Hamish said, “Even if his lairdship paid for the sanitarium, it willna’ prove much.”

“It proves that a debt existed between Herbert Baker and the Sedgwick family. The sort of debt that Baker would have gone to great lengths to repay. As he lay dying, he told the Vicar that he feared he’d loved his wife too much. He could easily have confessed to Father James how he’d demonstrated that love.”

“Aye. But yon Trent woman—she has depths you canna’ plumb. I wouldna’ count her out of the running. You canna’ know for certain if she abandoned an elderly woman when the ship was sinking, to save hersel’. She’d ha’ killed Father James if he came too close to her secret.”

Only a few days ago, when Rutledge had seen the connection between Father James and the Watchers of Time, Observers of Deeds, he had remarked that there were no bodies and therefore no murders that the priest could have uncovered.

Now there were two. The woman whom May Trent had accompanied as a companion. And Virginia Sedgwick, who was—possibly—also lost in the sea.

“Or,” Hamish interjected into Rutledge’s thoughts, “buried here in these marshes. I havena’ seen more likely ground for disposing of a corpse!”

On the way back to the hotel, Rutledge spotted a solitary figure walking among the trees just back from the road. As the headlamps of his motorcar flashed across the pale, expressionless face, he recognized Peter Henderson.

He was about to stop and offer the man a lift, and then Mrs. Barnett’s words made him drive on. “I leave him alone now.” Peter Henderson still had his pride.

Rutledge was so tired his eyes were playing tricks on him as the motorcar’s headlamps picked out the turning for Water Street, and he came close to swerving into the wall of a house.

He had done all he could this night, and he wanted his bed.

But as he neared the hotel, another thought struck him: May Trent and Monsignor Holston were staying there, too, and if they were waiting for him in the lounge, it would be at least another hour—or more—before he could walk away from them.

He passed the hotel, drove along the quay, and turned toward the main road, considering even a pew in the church as a better alternative. There was something that May Trent had said about a blanket kept there for Peter Henderson. It would do. Soldiers were used to sleeping rough.

But as he went up Trinity Lane, Hamish pointed out another choice, one where his presence might be gratefully accepted. Gratefully enough that no questions would be asked.

The vicarage.

Rutledge had to fight the wheel to turn in through the vicarage gates, like a drunk whose reflexes were starting to fail. He drew up in front of the house, his hands shaking as he switched off the motor.