Rutledge rejoined mildly, "Still, you might provide a small piece of the puzzle that's been overlooked."

Stephenson, a man used to judging people and tracking down the site of illness from small signs, considered Rutledge more sharply, his mind working swiftly behind the shield of his gla.s.ses. "You aren't suggesting that someone in Osterley-"

Rutledge cut across what he was about to say. "For instance, Monsignor Holston tells me he was disturbed by the presence of something malignant and evil in that room. Mrs. Wainer on the other hand believes that the murder was motivated by revenge. But neither of them would write such impressions in an official report. Nor would you."

Hamish was saying something, but Rutledge listened to the silence instead.

Stephenson scratched his jaw, a rasping sound in the quiet of the room. "I can't say that I had an initial reaction. Unless it was disbelief. The constable who came to fetch me told me that Father James was dead. I was short with him, saying that it was my business, not his, to make that determination. After we got to the rectory, I remember thinking that this vigorous, intelligent man seemed smaller in death than he was in life. But we were standing over Father James rather than looking him in the eye as we usually did, which probably explained why he seemed- diminished. There were half a dozen people in the room and I could hear a woman sobbing somewhere down the pa.s.sage. Mrs. Wainer, that was. After that I was too busy to do more than note the circ.u.mstances." He stopped, looking back at the scene imprinted on his memory.

Rutledge said, "Go on."

"He was lying by the window, facing it and partly on his left side, his left hand outflung and open, and I remember thinking that he couldn't have seen the attack coming. But Blevins was pointing out the destruction in the study- chairs overturned, papers and books scattered about-and suggesting that Father James had walked in on this confusion and then gone to the window to call for help. That's an old house, but the sashes work smoothly; I tested them myself. Still, even if Father James had been successful in attracting attention, it would have been too late. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had found the opportunity he was looking for and struck hard. Nevertheless, the victim was was facing the windows, and Blevins knows his business better than I do. Mine was to examine the body." facing the windows, and Blevins knows his business better than I do. Mine was to examine the body."

Hamish said, "It wasna' proper, surely, to influence the doctor's view!"

"It's done often enough. Setting the scene, as it were," Rutledge silently responded. "Human nature to pay heed to it."

Stephenson took a deep breath and studied the ceiling. "There had been an emergency on one of the farms around five that same morning-I was tired. And Blevins was taking it hard-he was one of Father James's flock, as you probably know. I saw no reason to doubt what he was telling me."

"How did Blevins look to you?"

"He was extremely angry, but his face was pale, his hands shaking. I thought it likely that he'd just vomited from the shock. He said two or three times, 'I can't understand killing a priest for a few pounds-I didn't think we held life as cheaply here as in London.' Or words to that effect."

"Tell me about the room."

"It'd been ransacked. You must know that. I could hardly set a foot down without tramping on papers or books and the like. I looked for evidence of a struggle, but didn't find any. I said something to Blevins about that, as I remember. I'd always had the feeling that Father James could look after himself. I'd see him on the road on that bicycle of his at any hour of the day or night, and in any weather. I was surprised that he hadn't made any effort to defend himself. Of course, that was before Blevins brought in Walsh."

"Aye," Hamish reminded Rutledge, "it's a question you raised, yoursel'."

Stephenson looked at the pen on his blotter. "I couldn't find any scratches on the hands, nothing under the nails. No marks on the face. Rigor was present, and I was fairly sure he'd been dead for more than twelve hours."

His eyes came back to Rutledge's face, as if the medical details were more comfortable than speculation. "The back of his skull was crushed and that large crucifix lay on the floor near the body. I could see hair and blood on it quite clearly. I knelt on my handkerchief and someone held a lamp for me, so that I might examine the wound better. There had been at least three blows-I could identify the shape of the square base at three different points. I would say that the first blow stunned him, the second one killed him, and the third would most certainly have made it impossible to survive. Each blow was delivered with considerable force, judging from the compression of the skull."

"Which confirms," Rutledge said, "that the priest was standing, his back to the killer?"

