He had been standing not far from the church tower, facing the rectory, and now he moved toward the gate, picking his way through the heavy summer grass and the scattering of tombstones. It was as dark as the back side of hell in the churchyard, and there was no way to know whether someone had been coming into it or going through into the rectory grounds.

Misdirection.

Rutledge knew then that he’d been right. Summers had seen him leave the school, had seen him turn and look back at the windows. Shortly afterward, someone had come for Mrs. Farrell-Smith. That had had to be done, Rutledge had had no choice. But his quarry, taking no chances, must have slipped out the back way, across the kitchen garden, the barnyard, and out through the orchard before Mrs. Farrell-Smith had even reached safety.

And now he was loose. But here in the churchyard or at the rectory?

Rutledge’s hearing was acute, but Hamish’s had always been far sharper.

“On the steps of the rectory.”

Rutledge could just make out the soft footfall. And then it came down the steps again and was lost in the grass. After a few seconds Rutledge realized that someone was moving around to the side of the rectory, facing the church.

Where was Mr. Ottley, the rector? At this hour, in his bed, most likely. But was he? For now Rutledge could see that although the drapes had been drawn, lamps were still lit in his study.

Just then, the rectory door opened, throwing a shaft of light across the lawn, and Mr. Ottley was saying, “I’m glad you came, Tuttle. I think you’ve made a wise decision. If Miss Lang accepts your proposal, I’ll be happy to post the banns and marry you when the time comes.”

Tuttle. Constable Walker’s nephew. And what the hell was he doing in Eastfield? He must, Rutledge thought, have arrived at the rectory while it was still dusk and the police were gathered inside St. Mary’s. Damn and blast the man!

“Thank you, Rector,” Tuttle responded. “I’m that sorry to have come so late, but we lost track of time, didn’t we, Nan and I?” He laughed lightly. “One good thing about getting married, I shan’t be traveling all the way to Hastings and back of an evening.”

Mr. Ottley laughed with him, and then they said good night.

The door closed, and the shaft of light vanished, leaving Rutledge blind for several seconds. But he could hear Tuttle moving down the path from the rectory door, and then turning toward the gate into the churchyard. A shortcut to his house—Rutledge had spoken to his mother only that afternoon.

A lorry rumbled down the Hastings Road, and its headlamps swept the churchyard wall as it passed the main gate.