Sims murmured, “I’ll just find the whiskey.”

But before he could move, the kitchen door opened and May Trent came in. “You said it was urgent?” She wore her clothes, wrinkled from sleeping in the chair, like a badge of honor. Her eyes strayed to the teapot. Sims was already searching for another clean cup.

She sat, accepted the tea he poured for her, added sugar, and sipped it as if it was warming her, her fingers around the bowl of the cup.

They were, Rutledge thought sourly, as companionable as a long-married pair, while he had only a matter of hours to finish what he’d set out to do.

“Get your coats, if you will. We’re driving to Norwich in five minutes.”

May Trent regarded him suspiciously. “I’m exhausted. I’m not going to Norwich or anywhere else—only to bed. And quite frankly, so should you, Inspector. You don’t look as if you’re rested enough to undertake—”

“You’d have done it for Father James.”

“What has this drive to Norwich to do with Father James?” she demanded.

“I think he began by trying to solve a problem, and found himself pitched headlong into something far more horrifying than he was trained to deal with. He did what he could. The man who may have killed him is dead now—there won’t be a trial, no clear judgment of his guilt, or for that matter, his innocence. Blevins is satisfied that the case is closed. But I’m left with an uneasy feeling that it isn’t. It’s convenient to blame Matthew Walsh. And shut our eyes. But I should think someone owes it to Father James to get to the bottom of what troubled him. I’m willing to try, but I can’t do it alone.”

Both Sims and May Trent were silent, absorbing what he’d said. She was the first to recover. “Then let that someone drive to Norwich with you.”

But something made her look away from him.

“Walsh is dead,” Sims put in. “I can’t believe that Walsh would have tried to escape, if he was innocent! If the facts, once they’re collected, would exonerate him, why not wait to be cleared?”

“Because he was a poor man and terrified that justice wouldn’t care if he went to the hangman. Which reminds me—if you’re convinced of his guilt, tell me why the two of you spent the night in this empty barn of a house, and wouldn’t leave it or go for help?”

May Trent stared down at her cup. “I’m a silly woman. The Vicar asked me again and again if I’d walk with him as far as the hotel. But I couldn’t go back outside and feel safe. You said yourself—a murderer was on the loose.”

“I think he was,” Rutledge replied slowly. “But perhaps it wasn’t Walsh.”