It was a minute or two before he could make it to the front door and lift the knocker.

After a long wait, the window above his head opened. The Vicar said, “Who is it?” in a flat voice.

“Rutledge. I don’t want to go back to the hotel. But I need to sleep. If I keep you company tonight, will you trade me a bed and no conversation?”

There was laughter from over his head. Bitter and without humor.

“I haven’t slept myself. All right, I’ll let you in. Wait there.”

Sims was still fully clothed when he unlocked the door and opened it to Rutledge. He smelled of whiskey. “I’m beginning to think about posting a sign: Rooms For Let,” he said. “You look like hell.”

Rutledge took a deep breath, unsteady on his feet. “As do you.”

“Have you been drinking?” Sims asked suspiciously.

“No. I’m cold sober. Just—nearly at the end of my tether.”

Five minutes later Rutledge was deeply asleep in the bedroom that May Trent had occupied only twenty-four hours before.

Her scent still lingered in the room.

Rutledge awoke in the dark, startled by a figure walking close by the bed.

“Who is it?” he managed to ask coherently, after clearing his throat.

“Sims. It’s after nine. I brought hot water for shaving, a razor, and a clean shirt. Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes, if you’re hungry.”

“Thanks.” Rutledge lay there, an arm flung across his eyes, stunned by exhaustion, his mind working slowly. After several minutes he forced himself out of the bed and across the room to draw open the draperies.

It was pouring rain out of heavy black clouds, a sky that seemed to absorb all light. No wonder he’d thought it was still the middle of the night.

Hamish scolded, “There’s no’ any need for haste, if you’re no’ clear-headed.”

Rutledge went to the washstand and looked at his face in the mirror, shadowed by beard and the dreary light coming in the windows behind him. It was not a face he was particularly fond of. Lighting the lamp, he set about shaving and dressing.

A quarter of an hour later, he walked into the kitchen.

Sims said, “If anyone came to the door and looked at the two of us, they would be ready to believe we’d had an all-night carousal. My head feels like it.” In the lamplight he was haggard, lines bracketing his mouth and heavy circles under his eyes. He had found yesterday unbearably difficult.

“I sympathize.” Rutledge reached for the pot of tea, ready to pour the steaming liquid into his cup, and somewhere in the tangle of memories from the day before, one stood out clearly.

There had been three cups on the table yesterday morning—

He looked across at Sims, who was putting a rasher of bacon on a plate, while the toast browned.