“I have no idea,” Sims answered. “There’s been a bazaar at St. Anne’s for as long as anyone can remember. Most of the town attends it, just as the Catholic parishioners come to our Spring Fete. There isn’t enough entertainment in Osterley to stand fast on religious lines.” He threw a smile at Rutledge as he dipped his brush into the paint can. “As far as I know, this was the first year the bazaar committee decided to allow outsiders to perform. St. John the Lesser had been quite successful with such a program and it was the talk of Norfolk. A number of churches followed suit, and found that this drew attendees from miles around. Many of the villages inland from Osterley aren’t large enough to have anything approaching a bazaar, and so this one was—not surprisingly—rather popular. The Strong Man was a last-minute replacement when the wire walkers couldn’t come and suggested him instead. At least that’s what I’d heard.”

“Did Walsh use his own name for his act?”

“Lord, no, he called himself ‘Samson the Great.’ ”

Which suited the man under lock and key—defiant and arrogant.

Changing the direction of the conversation, Rutledge asked, “Was Father James a good priest? As you would judge any man of the Cloth.”

Sims turned, studying the amount of paint on his brush. Ruefully he replied, “Probably a better priest than I am. My father was a clergyman—I more or less followed him into the family trade, so to speak. It was expected of me. ‘Sims and Son, Clergy.’ Like the greengrocer or the ironmonger.” He began to paint again, concentrating on the strokes. “My father was terribly proud of me when I was ordained. But I learned soon enough that I never had the deep calling that made him a sincerely committed man. I’ll marry one day and raise a family, and serve my congregation faithfully. Holy Trinity is beautiful, and I’ll be proud of what I accomplish here.” He bent to dip the brush again. “But Father James’s church was his family, and a more dedicated man you’ll never find. And when my sons come to me to ask if they should follow in the footsteps of their grandfather and father, I’ll encourage them to ask themselves why they want to be clergymen. If I’m not satisfied with the answer, I’ll dissuade them, if I can.”

He stopped, appalled, and turned to Rutledge, heedless of the brush in his hand dripping onto his shoes, exclaiming, “I’m sorry! I don’t know where that came from! You’re not here to listen to me, you’re here about Father James.”

“You’ve answered me,” Rutledge said, “in your own way.”