“Tommy Beeling is her grandson,” Mrs Wainer said in explanation to Rutledge. “No, Martha, it’s the policeman from London. Inspector Rutledge.”

The old eyes sharpened. “Oh, aye.” Mrs. Beeling nodded her head almost regally, as if welcoming Rutledge to her own house. “The one come to find out who killed our priest.”

Feeling as if he weren’t there, Rutledge bade her a good morning and then turned back to Mrs. Wainer.

She was saying, “Tommy—that’s her grandson—drops her off here for a little visit, on his way to market. Martha used to speak to Father James for ten minutes or so, and then we’d have our tea here in the kitchen.” She gestured toward the kettle on the stove. “The water’s still hot, sir, if you’d care to have a cup. I could bring it to you in the parlor.”

“Thank you, no. I do need to ask you a question, and then I’ll be on my way. If Mrs. Beeling doesn’t mind?”

Martha Beeling didn’t. In point of fact, she was delighted to be a witness.

Rutledge asked, “The photographs that Father James kept about the house. Do you recognize the people in all of them?”

“As to recognizing,” Mrs. Wainer said doubtfully, “no, I can’t say that. But I knew who most of them were. His parents, of course—his sister and her husband—the brother and sister that died—Monsignor Holston—friends from seminary. He’d point them out sometimes when I was dusting and say to me, ‘Ruth, I’ve just had a letter from John, there, and he’s taking up a church in Gloucestershire.’ Or he’d heard that one or another had gone to Rome or to Ireland. It was like family, you know, the way they kept up with each other.”

“Was there a photograph of anyone whose name he never gave you? Someone he never identified for you?”

“I wasn’t one to pry, sir! He told me what he wished to tell me, I never asked.” She bristled a little, as if he had questioned her integrity. “If you’re meaning that photograph that Mr. Gifford was looking for, I don’t know which it could be.”

Hamish said, “You must tread wi’ care, yon lawyer willna’ wish for you to make too much of the bequest.”

And not in front of the inquisitive Mrs. Beeling!

Rutledge patiently explained, “I’m looking for information, you see. About Father James, about the people he knew—and trusted—and cared about. Not only the seminary and his family, but individuals as well. A soldier he’d befriended at the Front. A woman he’d known long before he became a priest. Nothing suspicious or doubtful, only a personal memory that he’d kept to himself.”