Blevins shook his head. “I’ll watch the murderer hang. It won’t matter to me if I know his face or not. It isn’t the hanging that I can’t live with. It’s the thought that someone I have seen every day in Osterley is capable of such a crime.” He regarded Rutledge for a moment. “You’re not a Catholic. You may not see this the way I do.”

“I don’t see that being a Catholic has anything to do with it.” He refused to be drawn beyond that.

The Inspector looked away, his eyes moving on to the high, soot-streaked ceiling, as if searching for answers there. “Murder isn’t finished by killing, that’s what I’ve learned in this business. It’s just the beginning. A death opens doors that are better left shut. I’m a very good policeman. I do my duty and I mind my town like a bitch watching her pups. I see that people live in safety and in peace, if not in harmony. And the harmony is gone now.”

Against his will, Rutledge said, “What do you know about Peter Henderson?”

Blevins’s eyes came back to him. “Peter? I don’t think he’s capable of killing anyone ever again.” There was a pause. “But his shoes are old and worn. And Father James did his best to heal the breach with Peter’s father. When he couldn’t, he tried to make Peter swallow his pride and go to the old man and beg forgiveness, if only to be accepted back into the family at the end. They—Father James and Peter—quarreled about that. Publicly. Down on the quay. You could probably make a good case for Peter Henderson. But I don’t want to. The poor devil’s suffered enough.”

Rutledge retrieved his motorcar from the hotel and drove to Old Point Road, his destination the rectory.

Mrs. Wainer, surprised to see him, opened the door wide and said, “Come in, sir. Has there been any news?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I wanted to ask you—”

From the kitchen came an old voice, saying, “ ’Oo is it, Ruth? Is it Tommy?”

“It’s the policeman from London, dear.” She turned back to Rutledge, apologetic. “It’s Mrs. Beeling. She’s come for a cup of tea and a gossip. In the kitchen . . .”

“I won’t keep you—” Rutledge began, but the housekeeper shook her head.

“No. Come along back, if you don’t mind—she’s not well, and I don’t like leaving her alone too long!”

He followed Mrs. Wainer down the passage to the kitchen. The woman at the table was swathed in shawls, as if she felt cold, her gnarled fingers closed around a cup of tea, and her clouded eyes turned toward the door. “That’s not Tommy,” she stated, regarding Rutledge with obvious suspicion.