to his temper. "Look, I don't know these people the way you do. I couldn't. I haven't lived here all my life. I have to depend on instinct to hear what lies behind behind their words. You never warned me off Sedgwick. Or anyone else." their words. You never warned me off Sedgwick. Or anyone else."

"Sedgwick put up the reward for Father James's killer. Did he tell you?"

"Yes. He did. What difference does that make? Does it remove him from suspicion?"

Blevins turned back to look at the marshes. His profile was set, hard. "I had asked the Chief Constable to speak to the Yard about keeping you on here, and a Chief Superintendent by the name of Bowles agreed to it. Now I'm not sure I did the right thing."

Suddenly Rutledge could see through Blevins's fury. He resented the fact that the man from London, with his polished airs, had been treated with noticeable favoritism by the local gentry when he himself never had. . . .

"Sedgwick won't make any friends for you. I can tell you that," Blevins went on. "And if you have ambitions in London, he won't do you any good. He's not old old money." money."

"I never believed he was," Rutledge answered coldly. "And as for any favors he might do me, I choose my own friends and pick my own enemies." He let the words lie there, a challenge.

Blevins looked at him again. "There was a rumor. The Chief Constable had heard that you came back from the War a broken man. Half the policeman you were. If that."

Unspoken was the rest of what Blevins wanted to say. "You might be in need of patronage . . ." But the words hung in the very air between the two men, accusatory and d.a.m.ning.

Hamish was saying something, but Rutledge was intent on fighting his own battle.

"I came back from the War broken by the waste of it," he told Blevins, his voice harsh. "It was was a b.l.o.o.d.y waste of lives and we brought home nothing- a b.l.o.o.d.y waste of lives and we brought home nothing-nothing!-to show for four years of dying in trenches not fit for swine. I asked no favors from anyone, and I received none. I did my job as well as I knew how, just as every other man back from the Front tried to do his. No one gave me back my past, and no one will hand me my future. Whatever your grievance is with me now, it has nothing to do with the War, and nothing to do with my skills as a policeman policeman!"

Blevins stared at him, and then looked away, surprise in his eyes. Behind the thin face and the polite manner was a will stronger than he'd believed. "All right. I apologize." He took a deep breath. "I'm at my wits' end, that's what it is. Look, I have to put together-and d.a.m.ned soon!-a sound enough case against Walsh that I can take to trial. Otherwise I have to let him go. We can't hold him forever on suspicion. And right now, that's all I've got! that's all I've got!" Blevins took two quick steps away, and then turned back to Rutledge. "It's like chasing wraiths, nothing can be nailed down down!"

"Have you told him about Iris Kenneth's death?"

"No. I find I can't stand the sight of the man. He's taken to sitting there smirking, like a d.a.m.ned gargoyle. One of my constables swears he'll choke Walsh into confessing." A twisted smile crossed his face. "d.a.m.ned fool is half Walsh's weight!"

"Let me be the one to break the news."

Blevins considered the offer. "All right. Come and talk to him, then. Nothing else is working. This is worth trying."

They walked in silence back to the police station. There, Blevins gave the key to Rutledge and gestured in the direction of the small cell.

When Rutledge unlocked the door, Walsh was sitting on the bed, a smile pinned to his face. That changed when he saw that it was not Blevins or one of his constables. A shadow of concern took its place.

"What are you doing, standing there in the doorway, like the Trumpet of G.o.d?" Bravado in a deep voice.

Hamish said, "He thinks you've come to take him to Norwich. Or London."

It was a sharp observation.

Rutledge said, "There's been an interesting development in your case."

Walsh shoved himself to his feet, a big man with hands twice the size of Rutledge's. "And what might that be?"

"Iris Kenneth."

Surprise swept over Walsh's face. "What's she got to do with anything?"

"We thought she might have been the person you left on watch under the lilacs. That clump of bushes is out of sight of the neighbors' windows. A clever place to stand and watch, in my opinion."

"She never stood there! Because I I wasn't there. And if she told you she was, it's out of malice. She's a wasn't there. And if she told you she was, it's out of malice. She's a b.i.t.c.h b.i.t.c.h! She's got it in for me because I didn't keep her on, that's what it is! I could wring her neck!"

Rutledge waited to a count of ten, watching the man's face. It was a thinking face, but not a cunning one. The Strong Man wasn't just muscle and brawn; he was capable of working out the ramifications of his position and dealing with the reality it represented. But he didn't appear to have that extra measure of slyness that sometimes cropped up in people of his ilk.

As if in agreement, Hamish observed, "He's no' one to lurk about in the shadows. He's been larger than most men, all his life." And it was true. Walsh had probably never feared anyone or anything. Unlike a small man, whose wits were all that stood between him and a bullying, Walsh had never needed to bl.u.s.ter or bargain. His arrogance grew out of his certainty about himself in the scheme of things.

Rutledge let his silence draw attention to itself. When something changed in Walsh's manner, less belligerent and more wary, he finally said, "Iris Kenneth is dead. Did you kill her, too?"

The shock was real. Walsh sucked in his breath, and there was a sudden tightness around his mouth, an incredulity that left him shaken with a realization that he might have fallen into a trap.