"That's true. I was told later that there were no fingerprints on the crucifix where it must have been gripped for leverage-either it was wiped clean or the killer wore gloves."

"Women wear gloves," Rutledge said thoughtfully, thinking of Priscilla Connaught, who was tall for a woman.

"I won't tell you that it couldn't have been a woman," Stephenson answered, "but I find it hard to believe a woman would have struck more than twice." He shrugged. "Still, it would depend on her state of mind. This was a b.l.o.o.d.y wound, and in my experience, few women are willing to splatter themselves with bone and blood and brain tissue, no matter how angry or brave they are. It's not medical opinion, of course, but as a rule, women avoid that sort of unpleasantness. I p.r.o.nounced him dead, and called it what it was: murder."

Rutledge mused, "I come back to the question, what would I do if I walked in on a thief?"

"I've never faced an intruder in my house, Inspector. I'd feel violated, walking in on such wanton destruction-I know that-and d.a.m.ned angry as well. If I recognized the person, I'd tell him to stop making an a.s.s of himself and get the h.e.l.l out of my house, if he wanted to escape charges. I'd be in no mood to be charitable. And probably get myself killed for it. I'd be more wary of a stranger, not knowing what he was capable of, but I'd still go after him. But then I'm not trained as a priest. It would make a difference."

Hamish said, "He was in the War, Father James. Would he turn the other cheek?"

As if he had heard Hamish's comment as clearly as Rutledge did, Stephenson straightened the folder on his desk to march with the right margin of the blotter and added with an odd tension in his face, "If there was no thief-if it wasn't Walsh-then Father James was confronted by an enemy."

Rutledge said nothing.

Stephenson moved uneasily in his chair. "No, disregard that, if you will. Blevins is a good policeman-he wouldn't have got it wrong!"

Again Rutledge let the comment stand. Instead he asked, "Did you know much about Father James's past?"

"That's the trouble with you people from London! You don't live here, you don't understand the people here. You look for complexity, and these are not complex people." Rutledge started to speak, but Stephenson said, "No, let me finish! Some twenty years ago, we had discussions to see if anything could be done to bring back the port. Experts from London preferred to keep the marshes as a sanctuary for birds. We said, What about the needs of the families who had to scratch a living here? But n.o.body listened. This was a good place for marshes, and marshes we would keep," he said with growing heat. "Well, I'm the man who sees the cost of the struggle to make a living out here. I knew that Romney Marsh had been drained to make it fit for sheep grazing, and we could do the same here, along with dredging the port, making it safe for small boats and a holiday place for people who haven't the resources to travel to the southern beaches. The experts would have none of it. You're the expert here; you want to find something to blame Father James for, something to excuse the time and money the Yard has spent in sending you here. Well, it won't wash. I knew the man. You didn't."

"He's avoiding the question, ye ken," Hamish pointed out.

Rutledge said without rancor, "I'm not suggesting that Blevins is wrong. Or that Father James was guilty of some unspeakable crime. But none of us is perfect-and people will kill for reasons that you and I couldn't comprehend. One of the worst murders I've ever seen had to do with a simple boundary dispute, where a hedge ran over the line. Hardly a case for violence, but it ended in one man taking the shears to the other."

Dr. Stephenson looked at him for a long moment. Then, as if against his will, growing out of some inner need he couldn't silence, he said, "In all my personal and professional encounters with Father James, I never felt any doubt about his integrity or his honor."

A but but hung in the air between them, like a shout that couldn't be ignored. Rutledge waited, silent. hung in the air between them, like a shout that couldn't be ignored. Rutledge waited, silent.

