Rutledge agreed with grace, knowing that Blevins had crossed a line that would come back to haunt him. Hamish, in the back of Rutledge’s mind, added silently, “If the killer is no’ the Strong Man, you’ve made an enemy.”

And that was equally true.

Down the passage the pounding had stopped, and Rutledge found the silence disturbed him.

Blevins waited until Rutledge had reached the door to the street before asking, “Where will you begin?”

After a moment, Rutledge answered, “Where death begins. With the doctor who examined the body.”

As Rutledge stepped out into the hazy sunshine of the October morning, he heard Hamish clearly, as if the voice had just walked out of the police station at his heels, no more than two steps behind his left shoulder.

“There’s no turning back,” Hamish warned. “If you’re wrong, he willna’ let you live it down!”

But Rutledge answered, unaware that he’d spoken aloud, “So be it.”

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 15

RUTLEDGE WAITED NEARLY TWENTY MINUTES IN Dr. Stephenson’s surgery before the nurse, Connie, summoned him and led the way to the small private office in the rear.

Stephenson, looking at Rutledge over the tops of his glasses, said, “I’d heard you went back to London.” He collected the sheets of paper he’d been reading and set them in a folder. “Blevins is a capable man. I can’t quite see the need of someone from London looking over his shoulder. Most of the town feels satisfied that Walsh killed Father James, and if there’s been any evidence to the contrary, I haven’t heard about it.”

“When a man travels the country as frequently as Matthew Walsh did, his movements aren’t always easy to follow. And the timing on a given date can be critical,” Rutledge answered without rancor, waiting to be offered the chair on his side of the desk.

Stephenson nodded toward it, and Rutledge sat down. “Then what brings you here today?”

“Walk lightly!” Hamish warned.

“I wasn’t present when the body was found. I’d like to hear what you saw and noted at the scene.”

“I wrote everything down for Blevins. The next morning, in fact.”

“That’s the official report. Well-considered medical opinions designed to stand up in court. What I’d like is your personal opinion—whatever you felt and saw and thought, whether you could support it with fact or not.”

Stephenson leaned back in his chair. “I can’t think why! It was a clear-cut case of violent death. No question about that.”

Rutledge rejoined mildly, “Still, you might provide a small piece of the puzzle that’s been overlooked.”

Stephenson, a man used to judging people and tracking down the site of illness from small signs, considered Rutledge more sharply, his mind working swiftly behind the shield of his glasses. “You aren’t suggesting that someone in Osterley—”