Yet something in her voice—or the way in which she had waited until his back was to her—had touched that deep well of intuition that Rutledge had always relied on. There had been some deeper interest than mere curiosity in her question, he thought. Probing, his mind still on Priscilla Connaught, he asked, “Were you here in Osterley when the bazaar was held?”

“No, I was in Felbrigg, having dinner with friends.”

Rutledge shifted to another direction.

“Did you see Father James the day he was killed?”

“No—”

“Was there anything about his death that worried you?”

He waited, continuing to look down at her. It seemed to make her uneasy.

Reluctantly she tried to explain. “I haven’t had much experience with murder investigations. It was probably more my imagination than anything else. But Father James had asked me a question on the last evening I dined with him. It was on my mind for several days, and after he— died—I found myself wondering if it might be important. But if you’ve arrested your man, then of course I was wrong! It doesn’t signify now.”

Rutledge replied carefully, “Who can say? Perhaps it still has some bearing on the case. Have you spoken of this to Inspector Blevins?”

She frowned. “No. I thought it best not to say anything. Inspector Blevins seemed convinced that the motive for the murder was theft. Not ancient history.”

“Will you tell me what it was? My name’s Rutledge. Scotland Yard sent me to Osterley because Father James’s Bishop expressed grave concern over the time it has taken to clear up this business. It isn’t idle curiosity behind my questions. And I won’t repeat what you tell me to anyone else—until or unless I see the need.”

The woman picked up her charcoal again and began to put wrinkles into the wimple of the nun, capturing them perfectly. “No, I just—Father James was so kind that I— sometimes one wants to help so badly that one starts to imagine that what one knows is important. I’ve already explained: The matter he was referring to had happened some time ago, years in fact, and really had nothing to do with Osterley or anyone who lives here. It was only the importance that Father James seemed to attach to it that made me remember it at all.”

“Was it a church matter? Or a personal one?”

“I rather thought it was personal. Most certainly the subject was a painful one for me, and he—Father James— was helpful in dealing with that. In return, I tried to answer his question, and failed. A disappointment to him, and a regret for me. But it had nothing to do with Osterley, I give you my word.”