Margaret continued: “There is only one God, of course, but I don’t believe for a moment that he wants us to follow rules without questioning them, or be unkind to anybody who falls short.” She smiled then with more warmth and said, “I think that God sees the world in the way that I see it, and not at all in the way that Ida Gransbury saw it. Would you agree?”

I gave a noncommittal grunt.

“The Church teaches that only God can judge,” said Margaret. “Why didn’t pious Ida Gransbury point that out to Harriet Sippel and her baying flock? Why did she reserve all of her condemnation for Patrick Ive? If one is going to present oneself as a model of Christianity, one should strive to get the basic teachings right.”

“I see you are still angry about it.”

“I will be angry until my dying day, Mr. Catchpool. Greater sinners persecuting lesser sinners in the name of morality—that’s something worth raging about.”

“Hypocrisy is an ugly thing,” I concurred.

“Besides, one could argue that it cannot be wrong to be with the person you truly love.”

“I’m not sure about that. If a person is married—”

“Oh, fiddlesticks to marriage!” Margaret looked up at the paintings on the parlor wall, then addressed them directly: “I’m sorry, Charles, dear, but if two people love one another, then however inconvenient it is for the Church and however against the rules it might be . . . well, love is love, isn’t it? I know you don’t like it when I say that.”

I can’t say I liked it much either. “Love can cause a whole heap of trouble,” I said. “If Nancy Ducane had not loved Patrick Ive, I would not now have three murders to investigate.”

“What a nonsensical thing to say.” Margaret wrinkled her nose at me. “It is hate that makes people kill, Mr. Catchpool, not love. Never love. Please be rational.”

“I have always believed that the hardest rules to follow are the best tests of character,” I told her.

“Yes, but what aspect of our characters do they test? Our credulity, perhaps. Our cloth-headed idiocy. The Bible, with all its rules, is simply a book written by a person or people. It ought to carry a disclaimer, prominently displayed: ‘The word of God, distorted and misrepresented by man.’ ”

“I must go,” I said, uncomfortable about the turn our discussion had taken. “I have to get back to London. Thank you for your time and your help. It has been invaluable.”

“You must forgive me,” Margaret said as she followed me to her front door. “I do not usually speak my mind quite so bluntly, apart from when I am speaking to Ambrose and Charles-on-the-wall.”

“I suppose I should feel honored, in that case,” I said.