"You're lying to me!" he said, the deep ba.s.s voice rolling around the walls of the small cell like thunder overhead.

"Why should I lie? I can take you to London tonight and show you her corpse. If it hasn't already been turned into a pauper's grave."

"She's not not dead! Iris had a way about her, a lively way. But she kept her wits about her, and she dead! Iris had a way about her, a lively way. But she kept her wits about her, and she never never-I don't believe you!"

With a shrug, Rutledge turned to leave. "I don't really care whether you believe me or not. I'm not lying to you. She's dead."

"How? By what means!" Walsh asked quickly, taking a step forward as if to stop Rutledge from leaving.

"Drowning," Rutledge said coldly. "Not a pleasant way to go, surely?"

And he walked out of the cell, shutting the door behind him.

Walsh was there as he turned the key in the lock. His fists pounded furiously against the door. "d.a.m.n you! Come back here-! Come back here-!"

But Rutledge walked away down the pa.s.sage to Blevins's office, to the drumbeat of Walsh's fists battering on the door.

As Rutledge walked into the office and dropped the key on the desk, Blevins said, "What's that in aid of?" He inclined his head toward the savage pounding. "I don't see you've gained much of anything!"

Rutledge sat down in the chair across the cluttered desk from Blevins. "I don't know who killed Iris Kenneth," he said. "But I'd give you heavy odds that it wasn't Walsh." He could feel the weariness building up in him, the strain across his shoulders that came from depression and stress. "Not that it matters. We're far from proving she was on the scene, the night of the priest's murder."

"He had the opportunity, surely? We didn't pick him up until after the woman went into the river, from what you've told me of the timing. He had a reason to want her silenced. He could have taken a train to London, finished her off, and taken the next one back to Norfolk!"

"And left his cart and his equipment with the scissors sharpener?"

"That's possible! We should look into the trains. A man the size of Walsh would stand out. Other pa.s.sengers might remember seeing him."

"It's best to be thorough," Rutledge agreed. Then he added, choosing his words, "Something was said earlier about having to release Walsh, if you didn't have incontrovertible proof. Perhaps-as a precaution-we might be well advised to look at other suspects."

Warily, Blevins asked, "Starting where?"

"I was about to ask you that."

"I've told you, no one in Osterley had a reason to murder Father James!"

"We won't know that with any certainty until Walsh is found guilty."

Disconcerted, Blevins studied the Londoner. "Do you really believe I'm wrong about Walsh?"

Rutledge answered indirectly. "If you're forced to let Walsh walk out of here, will you still be convinced he was guilty?"

Blevins looked away, a long sigh expressing his frustration and uncertainty. His fingers toyed with the edge of the blotter, worrying a small tear in the corner. He was reluctant to give up any part of his authority-and equally reluctant to exercise it. This was his village, his people. To be seen rigorously investigating the private lives of those he lived with on a daily basis would bring their wrath down on his head. To let Rutledge usurp his position was an admission that he was not prepared to do it himself. For whatever reasons.

Finally he told Rutledge, "I don't want to know what you're doing. Not at first. But when you think you've got something I should hear, then I want to hear it. However unpleasant it might be. Do you understand me?"

Rutledge agreed with grace, knowing that Blevins had crossed a line that would come back to haunt him. Hamish, in the back of Rutledge's mind, added silently, "If the killer is no' the Strong Man, you've made an enemy."

And that was equally true.

Down the pa.s.sage the pounding had stopped, and Rutledge found the silence disturbed him.

Blevins waited until Rutledge had reached the door to the street before asking, "Where will you begin?"

After a moment, Rutledge answered, "Where death begins. With the doctor who examined the body."

As Rutledge stepped out into the hazy sunshine of the October morning, he heard Hamish clearly, as if the voice had just walked out of the police station at his heels, no more than two steps behind his left shoulder.

"There's no turning back," Hamish warned. "If you're wrong, he willna' let you live it down!"

But Rutledge answered, unaware that he'd spoken aloud, "So be it."

CHAPTER 15.

RUTLEDGE WAITED NEARLY TWENTY MINUTES IN Dr. Stephenson's surgery before the nurse, Connie, summoned him and led the way to the small private office in the rear.

Stephenson, looking at Rutledge over the tops of his gla.s.ses, said, "I'd heard you went back to London." He collected the sheets of paper he'd been reading and set them in a folder. "Blevins is a capable man. I can't quite see the need of someone from London looking over his shoulder. Most of the town feels satisfied that Walsh killed Father James, and if there's been any evidence to the contrary, I haven't heard about it."

"When a man travels the country as frequently as Matthew Walsh did, his movements aren't always easy to follow. And the timing on a given date can be critical," Rutledge answered without rancor, waiting to be offered the chair on his side of the desk.

Stephenson nodded toward it, and Rutledge sat down. "Then what brings you here today?"

"Walk lightly!" Hamish warned.

"I wasn't present when the body was found. I'd like to hear what you saw and noted at the scene."

"I wrote everything down for Blevins. The next morning, in fact."

"That's the official report. Well-considered medical opinions designed to stand up in court. What I'd like is your personal opinion-whatever you felt and saw and thought, whether you could support it with fact or not."

Stephenson leaned back in his chair. "I can't think why! It was a clear-cut case of violent death. No question about that."