As if in a tableau, Rutledge could see Tuttle stop, his head turned toward the vehicle. And in the shadows by the rectory wall, he could just discern the outline of another man frozen in place not ten yards from where Tuttle was standing.

Tuttle was the victim this time.

And Rutledge had two choices—to call out a warning, and risk losing Summers, or to put himself between Tuttle and the killer.

Tuttle was opening the rectory gate, whistling to himself as he stepped through it and paused to shut it behind him.

Something—some tiny movement—caught his attention, and he turned to stare at the rectory wall, now in darkness again. “Who’s there?” he asked sharply.

A voice said softly, so as not to disturb the rector behind his closed doors, “Do you remember me, Tuttle?”

The low churchyard wall was between them now. Tuttle said warily, “I don’t know your voice. Who are you? What do you want?”

“To say hello. For old time’s sake.”

“You’ve got the wrong man, then,” Tuttle answered and began to walk swiftly toward the far gate and the better-lit Hastings Road, careful to keep on the smoother ground between rows of gravestones.

He passed within ten feet of where Rutledge was standing, but his attention was wholly on the man behind him as he listened for the telltale squeak of the rectory gate. He began to pick up his pace now, anxious, clearly beginning to realize the danger he was in. The Hastings Road was safety—doors he could pound on, people who would hear him shout for help. Even the sanctuary of The Fishermen’s Arms, if he was quick enough.

Behind him, Rutledge saw the killer vault the wall rather than use the gate, landing lightly, in a crouched position. Then he straightened and started forward.

Rutledge turned his head. Tuttle by this time was some fifteen feet from the main gate, and he cast a worried glance over his shoulder, unable to see where in the shadows his hunter could be. The wind up now, he made a frantic dash for the gate and was through it, into the Hastings Road, running for the hotel.

“ ’Ware!”

It was Hamish who saved him.

In an instant, Rutledge realized that Summers must have caught a glimpse of him there amongst the trees watching Tuttle walk on, and on the spot changed course, altering his intended target to the one at hand.

There was a fleeting movement of air, a sound that had barely registered, before Rutledge dropped to his heels, out of reach of the garrote intended for his throat. It scraped across his head, and he heard the man behind him swear.

Rutledge surged to his feet again, catching Summers off balance, and the two men fell hard against a footstone, flailing at an adversary neither of them could see in the thick shadows of the church tower.