“I’m Frederick Gifford,” he said, gesturing to a chair. “Do sit down and tell me what I can do for you. I assume you’ve come about the Will?”

Surprised, Rutledge said, “As a matter of fact—”

Gifford nodded. “It seemed unlikely that Inspector Blevins would be interested in its provisions, given the nature of my client’s death. I’m told that they’ve finally caught the killer. It’s chilling to think about: Still, I suppose if someone is poor enough, any sum is princely.” The words echoed those of Monsignor Holston. Moving the blotter to line up with the pen and inkstand in antique silver gilt, Gifford sighed. “But I must admit that I’m surprised Father James’s reputation had reached London. It’s a compliment to his memory that Scotland Yard should take an interest in the matter.”

“He’s fishing,” Hamish warned.

Rutledge, accustomed now to offering a placating sentence or two, answered, “Father James’s Bishop was concerned enough to speak to the Chief Constable about the case. The Yard, as a courtesy, sent me to reassure him that all that it is possible to do was being done.”

“It has most certainly borne fruit!” As if satisfied that Rutledge’s credentials were in order, Gifford went on. “Well, as to the Will. There was nothing extraordinary in it. Father James didn’t leave a large estate, and what there is goes to his only surviving relative, a sister with a very young family. There’s a suitable bequest to Mrs. Wainer, for her years of service as housekeeper, and a small sum for the church fund. Not, I’m sure, as generous as Father James had hoped it might be, in the fullness of time!” His eyes watched Rutledge behind the pedantic mask of solicitor.

“He couldn’t have foreseen an early death,” Rutledge agreed. He had chosen the words carefully, for there seemed to be something more and the solicitor was biding his time. Hamish, at the back of Rutledge’s mind, was also advocating caution. “Of course it’s too soon to be absolutely certain we have the right man. Inspector Blevins strikes me as thorough and experienced. He won’t be satisfied until he’s found the proof he needs. It does no harm to keep the broader picture in mind, meanwhile.”

There was a subtle change in Gifford’s manner, as though he had been waiting for a sign that Rutledge, the outsider, was not usurping the local man’s position. Villagers looked after their own. . . .

“Yes, well, we don’t have many murders in Osterley, thank God! But Blevins is a good man. We went to school together, the three of us—Blevins, my late brother, and I. He followed his father into the constabulary, and we went on to take up law. Two sides of the same coin, in many ways.”

Rutledge acknowledged the connection, saying lightly, “Unless you’re arguing for the defense.”