There had been a man named Seelingham on the boat to France at the start of the War, Rutledge remembered— he tried to dredge up an image of the man’s face, and finally brought back a tall, dark, broad-shouldered figure with a taste for books in German. “Never too late,” he’d said, “to learn about the enemy. Best way to outwit them, in my view. Otherwise you’re tilting in the dark . . .” He’d been a racer, too, but never spoke of his family. Fast boats were his preference. Later Rutledge had heard that Seelingham had lost both legs in a lorry accident near Paris, and was invalided home. He had shot himself a month later.

Was Sedgwick afraid that Arthur’s wound would lead him to self-destruction because he, too, was shut off from what he loved doing?

Rutledge changed the subject. They spoke only once more of Father James’s death, and that in a roundabout way.

“We’ve had good weather for the most part, this autumn,” Sedgwick was saying as he pushed back his chair, favoring his gouty foot a little. “Edwin has been down a time or two, and one morning we went over to Osterley— it was the morning they found the priest’s body, actually, although we didn’t know it at the time. It had begun to clear, and we left the car up by Holy Trinity Church, then walked as far as Cley, where Evans met us again. We had a look at the dikes and the big windmill, ate our luncheon by the marshes, and came home ravenous. Couldn’t do that today. Bloody foot!”

Passing through the drawing room later, Sedgwick paused to show Rutledge a watercolor of Osterley in its prime—“One of the Chastains had it painted. It’s said to be by Constable, but there’s no provenance.” Rutledge also noticed a photograph sitting on the windowsill to his right: A man standing by the marshes, shotgun in the crook of his arm, and a setter at his feet looking up adoringly as if eager to run. If Sedgwick saw his straying glance, he made no comment. He didn’t have to. Rutledge recognized the face and the dog. Edwin, the younger son, who kept a boat in Osterley’s harbor . . .

A short time later he was on his way back to Osterley. The chauffeur had nothing to say, and Rutledge preferred his own thoughts.

Hamish, still mulling over the luncheon conversation, was busy in the back of his mind. Coming around again to the subject of Lord Sedgwick himself, Hamish said, “He’s no’ a man I’m comfortable with. He’s verra’ like Sergeant Mullins.”