The wain reached the turning for Gull Street and the Sherham Road and began to swing wide to plod around the sharp corner. Abruptly—without any warning— Rutledge found himself locked in an angry exchange with Hamish.

It had nothing to do with the discussion in the rectory kitchen. Not directly. It was instead an accusing and angry personal indictment.

“I canna’ ken why ye’re sae keen on proving yon Inspector wrong! Are you sae certain the Strong Man is innocent? When you walk away fra’ this town, you’ll leave behind raw wounds that willna’ heal as swiftly as yon hole in your chest! It’s a cruel thing, to stir up secrets to no purpose! Ye were sae set on Herbert Baker’s Confession as the key to this death, and now the auld woman has explained why it wasna’ any sich thing!”

“There are too many questions about Walsh. If he killed the priest, it had nothing to do with the bazaar money. I’d wager a month’s pay on that! And I can’t go over Blevins’s head and ask the War Office for information about where Walsh served. But that will have to be dealt with one way or another, before we can discuss guilt or innocence.”

“I canna’ see how a photograph is important.”

“It may not be. That’s a part of police work, too—to eliminate the variables.”

“And when the photograph also turns into a wild-goose chase, ye’ll go back to London?”

Rutledge said nothing. The wain lumbered into the turn, top-heavy and awkward. Two young boys along the road shouted at the driver, and began to run after him, as if trying to overtake the wain, their laughter spilling out like silver threads. The team of great Norfolk horses pulling the wain ignored the rowdy pair, heads down and shoulders into their harness. Rutledge watched them, concentrating on shutting out the voice in his head.

But Hamish was not to be put off.

“You willna’ see it, but ye’re running from yoursel’. You couldna’ find peace in your sister’s house, you couldna’ find peace in your flat, and then you couldna’ find peace at the Yard. And ye willna’ leave Norfolk, because there’s nowhere else to go. You’re afraid because in hospital you discovered a fierce will to live—”

Rutledge answered grimly, “I’ve been shot before—”

“Aye, that’s as may be! Piddling wounds that didna’ require more than bandaging at the aid station or a dram of whiskey! This was verra’ different. It left its mark. Why are ye sae afraid of living?”