Still, Walsh was the ideal solution to the bloody crime on Blevins’s doorstep. He wasn’t a local man—and from the start the Inspector hadn’t wanted to discover that his killer was someone he knew. Walsh had a connection with the priest, one that didn’t in any way reflect on Father James’s memory: The bazaar was a public occasion. Finally, the motive appeared to be simple greed. No seduced wives in St. Anne’s congregation, no abused choirboys, no dark secrets that would destroy the man and the office simultaneously.

A very convenient solution indeed. For everyone except Walsh, of course.

But Rutledge was learning that Blevins kneaded his evidence like a loaf of bread, forming it to his own satisfaction.

Whereas his London counterpart was more likely to gather the scattered parts of the human puzzle and look closely at them for bits of knowledge he could string together.

Hamish said, “You’d do better to go back to London, then! You willna’ convince yon Inspector that he’s made a mistake. And you’ll be branded along with him if it all goes wrong!”

Rutledge answered, “Nothing less than a signed confession will serve.”

He had meant it lightly, but realized all at once that he had unwittingly defined the course of his own inquiry.

At the door of the hotel, Rutledge thanked the chauffeur— and turned to find three local people staring with interest at the sight of a policeman alighting from Lord Sedgwick’s motorcar.

The news would be all over Osterley in an hour.

Rutledge walked up Water Street to the police station. There was a constable on duty. He shook his head when asked for any news.

“The new cart was ordered well before the bazaar, half down then and two payments to follow, the last one on delivery, which was after the murder. The Inspector is happy about that. But there’s a scissors sharpener who’s come to light. The man swears he was with Walsh the night the priest was killed.”

“What’s the likelihood that he’s telling the truth?”

“Inspector Blevins has gone to speak to the man himself. The Inspector’s not in the best of spirits, I can tell you!”

There was a man sitting on the edge of the quay when Rutledge came back to the hotel. Under his dangling feet a dozen or so ducks padded about in the muddy trickle of water, catching the bits of stale bread that were being thrown down to them. The man’s concentration was intense as he fed them. The slump of his shoulders was familiar—Rutledge had seen him bent over a newspaper at a table in the back corner of The Pelican. A gray cat, curious about all the feathery activity, sat some ten feet away, watching the ducks. It seemed to ignore the man, as if he had no reality but was only a part of the quay.