Hamish, to whom stained glass was iconography close to idolatry, was more interested in the construction of the marvelously carved wooden roof. Rutledge walked down the nave past benches capped with ornate poppy-heads, like inhabited fleurs-de-lis, and armrests carved as small animals, from dogs to griffins to ponies.

His intention was to take a closer look at the window above the high altar, but as he entered the small choir he nearly stumbled over a box of charcoal and a knee.

The woman he’d spoken to so briefly the night before was sitting on a hassock making drawings of the odd figures on the misericords—those half-seats on which a monk might rest his posterior without actually sitting down in the choir chair assigned to him.

She looked up, as startled as he was, and said, “Sorry!”

Hamish, remembering Lord Sedgwick’s comment, said, “The religious woman.”

“Did I hurt you?” Rutledge asked in concern.

“Oh, no. And it’s my fault for sprawling across the floor with my kit.”

He looked down at the drawing she was making, of a nun with ragged teeth, dramatic and lifelike in bold strokes of charcoal. “That’s quite good.”

Her expression became defensive. “It’s a hobby,” she said curtly.

To shift the subject, he gestured around him. “This is a remarkably fine church.”

“Yes, it is. I knew someone who was writing a book about old parish churches. He brought it to my attention.”

“I shan’t distract you, I only intended to look at the glass here.” He walked on, examining the window with its fine colors and vividly detailed figures.

To his surprise, she said to his back, “You’re the policeman from London, I think?”

“Yes.” He didn’t turn.

“Perhaps you could tell me—is it true they’ve caught the man who killed Father James?”

Rutledge turned slowly. “You knew him? Father James?”

“A little. He was interested in work I was doing, and I found him quite knowledgeable about East Anglian church architecture. He was generous with his time and I valued that.”

Rutledge walked back to her. Her upturned face was attractive, with intelligent gray eyes and a determined mouth above a very pretty chin. The dress she was wearing, a mossy dark green, was very becoming, but without the drama that was part of Priscilla Connaught’s apparel. “We don’t know if we have the right man in custody. There’s a good deal of work to be done before we can be certain of his movements between the day of the bazaar and the murder. But Inspector Blevins expects to clear that up quickly.”

She nodded, as if satisfied.