But who was she? Was this the photograph that Father James had left to May Trent? There was no resemblance between the two women. Nor was there any to Priscilla Connaught. Rutledge hadn't met most of the other women in Osterley. Frederick Gifford's dead wife? The doctor's daughter? Someone from the priest's youth?

"Look on the reverse," Hamish suggested. And Rutledge took the back out of the frame to remove the photograph. There was a date: 10 July, 1911. 10 July, 1911. And he words, lightly inscribed, so as not to mar the face. Gratefully, V. And he words, lightly inscribed, so as not to mar the face. Gratefully, V.

V. Victoria sprang to mind. It had been a popular girls' name throughout the late Queen's reign. As Mary was now, in honor of the present Queen. Vera? Vivian. Veronica. Virginia. Verity. Violet?

He ran out of possibilities.

Still, Blevins could perhaps help him there. Or Mrs. Wainer.

On the other hand- Hamish said it for him. "I wouldna' be in haste to show it."

Getting to his feet, Rutledge found a flat leather case lying in a corner of the room, a coating of dust covering it, and a cobweb linking it to the frame of the bottomless chair beside it. The grip was broken at one end, but it would do.

Rutledge looked around him a last time at the "waste not, want not" philosophy of householders who store in their upper floors and attics the ruined furnishings and venerable treasures they couldn't quite bring themselves to throw away. In the event it's ever needed. In the event it's ever needed. And most of it lay there still, forgotten and unwanted, from generation to generation. Judging by the dust and cobwebs, even Mrs. Wainer seldom ventured up here. . . . And most of it lay there still, forgotten and unwanted, from generation to generation. Judging by the dust and cobwebs, even Mrs. Wainer seldom ventured up here. . . .

He wondered if Father James had kept that in mind when he stored the clippings and the photograph in his trunk. Or if that was where they were generally kept.

Rutledge shook the dust from the leather case, sneezing heavily, and discovered that there was a mouse hole in one corner of the leather. Human flotsam and jetsam, Hamish pointed out, sometimes served other creatures well.

Smiling at that, Rutledge set the cuttings and the photograph inside, closed the flap, and looked into the small trunk a last time-even stretching his fingers inside the torn corner of the lining on the right side-before deciding that he had the lot. He carefully repacked the clothing before going down the attic stairs.

When Rutledge walked through to the kitchen, the housekeeper was standing at the back door, in the midst of a lively conversation with the coal man. His ap.r.o.n, black with coal dust, matched the color of his eyes, and the bulbous nose matched the heavy chest that spread out from wide, muscular shoulders.

Rutledge's tea was ready on a tray, the kettle steaming gently on top of the stove. An ironed, white serviette over a plate kept sliced sandwiches moist.

Hamish said, "If you didna' stay, chances are, he will-"

And in the same instant, the coal man looked up with disappointment on his face as Rutledge stepped into the kitchen.

Rutledge said, "Mrs. Wainer, I've finished for the moment. I have a few papers here that I shall need to look over and return to you-"

"Papers?" She turned with some alarm, her eyes flying to the case he was carrying.

"Old cuttings, for the most part. Dated well before the War. I'll just look through them before you box them up with the rest of Father James's possessions. But you never know, do you, where something useful might turn up?"

She hesitated, clearly uncertain where her responsibility lay. Rutledge added, "They're to do with shipping, not church business. Perhaps you've seen them on his desk. A hobby of his, was it? To study maritime affairs?" It was as far as he was willing to go, with the coal man unashamedly listening to every word.

"There was nothing like that in his desk," she protested, but before she could ask to have a look at them the coal man stepped forward.

"Begging pardon, sir. Shipping, you said? Not that ship that sank back in '12, was it?" His heavy hands, with coal dust thick in the cracks and creases, worked at his ap.r.o.n, as if not accustomed to speaking to his betters before spoken to.

"As I remember there was a reference to t.i.tanic, t.i.tanic," Rutledge replied guardedly. "Yes."

"Then if I might offer a word, sir?" There was a diffident smile on his face. "My daughter, she's got herself a fine situation in London. Father James-G.o.d rest his soul!-asked if she might do him a small favor, and he sent her twenty pounds to buy up all the London papers and cut out whatever there was about the ship's sinking and the inquiry. He wanted every word she could find. And she must have sent him dozens of cuttings, sir, by post every week."

