“I won’t tell you that it couldn’t have been a woman,” Stephenson answered, “but I find it hard to believe a woman would have struck more than twice.” He shrugged. “Still, it would depend on her state of mind. This was a bloody wound, and in my experience, few women are willing to splatter themselves with bone and blood and brain tissue, no matter how angry or brave they are. It’s not medical opinion, of course, but as a rule, women avoid that sort of unpleasantness. I pronounced him dead, and called it what it was: murder.”

Rutledge mused, “I come back to the question, what would I do if I walked in on a thief?”

“I’ve never faced an intruder in my house, Inspector. I’d feel violated, walking in on such wanton destruction—I know that—and damned angry as well. If I recognized the person, I’d tell him to stop making an ass of himself and get the hell out of my house, if he wanted to escape charges. I’d be in no mood to be charitable. And probably get myself killed for it. I’d be more wary of a stranger, not knowing what he was capable of, but I’d still go after him. But then I’m not trained as a priest. It would make a difference.”

Hamish said, “He was in the War, Father James. Would he turn the other cheek?”

As if he had heard Hamish’s comment as clearly as Rutledge did, Stephenson straightened the folder on his desk to march with the right margin of the blotter and added with an odd tension in his face, “If there was no thief—if it wasn’t Walsh—then Father James was confronted by an enemy.”

Rutledge said nothing.

Stephenson moved uneasily in his chair. “No, disregard that, if you will. Blevins is a good policeman—he wouldn’t have got it wrong!”

Again Rutledge let the comment stand. Instead he asked, “Did you know much about Father James’s past?”