“Yes, I’d thought about that. But there’s a connection, in fact. The two men were in the same unit in the War. War changes things.”

It did. You learned to trust a man not because of what he had been in civilian life but for what kind of soldier he made. Whether your life was safe in his hands when you went over the top or whether he was likely to get you killed . . .

“Which could matter enough for this man Bolton to lie for him,” Hamish was saying.

Or—Bolton might have been standing watch the night of the murder.

“It might well have been Bolton’s shoe print out by the lilac bushes,” Rutledge said aloud.

“I’d considered that. I don’t think I could prove it, not without the shoe he was wearing at the time. But there’s a possibility, all the same. Witnesses saw Bolton any number of times that day, but no one saw Walsh. Bolton claims he came in just after dusk. Could be the truth.”

“What does Walsh say?”

“What you’d expect. He was happy to claim it was true and he demanded to be released at once.” Inspector Blevins’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. “As for helping us with our inquiries, I’ve pried more information from a razor clam!”

Rutledge asked, “If Walsh isn’t your man—for whatever reason—where will you look next?”

Blevins said grimly, “I bloody well don’t know! I’d already looked at the good people of Osterley, before Walsh turned up as a likely suspect. And there was nothing I could find that made any sense, nothing that pointed to someone wanting to murder Father James. Theft was the most likely reason for what happened, and Walsh was the most likely thief. But it’s early days yet! I’ve yet to hear from the War Office, we’re still tracking Walsh’s movements, and I am going to crack Bolton’s alibi, if I can. Early days!” he said again, as if to convince himself.

“Do you know a Priscilla Connaught?”

“Yes. She lives alone out by the marshes and seldom mixes with anyone in Osterley, as far as I know.”

“She’s a member of St. Anne’s.”

“So are fifty other people. Sixty.” Blevins leaned forward, his elbows on the blotter. “My money is still on Walsh. Until I’m satisfied that there’s no earthly chance he’s guilty.”

He looked at Rutledge, pain in his face. “I’ve told you before, I want the killer to be a stranger. I don’t want it to be anyone I know. I don’t want to think that any member of St. Anne’s parish, any friend of mine, any neighbor— any enemy for that matter—could murder a priest!”

“And yet,” Hamish said, “he was killed!”

Rutledge said, “It would be easier to watch a stranger hang.”