Rutledge thought, I’ve never come so close—

Hamish was still yelling at him, dinning in his head like the German guns, until he could barely function. “Ye’re vulnerable because she’s the first woman who’s been through the same horror—”

But Rutledge didn’t care. How far had she seen inside his own grief? As far as he’d seen into the depths of hers? He didn’t know. It was not something he wanted to think about. It didn’t bear thinking about. . . .

Sims and Father Holston, watching the two of them, immobilized by the sudden silence after the fierce intensity of their exchange, were unwilling witnesses.

And into the electrical atmosphere that no one knew quite how to cope with, the door opened and the housekeeper, Bryony, wheeled in the ornate walnut cart with the heavy Victorian tea service gleaming in the lamplight.

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 25

THE VICAR GOT TO HIS FEET. “Monsignor Holston, if you’ll have your housekeeper summon a cab for us, I’ll see Miss Trent safely on the next train—”

Monsignor Holston, rising as well, cut across his words. “I expect that Inspector Rutledge can explain—”

But it was May Trent who collected herself with an effort and said, “No. We need to finish this.” She turned to Bryony and thanked her for the tea, adding, “I’ll pour.”

As the housekeeper left, she busied herself with the cups, her head turned away from the men in the room. But her hands were shaking, and her eyes were haunted in her drawn face.

Rutledge, his own face still as pale as his shirt, stood where he was, lost in the emotional storm that had swept him. Hamish, his voice harsh, was saying, “You canna’ be so foolish!”

Miss Trent handed a cup to the Vicar, who awkwardly looked around for a table to set it on, his eyes avoiding Rutledge’s. Monsignor Holston took his and sat down again behind the desk, rearranging papers lying on the blotter as if giving everyone a little time to recover. She brought a cup to Rutledge and said, “Drink it. Now, while it’s hot and sweet.”

He accepted the tea like a man sleepwalking, and seemed not to know what to do with it. After a moment, he drank it, hot as it was, and seemed to draw strength from it.

May Trent set aside her own cup and silently passed the slices of cake and the thin sandwiches—egg and ham and cheese—each a small white triangle of bread that seemed likely to choke them all.

It was ritual—and in ritual lay some normalcy. Each of the uncomfortable occupants in the quiet room accepted his role in this charade. And in the end, the tension in the air began to subside a little.

Monsignor Holston bit into an egg sandwich and swallowed it in a gulp.