“I’ve been trying to persuade him to hire a couple to cook for him and help with the farm. He may listen now, but he’s as independent and stubborn as they come.” Stephenson, his serviette in his hand, sighed. “All right, yes, as soon as I’ve finished my dinner. And I’ll take someone along who can stay the night and see that he has a decent breakfast in the morning. Was it Randal that Priscilla Connaught thought she’d killed?”

“I have every reason to believe it is. Tom Randal is damned lucky to be alive. She was in no state to think clearly about what she was trying to do.”

“And whose fault is that?” Hamish asked in condemnation.

Rutledge ignored his voice. “How is she?”

“I’ve kept her sedated. Mrs. Nutley is staying the night with her.”

“I’ll look in there on my way.”

“Do you have any idea how tired you are? You’re slurring your words, man, you ought to be in your bed. Or I’ll have a new patient on my hands!”

“Good advice. I’ll take it shortly.”

Rutledge said good night and strode down the dark path to the road. As he cranked the engine, his chest protested in fiery wires spreading deep.

Ignoring that, too, Rutledge drove next to Priscilla Connaught’s house. He was surprised to find that she was awake, drinking a mutton broth that Mrs. Nutley had made.

The nurse had explained to Rutledge on their way up the stairs, “An empty stomach sees nothing good. I always feed my patients before the next dose of medicines.”

Priscilla, wearing a very fetching lavender dressing gown, smiled at him as he walked through the door, but obediently drank most of the broth before saying, “You’re here to arrest me.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, but her expression bleak behind the smile. “I’d warned Mrs. Nutley the police would come for me soon.”

“No.” He pulled a chair to the bed and sat down, wondering if he’d be able to get out of it again. “The man you thought you killed is alive, though bruised and bloody. And furious. He must have gone through a hedge headfirst. Still, I’d accept that as very good news if I were you. Nor was it Walsh. Again, good news from your perspective.”

“Dear God!” She set the bowl on her tray and stared at him. “Oh, gentle God!”

“There’s nothing you can do about Mr. Randal tonight. Except to sleep and regain your good sense.”

She said faintly, “You look like a dead man yourself.”

“Yes, I rather feel like one.” He smiled. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me what lay between you and Father James?”

Biting her lip, she turned away. “I told you once before. It doesn’t have anything to do with his death. Only with mine.”