Rutledge opened the case and pulled out the cuttings, laying them on the table and spreading them with one finger. "Like these?"

The coal man came closer, peering down his nose as if shortsighted. "Aye, I shouldn't be at all surprised, though I never saw 'em. Jessie sent them straight to the rectory." He paused, and when Rutledge didn't move the cuttings, he added, "When t'other ship was torpedoed, that Lusitania, Lusitania, my daughter wrote him to ask if he wanted her to do the same again. But he thanked her and said he'd seen enough of tragedy. His very words." my daughter wrote him to ask if he wanted her to do the same again. But he thanked her and said he'd seen enough of tragedy. His very words."

"And so it would be your guess, would it, that this was a pa.s.sing fancy?"

"He never spoke to me about that ship!" Mrs. Wainer seemed hurt that she'd been left out of his confidence. "It was the talk of England, and I don't remember he ever said anything more than what a pity it was."

"But do you recall seeing the letters coming from London?"

"As a rule, Father James collected the post," she explained. "But you'd have thought, if they were that important, he might have asked me to be on the lookout for them." She peered down at the cuttings again. "I'd have put them in a sc.r.a.pbook for him if he'd wanted me to. It's just not like him not to say a word!"

"And no' like him to lie to the doctor," Hamish added, an echo of Rutledge's own thought.

Turning to the coal man, Rutledge asked, "Did you ever tell anyone about the favor your daughter was doing for the priest?"

The jowly face flushed. "No, sir!"

"It would be natural-a matter of pride!"

"My work takes me into any number of houses, sir," the coal man said with a certain dignity, "and I never gossip about one to t'other. Ask Mrs. Wainer if she's ever heard me gossip!"

Mrs. Wainer shook her head. "No, he never does."

Rutledge collected the cuttings once more and put them back in the case. "Thank you, Mrs. Wainer. You'll have these papers back within the week. I shan't have time for tea after all. Do you mind?"

She was still more than a little concerned about the papers, but said doubtfully, "If they'll help in any way, sir, then by all means . . ."

Rutledge spent the next hour in his room, going through the yellowing cuttings. They were dated in an untrained hand, with the name of the newspaper or magazine written underneath. The coal man's daughter? Another-the priest's?-had underlined names of pa.s.sengers, marking each with an S noting survivors, an X noting the recovered and identified dead, and an M M for known missing. This was a sad and depressing list, but those who had not been recovered were sometimes mentioned by name-the wealthy, the powerful, the famous. There were hundreds with no grave but the sea and no one to ask about them- or grieve for them. Whole families lost together. for known missing. This was a sad and depressing list, but those who had not been recovered were sometimes mentioned by name-the wealthy, the powerful, the famous. There were hundreds with no grave but the sea and no one to ask about them- or grieve for them. Whole families lost together.

Which was, in a sense, more haunting, but at the same time perhaps, kinder.

Rutledge put the cuttings aside for a moment and stood by his windows looking out at the marshes. He glimpsed Peter Henderson walking along the quay, head down, shoulders hunched, and wondered if the man had a home to go to. And then recalled that his family had cut him off. Where then did he live?

His mind on the clippings again, Rutledge felt a sadness that came from touching the tragedy of others. One could claim that it was fate, the invincible weight of the iceberg and the unsinkable ship colliding on a cold night in the North Atlantic, where there should have been no such danger at that time of the year. Who chose those who would live, and who would die? Was that what disturbed the priest? That so many could simply be left to freeze and drown in the sea by an omniscient and all-powerful G.o.d? There were 1,513 known to be dead. . . .

Or was it far more personal than an exercise in the definition of G.o.d?

He went back to work, rubbing his shoulders as he concentrated on the cuttings, looking for a clue.

And in the end, he found not what he was looking for, but what he had not expected to see in these articles.

The name of Marianna Trent . . .

