But then a footfall on pavement, a shoe scraping in the gritty entrance as someone turned back to the porch, came to him.

A trap, then. Set with care. For him? For Walker? Did the figure ahead of him know who was following?

Forewarned, he kept his eyes on the porch, one hand still brushing the stone wall of the church, his feet thrusting through the thick summer grass with care. Sinners and saints alike wished to be buried as near to the church wall as possible. And on that thought, his felt his foot strike the edge of a gravestone.

His quarry must have heard it as well, and this time the figure ahead of him slipped out of the porch and disappeared.

Rutledge continued until he’d reached the porch himself. He kept one hand on the wall as it jutted out to form the porch, guided himself to the opening into the porch, and with one hand out before him, made certain that the small space was empty.

He stepped out of it, again using its shape to judge where he was going, and moved on toward the apse.

But he sensed now that there was no one ahead of him. While he had been investigating the porch, the fox had eluded the hounds, slipping around the apse and up the far side.

Rutledge rounded the church himself, and moved quickly up the north side and on toward the gate in the churchyard wall.

He had left it half open, but it was standing wide now.

Stepping through it, he closed it and crossed the rectory lawn again, fairly certain that he had lost whoever it was. But where had he gone? Up the Hastings Road or down it? There was no way of guessing which he’d chosen. And his head start had allowed him to vanish up a side street or into the shadows of a doorway.

Why was he out in the night? His movements had been furtive, and that boded trouble.

Rutledge turned back toward The Fishermen’s Arms, trying to recall any detail about the figure that would help identify him. Tallish, he was sure of that, and quick as a cat on his feet, because he had either known the churchyard well or had eyes better adjusted to the night.

And then in the distance behind him, he heard a motor turn over. He whirled but could see nothing, not even the flash of headlamps. No vehicle came his way, and after a moment, he was fairly certain that it had disappeared in the direction of Hastings.

There was no way he could catch it up. By the time he had reached his own motorcar, this one would have too great a head start, disappearing into the busy streets of the town.