“Brave man,” Rutledge commented, “to tackle these grounds alone, and in the middle of the night!”

“He was terrified for his life, if you ask me,” Blevins said sourly. “I would have been, the surviving clergyman in the village.”

“Sims hadn’t been told about the escape. And Walsh would have no reason to kill Sims.”

“So you say. Who knows what he’s capable of?”

Sims returned with the torch, and Rutledge followed Blevins out of the vicarage, down the drive, and up the hill to the church. They walked in silence, their path just visible in the light of the half moon, but it was sinking fast.

The churchyard was empty, the white stones ghostly in the pale light, their shapes stark against the dark shadows of hummocky grass.

“If there was anyone here, he’s gone now,” Blevins said softly.

They walked on toward the north porch door. It screeched like the imps of hell as Blevins pushed it open, and he swore from the start it gave him.

Hamish said, “At least yon Strong Man canna’ slip away fra’ ye!”

“Walsh? Are you here?” the Inspector called. “The church is surrounded, man, you haven’t a chance of getting out of here! Might as well surrender now, and save yourself a rough time of it if you try to run!”

Blevins’s voice echoed in the stillness, bouncing from the rafters and around the stone walls, giving it a strangely unnatural sound.

There was no answer.

“Walsh? You didn’t hurt the constable. You can go back quietly to the station, and nothing will happen to you. Do you hear me? But if we have to winkle you out of this church, and you do any damage here, I’ll have your hide for garters. Big as you are, I’m not afraid of you!”

Nothing but his own words came back at him.

The moonlight seeping through the stained glass of the windows cast awkward patterns around the pews, gray here, black there, and the shape of a poppyhead outlined against a pane.

Rutledge thought, He’ll be impossible to find before daylight, if he’s here.

Blevins turned on the torch, blinding them and spoiling their night vision. Flashing it around the stone floor, across the backs of the pews, toward the choir screen in sweeps that raked the great nave with crossbars of light, he covered as much of the darkness as possible.

Rutledge said, “He has the advantage now. We’ll have to guard the doors until morning.”

“No, I intend to finish this now. You go toward the tower. I’ll move toward the choir.” He turned among the pews, his heels scraping on the stone flags. A man determined to get what he wanted.

Rutledge went on toward the tower, letting his eyes readjust to the darkness, using the great window there as his mark. Hamish, whose hearing had always been keen on night watches, said, “There isna’ anyone here—”