She had been dragged into one of the lifeboats, unconscious from a blow to the head. A blessing perhaps, with fractured ribs and a broken leg. Speculation was that she'd been struck by another boat while floating in the water. A sensation at first, for she had no name, and later of no interest to journalists hungry for fresh news. She must have remained in hospital in Ireland for some time, because there was a small cutting dated three weeks after the disaster, relating that this woman had been released and was returning to England, her leg still in a cast but healed sufficiently to travel. The article also contained a small and telling final paragraph.

"Miss Trent, whom the doctors have p.r.o.nounced fully recovered, has no memory of the tragedy, but says that she recovered, has no memory of the tragedy, but says that she dreams at night about falling into black water. When interviewed by the shipping authorities, she could provide no dreams at night about falling into black water. When interviewed by the shipping authorities, she could provide no new information about the collision or the subsequent actions of officers or pa.s.sengers to save the doomed ship." new information about the collision or the subsequent actions of officers or pa.s.sengers to save the doomed ship."

How well, Hamish asked with interest, did Father James know this woman before she came to Osterley? t.i.tanic t.i.tanic went down in April 1912- went down in April 1912- It was, Rutledge thought, a question to pursue.

In the end, Rutledge went not to Inspector Blevins but to the Vicar of Holy Trinity as the most likely person to give him the truth.

Mr. Sims had been sitting in his study, working on his sermon for the coming Sunday service, and he led Rutledge to the cluttered, book-filled room with the air of a man just released from prison.

"You'd think," he said ruefully, "that for a man of the Cloth, divine inspiration would pour forth like water from a holy spring. I've agonized over this week's message for hours and still have no idea what I'm trying to say."

He looked tired, as if he hadn't slept, shadows emphasizing the blueness of his eyes.

"How is the painting coming?" Rutledge asked, for the smell of wet paint was still pervasive.

"With greater speed than my persuasive powers. My sister is wary about changing schools this far into the year. Her children are sad to leave their friends. Her own friends are asking her if she'd be happy here in the Broads. I have run out of words for her, her, too." The last was said on a sigh. too." The last was said on a sigh.

When they were seated in the study, with its dark paneling and almost grimly Victorian austerity, Hamish said, "This is no' a place of inspiration!"

Rutledge had to agree. The gargoyles that surmounted the hearth, and the agony-stricken caryatids that supported it, two well-muscled monsters with their mouths twisted open with effort, were depressingly vivid.

Catching his expression as he glanced at them, Sims smiled. "I find this room most useful when I'm discussing appropriate behavior in church with small boys. They can't take their eyes off the figures, and it drives home my message quite well."

"I think I'd find it more comfortable writing with my back to them." Rutledge's voice was light. "Unless the subject was Judgment and d.a.m.nation."

Sims laughed outright. "It never occurred to me. This was the study of the Vicar before me, and I've tried to follow his example."

"Better, surely, to follow your own? There must be any number of rooms in this house that are more cheerful."

Sims nodded. "Actually, there is a small office I'm fond of. Now, tell me how I can help you with your problems? Any news on the man Blevins is holding?"

"The police are still tracing his movements." Rutledge gave the stock answer. He waited for a moment, and then asked, "You were there, when Father James left the bedside at Herbert Baker's house?"

"Yes. He came into the parlor and the Bakers offered him a cup of tea. He was tired, but he sat down and-in my opinion-made the family feel a little more comfortable about what Baker had done, in sending for a priest."

"Did he bring anything with him, that Baker might have given him? An envelope, a small package-" He left the sentence unfinished.

"No. He had his small case with him. With consecrated wafers and wine. If there was something Baker had wanted him to have, it was small enough to fit in there. Or his pocket. Why? Does the family think anything is missing? I can't believe-"

"Nothing is missing," Rutledge replied quickly. "I found myself wondering if perhaps Baker had given him a letter to post. It's as likely an explanation as any for Baker's whim." He shrugged, as if it wasn't important. "Put it down to curiosity-the besetting sin of a policeman's mind. No, what actually brought me are these."

He had folded a half dozen of the cuttings to fit into his breast pocket, and now he took them out to hand to the Vicar. "Tell me what you make of these."

The Vicar unfolded them and began to sift through the cuttings. "They appear to be news articles of the ship that sank back in '12." He looked up, a question on his face, as if uncertain what Rutledge wanted from him. "Were they Baker's?"