And as if goaded by that, the doctor said, "d.a.m.n you! I don't know why I'm telling you this. But there was something years ago that puzzled me, and I suppose that's why I couldn't put it out of my mind. It had to do with the sinking of t.i.tanic t.i.tanic. Once when I walked in on him-this was several months afterward-there was a great pile of articles spread out across Father James's desk. A hundred or more cuttings, with notes in ink in the margins, and even photographs of pa.s.sengers and recovered bodies. He saw me looking down at them, and before I could say a word, he'd gathered up the lot and swept it out of sight into a drawer, as if it were somehow . . . obscene material. I made some remark about the disaster, and his interest, and he said, 'No, that's nothing to do with me.' It was odd, to hear a priest lie, and about something so-ordinary." Dr. Stephenson frowned. "He never spoke of it again, and nor did I. But the lie never set well with me. I- In some fashion it altered my view of the man."

He studied Rutledge's face.

Rutledge said. "Perhaps he knew someone who had sailed on her."

"I wondered about that, but people in Osterley seldom travel beyond Norwich or King's Lynn. They most certainly don't have the money for pa.s.sage on a ship like that. I myself know of only one person who sailed on t.i.tanic, t.i.tanic, and she didn't live here at all. I can't believe that Father James had more than a pa.s.sing acquaintance with her." and she didn't live here at all. I can't believe that Father James had more than a pa.s.sing acquaintance with her."

"Who was she?"

Stephenson answered testily, "Lord Sedgwick's daughter-in-law. His son Arthur's wife. An American. It was hushed up at the time-she'd left her husband and sailed for New York without a by-your-leave. Sedgwick and young Arthur had searched everywhere, they'd no idea where she went or why. She simply vanished. Until the ship went down, and someone found her maiden name in the pa.s.senger list. Terrible shock to the family."

"Was her body retrieved?"

"I believe it was. The family held a private service on the estate. Look, I should never have spoken of this. For all I know, Fa her James had dreamed of running away to sea as a boy! t.i.tanic t.i.tanic was a marvel; she caught the fancy of the entire country. He was probably embarra.s.sed to admit to sharing that excitement." Stephenson took out his watch. "I've three more patients to see before I can go home for my dinner. Is there anything else you want to know?" was a marvel; she caught the fancy of the entire country. He was probably embarra.s.sed to admit to sharing that excitement." Stephenson took out his watch. "I've three more patients to see before I can go home for my dinner. Is there anything else you want to know?"

He made it sound as if Rutledge had been prying, vulgar curiosity driving him.

Rutledge rose and thanked him for his time.

He reached the door and was just putting his hand on the k.n.o.b when the doctor said swiftly, for a second time, "Look, forget what I just told you." There was a harsh expression on Stephenson's face, a fierce desire to recall his words, and a strong dislike of the man who'd heard them.

As Rutledge walked down Water Street, he found himself wondering if indeed Father James had lied to the doctor. It was a small lie, of no great importance. Unless it was nested in a pattern of lies? This was perhaps what lay at the center of the doctor's unease.

In the hotel lobby, Monsignor Holston rose from one of the chairs there and said, "I've come for lunch. Will you join me?"

It was an unexpected invitation. Rutledge said, "Yes. Let me wash up first, if you don't mind."

"Of course."

Rutledge took the stairs two at a time, wondering what had brought the priest here from Norwich.

"He canna' stay away, for a man who doesna' wish to stay here," Hamish commented dryly.

Busy with that question, Rutledge reached the head of the stairs, turned toward his room, and in the narrow pa.s.sage nearly collided with his fellow guest coming the other way.

"I beg your pardon!" he said, catching her arm to steady her. "I was in too much of a hurry."

Startled by his sudden appearance, May Trent said hesitantly, "It was my fault as well. I had just knocked at your door. Today in the churchyard I should have apologized for last evening. You were trying to help, and I turned on you like a termagant. It was rude and ungrateful of me!" There was a rueful smile in her eyes.

"Not at all," he said lightly. "You had no reason to believe my methods would work."

"I had no cause not to believe in them. But I have a way of collecting lost sheep, and then defending them from imaginary wolves. When I returned to my table, my friends had a few pithy comments to make. You may consider me chastised and properly chastened."

