“I can’t. Until I’m satisfied that something Father James kept seven years and then felt was important enough to bequeath to someone in his Will, shortly before his murder, is not a matter of grave concern.” He chose the word purposefully. Not death. Murder. Violent and intentional murder.

It brought Sims out of his shock. His face seemed to collapse, as if Rutledge had so completely broken down his defenses that he had nowhere left to turn. He had never been a forceful man, he had never had the strength of a Father James, and yet in his own fashion he did have the ability to face the truth.

“For God’s sake—” he asked, “— did he leave it to me?” When Rutledge said nothing, he went on, “All right. If I tell you what you want to know, will you leave us both in peace? Just—leave us in peace!” He stopped, as if afraid he might say too much.

“What was she to you, if you weren’t her priest?”

Sims’s eyes went to the caryatids, the anguished figures howling in pain as they supported the heavy weight of the mantel. Rutledge thought, He knows how they feel—his burden is as heavy.

Hamish said, “He was in love wi’ her. Let it be!”

But Rutledge waited, forcing Sims to say what he did not want to say.

“I—I cared about her, because she was in trouble. But there was nothing I could do to help. With all the might of the Church behind me, there was nothing I could do to help her!”

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 17

IN THE SILENCE THAT FOLLOWED, RUTLEDGE gave Sims a space in which to collect himself.

Then he asked, “What was her name? Victoria? Vera? Ver—”

“I won’t give you her name,” the Vicar broke in wearily. “For God’s sake, man, have a little sense! She’s long dead, and you’ll only stir up what’s best forgotten. I gave that photograph to Father James myself, for safe-keeping. It was—it was part of a promise. And I kept it, that promise. I did what was asked of me while she was alive, and I tried to close the door once she was dead. I don’t know why he wished me to have it again. I thought perhaps he’d burned it years ago. But I never quite had the courage to ask. Who knows about this? Gifford? I’ll have to speak to him—”

“Father James didn’t leave it to you,” Rutledge said finally. “But he did wish someone else to have it.”

The impact of the Londoner’s words left Sims stunned. “Not to me? Merciful God!” He tried to absorb that, and then asked, “If not to me—then to whom?” When Rutledge didn’t answer immediately, Sims continued. “Look, you’ve got to tell me! That photograph could do unimaginable harm.”