Mrs. Barnett stared at him, as if she didn’t believe him. Then she replied stiffly, “Her name is Trent, Inspector.”

He didn’t hear what else she was saying, something about Somerset.

“Is her first name Marianna?”

“She’s registered as May Trent.”

But May was often a diminutive for Mary. The Queen, Mary, was called May by her family.

Had Gifford known Marianna Trent was staying in Osterley? He’d chosen not to tell Rutledge that.

Or was he trying to make sure that Rutledge didn’t go in search of the woman?

“You didna’ ask,” Hamish informed him.

The next morning, Rutledge found Inspector Blevins already in his office at the station. A letter lay open on the blotter in front of him.

He looked up as a constable ushered Rutledge into the room, and nodded.

“I hope your morning has been fairer than mine.”

Rutledge said, “The scissors sharpener?”

“Yes, a man named Bolton. He swears Walsh was with him the night the priest was murdered. It won’t be easy to pry the truth out of him. If there is any truth to be had.”

“I have another bit of bad news. The London police believe they’ve found the body of Iris Kenneth in the Thames. The woman who kept the lodgings where Iris Kenneth lived was satisfied enough to sell her belongings for whatever they might bring.”

Blevins was staring at him. “When was she found?”

“A week ago. Two days before you picked up Walsh.”

“Damn!” Blevins leaned back in his chair. “It’s like dealing with a will-o’-the-wisp—you no sooner think you have your hands on the truth when it evaporates like morning fog! Do you think Walsh might have killed her? To shut her up?”

“God knows. There’s no real evidence to support murder. She may have killed herself. Or someone else may have put her into the water. I did ask Mrs. Rollings about an old pair of men’s shoes. She couldn’t believe that Iris Kenneth had ever owned anything of the kind.”

Blevins reached for the letter he’d tossed aside. “Read this.”

It was a statement from the cart maker. One Matthew Walsh had contracted with him for a new cart on 31 August, 1919, and had paid on account until the agreed-upon sum had been reached. The last payment, four days after Father James’s death, was in small notes and coins. The problem was, the other three payments had been as well.

“It’s a conspiracy, that’s what it is,” Blevins went on sourly. “Standing by each other—the cart maker, the scissors sharpener, Walsh . . . I don’t know what to believe.”

“It’s odd, isn’t it, for a scissors sharpener to be friendly with a Strong Man who frequents bazaars and small fairs? They aren’t of the same class. One is an itinerant peddler, the other a showman of sorts.”