“I have a feeling you aren’t satisfied with Walsh as the killer either. You wouldn’t still be afraid of that rectory, if you were. And it’s true—there are holes in the evidence against him. Even Inspector Blevins is aware of that. The question is where to look if Walsh is shown to be innocent. I have no allegiances here in Osterley, you see. Or to the church that Father James served. I’m not afraid to turn over stones and see what’s there. . . . I think the time has come for you to tell me what’s behind your fear.”

Monsignor Holston said earnestly, “Look. I’m in no position to tell you whether Walsh is guilty or not. What I can tell you is that Father James had no secret life—”

“He was—apparently—fascinated by the Titanic disaster—”

“So you say!” Monsignor Holston interrupted. “But he never told me the disaster fascinated him. For God’s sake, even priests have a life of their own. I know one who has written quite knowledgeably about butterflies. Another who collects front-edge paintings, and one who prides himself on having grown the finest marrows in Suffolk. I have an interest in grafting fruit trees. I can’t say that I talk about it very often. But it’s a way of relaxing, when I have the time.”

Hamish said, “He’s a bloody master at shifting your questions. . . .”

“Mrs. Wainer believes Father James was killed for revenge. Why would she tell me that, if he had no enemies?”

“You’ll have to ask her!”

“And there’s a Priscilla Connaught, who said that Father James ruined her life, and she hated him. It must have been true. I watched her eyes as she said the words. There’s a man called Peter Henderson, whose father disowned him, and Father James did his best to heal the breach, to the anger, apparently, of both parties. Failures, both of them! Potential murderers? Who knows?”

Mrs. Barnett came with another tray laden with dishes. She took one look at Monsignor Holston’s stormy face, and at the coldness in Rutledge’s, and made no effort to talk to them as she deftly arranged the dishes of vegetables and roasted potatoes, then set in front of them the heavy platters of baked fish.

When she had gone, Monsignor Holston tried to recover his equilibrium. Struggling with something he himself found it difficult to express, he made an effort to explain. “The boy who wanted to be a mechanic had secret dreams he couldn’t tell his own father. But he told Father James. People do confide in priests: their dearest hopes, darkest fears. But we aren’t perfect, and we aren’t always going to get it right. Failure means the person wasn’t ready to come to terms with a problem.”

“Perhaps a comfortable conclusion to draw as an excuse to walk away.”