He got out, stretched aching shoulders, and went around the boot to open the door for May Trent. But the Vicar was already there before him, saying, “Why didn’t you tell us that it was Monsignor Holston you were coming to see!” His voice was cross. “There was no need to be so damned mysterious!”

He and May Trent stood waiting by the road while Rutledge went to knock on the door of the rectory.

Bryony opened it, beamed at Rutledge, and asked after greeting him, “Will you be staying for tea? I’ve got such a lovely bit of French cake for Himself, and—” She broke off as she saw the two people behind him, looking up at her from the street. “Ah, this’ll be business, then!”

“I still wouldn’t say no to tea,” Rutledge assured her, smiling. On their way south, by mutual agreement, the three travelers had agreed not to stop for lunch.

May Trent closed her eyes, as if shutting out the watery sun that had been threatening rain for two hours or more. Bryony saw it, and called to her, “Come inside, madam, and let me take you upstairs for a bit. You look like you could do with a rest.”

She only smiled and shook her head. “No. But thank you!”

They were ushered into the study, where Monsignor Holston looked up from his book in surprise.

“I didn’t remember visitors were expected!” he said to Bryony, setting the cat, Bruce, on the floor.

“The Inspector has come again, Monsignor, and brought guests with him.” She quietly closed the door as he greeted Rutledge warmly. Then he smiled at the Vicar and shook his hand, before the introduction to Miss Trent was made. Their host seated her with courtesy and said, “Father James spoke to me a number of times about the manuscript you’re completing. It’s quite an undertaking. If I may be of any assistance, you need only ask. Norfolk has a good deal of material to draw from.”

“As I’ve discovered!” She thanked him, managing to smile. “Memorials, even so, are often an excuse to go on mourning. He tried to tell me that as well.”

“I expect time will take care of that, too.”

Rutledge said, “We’re here about Father James, as it happens. Walsh is dead. He—died—last night, trying to escape.”

“Killed?” Holston asked. “By the police?”

“He was kicked by a horse. At least that’s what the evidence suggests. There’ll be an official inquiry, as a matter of course.”

“God rest his soul!”

Sims said, “Altogether, it was a harrowing night for everyone.”