They took their leave shortly afterward, and Walker said harshly as the two men reached the motorcar, “I hope to God we find out who is committing these murders.”

Dropping Walker off at the police station, Rutledge changed into dry clothes, then went to find the rector of St. Mary’s Church.

The signboard at the gate into the churchyard gave the priest’s name as Ottley. As Rutledge was about to decide whether to try the rectory or the church first, he saw the man he was after just closing the rectory door and striding down the walk toward him.

“You’re the man from London,” the rector said, squinting at his face as Rutledge met him on the flagstone walk. He pulled out his spectacles for a better look. “Yes. Do you want me? I was on my way to see Mrs. Winslow, to offer what comfort I could. The constable left word to look in on her.”

“My name is Rutledge. Scotland Yard. I’d like five minutes of your time first. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”

The rector gestured vaguely in the direction of a bench set under an apple tree growing between the church and the rectory, its gnarled, spreading branches offering good shade as the watery sun strengthened. “Will that do? My housekeeper is mopping floors. I doubt she’d care to have me tracking back inside.”

Rutledge led the way, and the vicar dusted the bench with a handkerchief before settling himself in one corner. Rutledge took the other.

“Sad circumstances we’re in,” the rector said with a sigh. “I can’t quite bring my mind around it, you know. Four murders! It’s unspeakable. I never dreamed of such a thing here in Eastfield.”

Rutledge could hear bees buzzing about over his head, where the tight knots of young green apples were nestled. “I’d like to ask you about Eastfield. You’ve been rector here for some time?”

“Nearly thirty years, now,” he answered. “Twenty of them without the support of my dear wife. But one copes, somehow.”

“Indeed. You knew these four men who have been killed. What can you tell me about them? I’m not asking for secrets of the confessional, but for observations you must have made as you watched them grow into manhood.”

“They were boys. In and out of scrapes, but no harm done for the most part. A rowdy bunch, excepting of course for Anthony Pierce, who played with them only occasionally. Still, there were one or two more serious incidents, as you’d expect. And then they were strong enough to help out at home, and their childhoods changed. No longer collecting eggs before school or bringing in the cows afterward, they were set to heavier work, mucking out the cowshed or the barn, helping with the planting and the harvest, whatever was needed. Some were able to stay with their schooling, others weren’t so fortunate. Hartle, of course, was apprenticed to his father at Kenton’s. The Pierce brothers went away to public school. And the nonsense stopped.”