“No. That is o say, not alive. She went down on that ship, you see. Titanic. She wasn’t using her married name, and no one thought to look under any other, until Lord Sedgwick hired someone to do what the police apparently couldn’t—” She stopped, biting her lip in embarrassment.

“How do you know all this?” he asked.

“My husband told me—he’d met Edwin on the train, coming back from London. Edwin was quite upset. He said his father and Arthur had gone to Ireland to bring back the body.”

“I’d read that most of the dead were buried in unmarked graves?”

“So they were. But Lord Sedgwick was convinced he could find her. For Arthur’s sake. And he must have been successful; I heard there was a service in the little church on the Sedgwick estate. The Queen sent flowers, I was told.”

Rutledge released May Trent.

Hamish rasped, “Ask her—!”

He said to her, “Does the Vicar know you were on Titanic ? That you may have met Virginia Sedgwick, and seen her drown? Or that Father James was trying to awaken your memories?”

“No! I have never told anyone here! Father James—he had clippings—he’d seen my name among the survivors, and he wanted—” She stopped, unable to go on.

“And you can’t remember what happened the night of the sinking.”

She shook her head, her dark hair spilling over her face, hiding it.

But Father James had bequeathed her the photograph. And asked that she do something about it—find the courage, as he’d put it.

The priest hadn’t believed that her memory of that night had never been regained. Or else he had hoped that given time—and over the years he thought he still had to live—she might yet remember. Still, it was a strange way to go about it—to leave a message in a Will. Once he was dead, what difference would it make?

The cuttings. The photograph. The bequest.

But why was it so important to Father James?

It went through Rutledge’s mind before he could stop himself from thinking the unthinkable. That perhaps May Trent had killed the priest, to prevent him from prying into memories that she could not face. And never wanted to face.

Some eight months ago, he himself had tried to kill the doctor who had forced the secret of his own ghosts out of the silence he had wrapped around himself like a dark and protective cloak.

May Trent had suddenly found herself in the running, with a better reason than Walsh for committing murder. . . .

Abruptly realizing that both May Trent and Mrs. Barnett were watching him, he made an effort to meet the younger woman’s eyes.

They flickered, as she read his thoughts.

“I didn’t kill him,” she said quietly, numbness washing all expression out of her face. “Truly . . .”