A target that was so clear it seemed to draw a sigh from the priest. He began to crumple, like old clothes falling to the floor. The crucifix was lifted again, the base flashing in the pale light as it descended a second time. As the priest hit the carpet with an ugly thump, the bloody scalp was struck a third time.

Then, with efficient grace, the shadow stepped back, dropped the crucifix from a gloved hand, and set about silently, swiftly, wrecking the room.

The police, summoned the next morning by a distraught Mrs. Wainer, took note of the food left untouched in the oven, the black blood pooled beneath the priest’s head there by the window, and the state of the room: the paper-strewn floor and the scattered contents of the desk drawers. They examined the tin box that lay upside down and pried open with scissors, emptied of parish funds. And came to the conclusion that Father James, returning home unexpectedly, had been attacked by someone he’d disturbed in the midst of a burglary.

Not a target. A victim.

He’d heard a noise in the house, they concluded, discovered there was an intruder upstairs, and gone to the window intending to see if there was anyone at home next door. The neighbor had three nearly grown sons—it would have taken only a few seconds to unlatch the window and call to them to come and search the house with the priest. The alarmed thief, very likely concealed in the bedroom just behind the study, must have seen Father James at the window and hastily reached for the first weapon that came to hand—the crucifix—striking the priest down from behind to stop him from calling for help. In his terror he’d hit the priest again, and then fled, the money from the box in his pocket. Muddy shoe prints near the lilac bush showed a worn heel, a tear in the sole near the toe. A poor man, then, and desperate.

As luck would have it, the house next door, usually noisy with three generations of family, had stood empty the previous night. Taking even the elderly grandmother with them, they’d traveled to West Sherham to meet the girl one of their sons wished to marry. But the thief couldn’t have known that.

If the family had been at home, they’d have arrived in force, very likely in time to glimpse the fleeing man. It would have been satisfying to have a description of the killer.