The house appeared to be equally plain inside, with the kind of furnishings found in most vicarages—the outgrown collections of generations of occupants, left to the next man to serve or to be rid of as he wished. The finest piece was on the landing, a small Queen Anne table that must have belonged to Sims. No one would have left that behind intentionally.

“My sister and her three children are coming to keep house for me,” Sims said over his shoulder. “She lost her husband in the last year of the War, and I’ve just persuaded her to move here. The house in Wembley holds too many memories, and there really isn’t enough space for a growing brood.”

He disappeared into a large room down the passage where new wallpaper had been hung, cabbage roses and forget-me-nots on a cream background. There was a piece of paint-splattered canvas the size of a carpet lying under the windows and along the baseboard. Rutledge, stepping across the threshold, thought how bright and airy it was. Sims said, “This will be Claire’s room. I can only hope she’ll like it!”

His forehead was furrowed with doubt as he scanned his handiwork.

Rutledge said, “I’m sure she will.”

“This is a barn of a place!” Sims added. “I rattle around in it like my own bones. Children’s voices and laughter will make a vast difference.” He rubbed one hand over his forehead, leaving a smear of paint, and said with some intensity, “They’ve got a dog. A big one.” He began to paint the sashes. “What can I do for you, Inspector? I take it you’re here in regard to Father James’s death.”

“Yes. I’m trying to cover the same ground Inspector Blevins explored before me. We still have more questions than we have answers.”

“I’d heard there was someone in custody. The Strong Man from the bazaar.”

“Yes. His name is Walsh. But it will be several days before we can be absolutely certain we have our man. Inspector Blevins knows Osterley, knows the people here. He was one of Father James’s congregation. But I’m at a disadvantage. I’d like to know more about the victim, for one thing.”

“I thought this was a case of housebreaking gone wrong—” Sims said uneasily, looking over his shoulder at Rutledge as he smoothed the bristles of the brush along the sill.

“We surmise it was. But in murder, I’ve learned that nothing is certain. For instance, did Walsh know the priest before this autumn? Or had they met for the first time at the bazaar?”

It was a roundabout process, and Rutledge was patient.