Rutledge hesitated. Then he opened the door, noting the crest on the panel, and climbed into the car. The interior was beautifully done with velvet cushions and quite fine, polished woodwork. Lord Sedgwick leaned back and spoke to Evans. The motorcar purred into motion, and moved off down Water Street between the carts and people as Evans handled his gears with smooth perfection.

Sedgwick said, “Any progress in your murder investigation?”

“Gossip hasna’ been slow in spreading,” Hamish told Rutledge. “You’ll soon be verra’ popular.” It was a sour comment.

“We think we may have found our man,” Rutledge said noncommittally. “But Inspector Blevins is making certain that he’s done his job thoroughly.”

“Yes, well, I’ve posted a sizable reward for information leading to an arrest. I hope I’ll have the opportunity to pay it out to someone.”

Rutledge recalled that Blevins had spoken of a reward. “Did you, indeed? Were you a parishioner of Father James’s? Did you know him well?”

“Good lord, no. Anglican. The East Sherham church is on our estate. Still, I keep a friendly eye on my neighbors. Right thing to do! I rather dislike people killing people, and I know that money can jog memories—or tongues. Father James was a conscientious man, from all reports. A considerable force for good. Over the years, I’ve applauded that. We can ill-afford to lose men of his caliber. Osterley’s best and brightest have already been sacrificed to that bloody War. I saw you coming out of the solicitor’s office. Frederick Gifford’s brother, Raymond, was one of the finest men I’ve ever met, and he went down in flames over the German lines. Gifford’s two clerks died at Ypres. Anderson at The Pelican lost his boy at Jutland, and Mrs. Barnett’s nephew was artillery, shells blew up in his face. Sadly, the list goes on.”

They were turning back out of Water Street onto the main road again. On the hill, the flint walls of Holy Trinity seemed to shine with an inner light. “But that’s a morbid line of thought. Tell me, what do you do in London, Rutledge?”

“Much the same sort of thing I do here. Ask questions. Collate information. Consider the evidence and try to draw conclusions from it. Search for motives.”

Hamish, who’d been silent since Rutledge had entered the motorcar, asked, “Hobnobbing wi’ the great willna’ give you the answers either.”

Sedgwick grunted. “What you do requires patience.” Evans had braked to allow a wagon laden with firewood to make the turn into Trinity Lane. Just a few yards beyond it, there was a woman walking along the verge, head down, face hidden by her hat. Rutledge recognized her and apparently so did Sedgwick. Priscilla Connaught, in Wellingtons and a long coat.