“Walsh appeared to have the best motive,” Rutledge said. “There was a certain amount of evidence against him, but not all of it was conclusive—or satisfactory. On the other hand, I’ve been exploring Father James’s movements during the fortnight between the bazaar and his death.” His eyes turned toward Holston. “And I need to learn from you, Monsignor, what Father James told you about the Confession of Herbert Baker.”

Completely unprepared for the question, Holston said, “I couldn’t, even if I—”

“I’m not asking for a revelation of Herbert Baker’s last words. What I want to know is what Father James told you about this man.”

“He never spoke to me about Baker or his family—”

“I’m sure that’s true. But he came here one day shortly before he died and told you that he had just been given information that had upset him, and that the person who had passed on this information had had no idea of its importance to Father James personally.”

It was an arrow shot into the air. But the sudden tightness of Monsignor Holston’s face told Rutledge that it had come very close to its mark. “No, it wasn’t that—”

“Did he also tell you that he was helpless to do anything about it?” Rutledge kept his voice at a conversational level, as if he was continuing to confirm knowledge he already possessed.

“There was nothing he could—” Monsignor Holston stopped. Then he said, “Look, he didn’t confide in me. Or confess to me. He didn’t tell me the circumstances. But I could see he’d come for comfort—from a friend, not a fellow priest.”

“How could you see that?”