With a lift of her chin, she said, “Yes, of course. But you see, Peter Henderson wasn’t feeling well, and he was resting in one of the pews down by the altar screen, where it was cool. Wrapped in a blanket that the Vicar keeps there for him. I didn’t want Edwin Sedgwick to jump to conclusions—” Her face turned a becoming shade of pink.

Rutledge smiled, and it lighted his eyes. “I understand. Is there anything I can do for Henderson?”

“If you could drop me at Dr. Stephenson’s surgery, I’d be grateful. A headache powder would probably help him. He doesn’t eat regularly, I’m afraid, in spite of our efforts to see that he does, and I suspect that’s the root of the problem.”

“I’ll take you and then bring you back.”

“No, please. Peter sometimes uses the church as sanctuary, when it’s cold or wet. He knows I go there often; it doesn’t seem to bother him. But if you came in—”

“Whatever seems best,” he told her.

They walked together toward the motorcar, and she said, apropos of nothing, “You don’t believe Matthew Walsh killed Father James, do you? I wonder why.”

He studied her face. “Why should you think that?”

“A woman’s intuition, I suppose. And the way you go on asking questions. As if you seem to be waiting for something. A mistake. A false step. I don’t know. I have this rather uncomfortable feeling that one day quite soon, you’ll pounce!”

It was a very different attitude from Hamish’s.

And it made Rutledge feel ashamed.

How did one touch the spirit to test its scars? The reasons a man did things, the unconscious pressures behind ordinary decisions . . .

As he opened the door for her and went to crank the engine, Rutledge realized that he’d missed his chance to ask her about the photograph.

Outside Dr. Stephenson’s surgery, Rutledge stopped long enough for Miss Trent to thank him again and then disappear through the waiting room door.

He pulled out again in the wake of a milk wagon, and was halfway down Water Street when he saw Blevins walking in the same direction.

Blevins turned at the sound of a motor and recognized Rutledge at the wheel. He called out curtly, “You’re a hard man to find when wanted!”

“I’ve been to speak to Mrs. Wainer again.”

A greengrocer’s cart came up behind the motorcar, the horse snorting uneasily at the smell and noise of the vehicle. Blevins said, “Don’t clog traffic. I’ll meet you on the quay.”

Rutledge nodded. He left the motorcar in the hotel yard and walked out to the quay. Inspector Blevins was already standing there, staring down at the water. Sun streaked it as the tide trickled in. It was moving the narrow stream sluggishly now, but would do so with more method later.