"I shouldn't think they have anything to do with Baker. No, I found them among Father James's papers. And this-" He took the photograph from his pocket and pa.s.sed it across the desk.

Something changed in Sims's expression. "How did you come by this?" His voice was carefully neutral.

"Do you recognize the woman?"

"No, I think you must tell me first how you came to have this!"

"It was also in Father James's possession. From what I've learned, just before his death he chose to add a codicil to his Will, leaving what I believe to be this photograph to someone-"

The Vicar's face had paled, as if the blood had rushed to his heart and left his skin without its natural ruddy color. "Not to me! He would never have bequeathed it to me! He would never have bequeathed it to me!" His voice was constricted by a tight throat. But he couldn't take his eyes from what he held in both hands, as if it were a treasure-or a dangerous thing.

Rutledge, watching him, said, "Why not? If you know the woman?"

"I know-knew-her."

"Can you tell me her name?" He moved gently, carefully, keenly aware that he was trodding on very emotional ground.

"She's dead! Let her rest in peace. She had nothing to do with Father James-"

"He never met her?" Rutledge deliberately took the words literally.

"Of course he'd met her-but she wasn't a member of his parish, she didn't live in Osterley-" His words were disjointed, as if he spoke without thinking, responding to the tone of voice and not the sense of Rutledge's questions.

"Then she was a member of your parish."

"No. Not at all."

With an effort, the young Vicar handed the framed photograph back to Rutledge. It was an act of denial. As if by giving it back, he was absolved of any more questions about it.

"You haven't given me her name," Rutledge reminded him.

"Look," Sims said, his eyes wretched with pain, "this is a personal matter. She had nothing to do with the priest or his church or his death. How could she have? She had nothing to do with me, not really. Not in the true sense. It's been seven years-she's been dead dead for seven years! Just-leave it, will you?" for seven years! Just-leave it, will you?"

"I can't. Until I'm satisfied that something Father James kept seven years and then felt was important enough to bequeath to someone in his Will, shortly before his murder, is not a matter of grave concern." He chose the word purposefully. Not death. Murder. Violent and intentional murder.

It brought Sims out of his shock. His face seemed to collapse, as if Rutledge had so completely broken down his defenses that he had nowhere left to turn. He had never been a forceful man, he had never had the strength of a Father James, and yet in his own fashion he did have the ability to face the truth.

"For G.o.d's sake-" he asked, "- did did he leave it to me?" When Rutledge said nothing, he went on, "All right. If I tell you what you want to know, will you leave us both in peace? Just-leave us in peace!" He stopped, as if afraid he might say too much. he leave it to me?" When Rutledge said nothing, he went on, "All right. If I tell you what you want to know, will you leave us both in peace? Just-leave us in peace!" He stopped, as if afraid he might say too much.

"What was she to you, if you weren't her priest?"

Sims's eyes went to the caryatids, the anguished figures howling in pain as they supported the heavy weight of the mantel. Rutledge thought, He knows how they feel-his He knows how they feel-his burden is as heavy. burden is as heavy.

Hamish said, "He was in love wi' her. Let it be!"

But Rutledge waited, forcing Sims to say what he did not want to say.

"I-I cared about her, because she was in trouble. But there was nothing I could do to help. With all the might of the Church behind me, there was nothing I could do to there was nothing I could do to help her! help her!"

CHAPTER 17.

IN THE SILENCE THAT FOLLOWED, RUTLEDGE gave Sims a s.p.a.ce in which to collect himself.

Then he asked, "What was her name? Victoria? Vera? Ver-"

"I won't give you her name," the Vicar broke in wearily. "For G.o.d's sake, man, have a little sense! She's long dead, and you'll only stir up what's best forgotten. I gave that photograph to Father James myself, for safe-keeping. It was-it was part of a promise. And I kept it, that promise. I did what was asked of me while she was alive, and I tried to close the door once she was dead. I don't know why he wished me to have it again. I thought perhaps he'd burned it years ago. But I never quite had the courage to ask. Who knows about this? Gifford? I'll have to speak to him-"