After a time, someone threw up the sash of the window just above the porch. It squealed with a shriek like a night bird’s. As Rutledge winced, a gray head appeared in the opening and called down, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Sam Hadley, Tom. We need to talk to you. Come down to the door.”

“It’s past midnight,” Randal growled. “Go home to bed!”

Rutledge called, “It’s a police matter, Mr. Randal. Please come down.”

“Police?” There was a pause and then mumbled curses. The window went down with a bang, and after a long wait, the door opened.

The tall, thin man in a heavy robe tied at the waist like a sack peered out at them. He turned to Hadley and said, “That’s not Blevins!” It was accusing, as if he’d been lied to. “Nor one of his constables!”

“Inspector Rutledge, from Scotland Yard in London, Mr. Randal. A man suspected of murder escaped from custody tonight in Osterley, a man named Walsh. We’re searching for him.”

Randal watched his lips closely as he spoke, then looked up at his eyes. “Walsh. That the one killed the priest?”

“He could be dangerous. He’s larger than most, with wide shoulders and noticeable strength.” He went on to describe the fugitive. This time, as Randal listened, he forgot to watch Rutledge’s lips.

“Nobody’s been here. I’d have known—”

“That yellow dog of yours is out in the fields,” Hadley said. “I saw him myself. We thought we ought to come and find out if you’re all right.” He had pitched his voice between a shout and a yell.

“Dog’s out, you say?” Randal frowned. “I penned him up before I went to bed! We’d better have a look at the outbuildings, then. Wait here.” He closed the door, and came back shortly with heavy shoes on his feet and a heavy staff in his hands, solid oak and thick enough to kill a man. “That a torch you have, Hadley?”

Hadley flicked it on and they made their way toward the back of the house, where a barn and several sheds showed signs of age, but were in better condition than the front garden. Randal, Rutledge thought, had his priorities right.

The sheds were empty. Hadley shone his light around each in turn, while Randal peered intently at the contents— farm tools, old gear and wheels, tubs and barrows, often rusted and broken. From time to time he poked the heavy staff viciously into the shadows behind them. “No. Nothing taken,” he said as they finished the outbuildings and turned toward the barn. “And not likely to be,” he muttered. “Damn fool waste of time.”