Letting go of the bell rope, Rutledge dropped to the stone flagging, trying to pick up movement and locate Summers. But he waited a second too long, for something brushed his shoulder, then a fist slammed into the edge of his jaw. Rutledge’s head snapped back, and he saw stars.

The other man was on him then, pinning him half against the wall, half against the door into the sanctuary. Shaking his head to clear it, Rutledge broke the hold, lashing out in his turn, and Summers stumbled backward over something that had fallen from the overturned table, sending it bouncing across the floor, and he went down. It was the break that Rutledge was looking for, and he caught at the fabric of the man’s lapel, held on hard with one hand, and with the other, went for where he guessed the man’s body would be. The blow sank into yielding flesh, and he heard the whoosh of air as Summers fought to breathe again.

Rutledge was on the point of following up his advantage just as the outer church door scraped open and the beam of a torch swept them.

Both combatants froze, then turned as one to stare into the brilliant light as Mr. Ottley said sternly, “This is a house of God. Get out of here now.”

The man in Rutledge’s grasp, using all his strength, broke free, spun the rector into Rutledge’s arms, and was gone.

The rector lost his balance and went down, taking Rutledge to one knee as the torch went skittering across the stone floor like a wild thing, the spinning light blinding both of them. Rutledge heaved Mr. Ottley away and was out the door after Summers, unaware he had not gone far.

This time the garrote didn’t miss. It whipped over Rutledge’s head and drew across his throat so quickly he was helpless to stop it.

And Summers pulled hard, with a force that was backed by anger and an intense will.

Rutledge spun, jerking his revolver from his pocket and raising it in the same motion. The barrel caught Summers with such force across the temple that he went down, the garrote slipping through his hands.

Just then the church door opened and the rector barreled out, torch in hand, shouting Rutledge’s name. The beam caught Rutledge in the eyes, and Ottley stopped short.

“At my feet, damn it,” he snapped, and the torch swept downward.

“Who is that?” Mr. Ottley asked, peering at the slack, unconscious face. “I’ve never seen him before!” There was astonishment and relief in his voice.

“At a guess, one Thomas Summers.”

The rector moved closer, frowning. “Are you sure? That doesn’t look like the Summers lad.”

“You haven’t seen him in fifteen years. He’s changed. He’s a man now, not a boy.”

Ottley pointed to the blood on the side of the unconscious man’s face. “Did you kill him?”