Rutledge laughed, and received a deeper smile in return. He noticed a flicker of a dimple in one cheek, and on the spur of the moment said, "I have a friend who has come to take lunch with me. He's a priest, and should know more than most about the old churches in this part of Norfolk. If Mrs. Barnett can accommodate us, would you care to join us?"

Hamish grumbled that it was unwise.

For an instant Rutledge could see that she was tempted, but she shook her head. "That's kind of you. My friends are leaving for London tonight, and asked me to come with them as far as King's Lynn. I've promised."

She started past him, to the top of the stairs, but he put out a hand to stop her. "Miss Trent, I need to ask-it's a matter of police business. Are you aware that Father James has left a bequest to you in his Will?"

"Bequest? There must be some mistake."

"His solicitor has had some difficulty carrying out Father James's wishes, because neither he nor the housekeeper has been able to find the item-"

Miss Trent shook her head. "I don't know what you're talking about. I've heard nothing of this-and I know of nothing that Father James might wish me to have." She was clearly mystified, and a little apprehensive.

"It was a photograph. It was kept in the drawer of his desk, but apparently it isn't there any longer. Did he by any chance give it to you himself?" And perhaps hadn't got around to rescinding the codicil. . . .

She said, "No. He gave me nothing, and he said nothing about a bequest. Are you quite certain-why should he leave me a photograph?"

"Perhaps you should speak to the solicitor about it. The name in the Will is Marianna Trent, of London."

"But I haven't used Marianna since I was a child. Everyone calls me May. Marianna was also my aunt's name, you see, and perhaps he meant her? Although he never said anything to me about knowing her-" The confusion in her face seemed genuine.

"Did he ever show you a particular photograph? Of himself, of his family, possibly of someone who was in some fashion dear to him? Someone he discovered you had known as well?"

The confusion cleared, but a frown took its place, as if the reminder was not welcome. "I think-it's possible I know what you mean. But I haven't the time to discuss it now. I'm already late; my friends will be waiting. When I come back to Osterley tomorrow? Will that do?"

He wanted to tell her that it wouldn't. But she was eager to be gone, and he had no choice but to step aside and let her pa.s.s. She went quickly down the stairs, her heels clicking softly in the carpeting, and he heard the door to the street open and close behind her.

Hamish said, "It doesna' seem to be of importance to her, this photograph."

"On the contrary," Rutledge answered thoughtfully. "I believe she would much prefer not to talk about it at all."

Mrs. Barnett had already seated Monsignor Holston, and was chatting with him at the table. She looked up as Rutledge came striding through the French doors, and smiled. "Here he is now," she said. "I'll just go and fetch the soup."

Except for the two men the dining room was empty, no other tables set, no other guests expected.

The scent of warm bread rose from a basket on the table as Rutledge took his chair next to the window.

"I have it on the best authority," Monsignor Holston was saying. "This is one of the tallest loaves ever to come out of her ovens."

"I've had no complaint about the food here," Rutledge agreed. "I don't see how she manages the hotel without more help. I've seen a maid upstairs a time or two, and there's someone in the kitchens to do the scullery work. But Mrs. Barnett appears to do most everything else. She's a widow, I think?"

"Her husband was quite a gifted man. He could turn his hand to anything-and it would flourish. But Barnett died just before the War, of a gangrenous wound. A horse stepped on his foot, and infection set in. They amputated the foot, then the leg, and in the end couldn't do anything to save him. She watched him die by inches, and nursed him herself."

"Did you know him?"

"As a matter of fact, I did. He'd been hired by Father James for work on the rectory, and I'd approved the cost at the Bishop's request. Barnett was working there when he was injured."

"You seem to know the parish here rather well. Are you equally knowledgeable about all of them?"

"No more than most. Old churches and rectories require an enormous level of upkeep, and while the local priest does as much as he can, the diocese has to fund many of the major repairs. Which means that I inspect and report, approve agreements, and pay the workmen." He grimaced. "A far cry from the office of priesthood I prefer. That's why I'm under consideration for St. Anne's, because I've asked to serve a church again."

