She started past him, to the top of the stairs, but he put out a hand to stop her. “Miss Trent, I need to ask—it’s a matter of police business. Are you aware that Father James has left a bequest to you in his Will?”

“Bequest? There must be some mistake.”

“His solicitor has had some difficulty carrying out Father James’s wishes, because neither he nor the housekeeper has been able to find the item—”

Miss Trent shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve heard nothing of this—and I know of nothing that Father James might wish me to have.” She was clearly mystified, and a little apprehensive.

“It was a photograph. It was kept in the drawer of his desk, but apparently it isn’t there any longer. Did he by any chance give it to you himself?” And perhaps hadn’t got around to rescinding the codicil. . . .

She said, “No. He gave me nothing, and he said nothing about a bequest. Are you quite certain—why should he leave me a photograph?”

“Perhaps you should speak to the solicitor about it. The name in the Will is Marianna Trent, of London.”

“But I haven’t used Marianna since I was a child. Everyone calls me May. Marianna was also my aunt’s name, you see, and perhaps he meant her? Although he never said anything to me about knowing her—” The confusion in her face seemed genuine.

“Did he ever show you a particular photograph? Of himself, of his family, possibly of someone who was in some fashion dear to him? Someone he discovered you had known as well?”

The confusion cleared, but a frown took its place, as if the reminder was not welcome. “I think—it’s possible I know what you mean. But I haven’t the time to discuss it now. I’m already late; my friends will be waiting. When I come back to Osterley tomorrow? Will that do?”

He wanted to tell her that it wouldn’t. But she was eager to be gone, and he had no choice but to step aside and let her pass. She went quickly down the stairs, her heels clicking softly in the carpeting, and he heard the door to the street open and close behind her.

Hamish said, “It doesna’ seem to be of importance to her, this photograph.”

“On the contrary,” Rutledge answered thoughtfully. “I believe she would much prefer not to talk about it at all.”

Mrs. Barnett had already seated Monsignor Holston, and was chatting with him at the table. She looked up as Rutledge came striding through the French doors, and smiled. “Here he is now,” she said. “I’ll just go and fetch the soup.”

Except for the two men the dining room was empty, no other tables set, no other guests expected.