The gate to the rectory was just ahead. He looked up at the long window that marked the staircase to the first floor, a hanging lamp glowing softly through the glass. As he did, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw movement in the churchyard beyond, and he turned his head for a better look.

It was that time of night when objects lost their color. Beneath the trees in the churchyard were patches that seemed impenetrable they were so thick with shadow, gravestones irregular splotches of gray, the church itself a stark silhouette beyond.

He stepped through the rectory gates, crossed the lawn to the wicket into the churchyard that rectors time out of mind had used to reach the church. The gate hinges squeaked a little, betraying his movements, but he walked on, wishing he could turn on his torch to prevent himself from stumbling over the settling ground and the footstones nearly hidden in summer grass. But to do so would mark his progress and take away his night vision.

It was near that tree, he thought, using a beech to keep himself oriented. He couldn’t tell whether someone was still near the thick trunk or if the figure had moved on. After a moment, he stopped, trying to listen.

Hamish said, “There. By the corner of the kirk.”

His eyes were adjusting to the gloom, and he could almost swear there was a figure disappearing toward the south porch, used sometimes for funerals when it was raining. He changed direction and followed, nearly sprawling headlong as the toe of his boot caught in something, tripping him up. Swearing silently, he reached the corner of the church and paused, one hand on the cooling stone.

It was very dark here, the grass and wildflowers heavier under foot. He could barely pick out the thicker blackness of the church porch, against a patch of sky.

The hair on the back of his neck seemed to rise.

Someone was there, he was sure of it. But in the porch, or in the darkness on this side of it?

Hamish muttered, “ ’Ware!” but Rutledge was already debating the wisdom of going forward.

Was he being lured? As the first victim, William Jeffers, could have been? Or was the unseen figure as eager to see him turn away as he himself was to go?

He moved on, keeping one hand on the church wall as he walked. He was halfway to the porch when he heard the slight grating of the door into the church, as if someone had gone inside.

But he wasn’t convinced. He thought the man must still be inside the porch, waiting for him.

“I know you’re there,” he called softly into the shadows. “Come out and let me see you.”

Silence followed.

And then movement again, as if someone had slipped out of the porch and was going east, toward the apse.