Dishes of hot soup arrived on the tray Mrs. Barnett held aloft, and she set them before the two men with an un.o.btrusive grace. Vegetable, Rutledge decided, in a rich beef broth. He realized he was ravenous.

Cutting through the crisp crust of the loaf of bread, Rutledge said, "Did Father James find his parish troublesome? That's to say, the kinds of problems he had to deal with here? I should think it would vary from church to church."

"Human nature is human nature, everywhere. Still, this was once a rich parish, and now it's not. The kinds of problems shift with the economic balance."

"Give me an example."

Monsignor Holston was suddenly uneasy. After some seconds, he began slowly, "A priest counsels broken marriages and intercedes in disputes. Sometimes he has to take sides, and that's never simple. He tries to set the moral character of his parish; he keeps an eye on wayward children. G.o.d knows there are enough of those, those, thanks to the War." thanks to the War."

"Which tells me he knows the secrets of dozens of people."

Monsignor Holston shook his head. "We're not speaking of the confessional."

"Neither am I. Only of secrets that might be more important to someone than we realized."

"The Vicar at Holy Trinity can tell you much the same story, if you ask. Hardly the stuff of revenge, if that's what you're getting at. For instance, there was a youngster here in Osterley. Wild and heading for trouble. We discussed what to do about him. How best to redirect his energies. Father James discovered that the boy was interested in motorcars and aeroplanes, and was all for becoming a mechanic. His father was set on making him a farmer, like his forebears. It took some persuasion, but the father finally relented and let the lad learn a trade." He smiled wryly. "It isn't always quite that easy. But that's more or less typical, all the same."

"Not as typical as telling a straying husband that he has to confess to his wife that there's a child out of wedlock. Or telling a man angry with his neighbor that he has to apologize and make rest.i.tution for whatever he's done. That's more the stuff of revenge." Leaving the thought lying there, Rutledge changed the subject. "Tell me about Father James's interest in t.i.tanic t.i.tanic."

Surprised, Monsignor Holston stopped with his spoon in midair, staring at Rutledge. Then he said slowly, "I suppose he was overwhelmed by it, like the rest of us. And of course Lusitania Lusitania as well. There's great loss of life when a ship goes down. It's almost incomprehensible." as well. There's great loss of life when a ship goes down. It's almost incomprehensible."

Hamish said, "He willna' gie ye a straight answer!"

"There was a particular photograph Father James wished to bequeath to someone. The solicitor can't find it. It wasn't in his desk, where he'd indicated it would be found." Rutledge broke off a piece of bread.

Monsignor Holston put down his spoon. "Let me see. There were the usual photographs from seminary, quite a few of his family, that sort of thing. He liked Wales, he'd walked there a number of times on holiday. As I remember, he'd had a number of those framed, and of course a few from the Lake District, too. Speak to Ruth Wainer. She will know."

"I have. She doesn't," Rutledge said baldly, and paused, to let Monsignor Holston finish his soup. When the plates had been removed, he went on. "What did you know about Father James that frightens you so much? Did he have another side that we haven't stumbled across? A secret life, perhaps."

An angry flush rose under the priest's fair skin. "That's ridiculous! You know it is!" He considered Rutledge for a moment and added more calmly, "I thought the matter was settled. That it was Walsh who'd done the murder!"

"I have a feeling you aren't satisfied with Walsh as the killer either. You wouldn't still be afraid of that rectory, if you were. And it's true-there are holes in the evidence against him. Even Inspector Blevins is aware of that. The question is where to look if Walsh is shown to be innocent. I have no allegiances here in Osterley, you see. Or to the church that Father James served. I'm not afraid to turn over stones and see what's there. . . . I think the time has come for you to tell me what's behind your fear."

Monsignor Holston said earnestly, "Look. I'm in no position to tell you whether Walsh is guilty or not. What I can can tell you is that Father James had no secret life-" tell you is that Father James had no secret life-"

"He was-apparently-fascinated by the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic disaster-" disaster-"