“What do you want from me?” Rutledge said tiredly. Listening to gulls call from the direction of the harbor, he tried to defend his answer. But their wild laughter distracted him. “You know that Blevins needs to sort out this murder.”

“Oh, aye, a training program for the local constabulary, is it?”

Rutledge nearly lost his temper, but Hamish got there before him.

“Ye’re the man with a fine understanding of people, they say. Can ye no’ understand yoursel’? D’ye think I wanted ye to die? No, like yon Connaught woman, I havena’ any wish for you to die. No’ until I’m ready! In France God wouldna’ have you, and He doesna’ want you now. But I do!”

Had he wanted to live? Rutledge asked himself, as he put the motorcar into gear once more and took off the brake.

There was no honest answer to that.

There hadn’t been for three weeks.

And Hamish fell ominously silent as they passed the turning for Water Street and slowed for Trinity Lane.

Rutledge made the turn into Trinity Lane, and pulled the motorcar into the web of shadows cast by a tree just by the churchyard wall. Switching off the motor, he sat back against his seat for a moment before stepping out into the light breeze that tempered the sun’s warmth.

From the churchyard where he walked, deep in thought, he could just catch the glimmer of the sea, struck by the sun and bright enough to hurt the eyes. Seagulls were wheeling above the tower, like white rooks, their hoarse cries almost human. He found he was listening to them instead, not wanting to think, not wanting to feel.

And then a woman called to him from the north porch of the church. “There you are, Inspector,” she said, as if she had waited there for half an hour or more for him to arrive. “I thought you’d forgotten!”

He turned toward the church, where May Trent was crossing the grassy churchyard toward him. “You had said something this morning about wanting to speak with me—”

Rutledge had said nothing of the sort. But as she moved away from the north porch, a man followed her out of the church. It was Edwin Sedgwick.

Her face was toward Rutledge, and there was a pleading smile on it. It made her look young and vulnerable.

“Yes, I have to apologize for being late,” Rutledge said immediately, removing his hat and standing there by the first row of gravestones, penitent.

Edwin Sedgwick moved gracefully in Miss Trent’s wake and she turned slightly to introduce the two men.

They shook hands. Sedgwick was saying, “I’d heard that you’re assisting Inspector Blevins. Any luck with the investigation into Walsh’s background? I had to drive my brother to London yesterday; I haven’t heard the latest news.”