He had folded a half dozen of the cuttings to fit into his breast pocket, and now he took them out to hand to the Vicar. “Tell me what you make of these.”

The Vicar unfolded them and began to sift through the cuttings. “They appear to be news articles of the ship that sank back in ’12.” He looked up, a question on his face, as if uncertain what Rutledge wanted from him. “Were they Baker’s?”

“I shouldn’t think they have anything to do with Baker. No, I found them among Father James’s papers. And this—” He took the photograph from his pocket and passed it across the desk.

Something changed in Sims’s expression. “How did you come by this?” His voice was carefully neutral.

“Do you recognize the woman?”

“No, I think you must tell me first how you came to have this!”

“It was also in Father James’s possession. From what I’ve learned, just before his death he chose to add a codicil to his Will, leaving what I believe to be this photograph to someone—”

The Vicar’s face had paled, as if the blood had rushed to his heart and left his skin without its natural ruddy color. “Not to me! He would never have bequeathed it to me!” His voice was constricted by a tight throat. But he couldn’t take his eyes from what he held in both hands, as if it were a treasure—or a dangerous thing.

Rutledge, watching him, said, “Why not? If you know the woman?”

“I know—knew—her.”

“Can you tell me her name?” He moved gently, carefully, keenly aware that he was trodding on very emotional ground.

“She’s dead! Let her rest in peace. She had nothing to do with Father James—”

“He never met her?” Rutledge deliberately took the words literally.

“Of course he’d met her—but she wasn’t a member of his parish, she didn’t live in Osterley—” His words were disjointed, as if he spoke without thinking, responding to the tone of voice and not the sense of Rutledge’s questions.

“Then she was a member of your parish.”

“No. Not at all.”

With an effort, the young Vicar handed the framed photograph back to Rutledge. It was an act of denial. As if by giving it back, he was absolved of any more questions about it.

“You haven’t given me her name,” Rutledge reminded him.

“Look,” Sims said, his eyes wretched with pain, “this is a personal matter. She had nothing to do with the priest or his church or his death. How could she have? She had nothing to do with me, not really. Not in the true sense. It’s been seven years—she’s been dead for seven years! Just—leave it, will you?”