“No, not if you’d known him. He had a great capacity for caring. He told me once that every time he looked out at his congregation, he knew that he was not the man they believed him to be. It drove him to strive for a level of service that few of us can ever hope to emulate.”

As Rutledge thanked Sims again and walked out into the rain, Hamish said, “Aye, Priscilla Connaught’s shadow fell across the priest’s pulpit every time he stepped into it.”

“A pity he never told her,” Rutledge answered silently.

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 27

HAMISH SAID, AS RUTLEDGE CLIMBED BEHIND the wheel, “If it wasna’ Walsh who killed the priest, you’re up against a canny murderer. He kens how to cover his tracks.”

“No loose ends to stumble over,” Rutledge agreed. “When Blevins allowed himself to be blinded by anger, he tied his own hands. He went looking for a monster.” Rutledge turned out of the vicarage gates. “And he found himself one.”

Hamish answered, “It willna’ be to your credit if you fail.”

“I won’t fail,” Rutledge answered grimly. “Sedgwick should have destroyed that Egyptian bas-relief instead of moving it out to the gardens. It gave me the key to Father James’s actions—a Watcher. After that, it was only a matter of time before the rest made sense.”

A milk wagon lumbered by on the main road. In the rain the backs of the horses were burnished copper.

Rutledge braked. “In this weather—”

He reversed the motorcar, backing as far as the gate to Holy Trinity. The grass under his feet as he crossed the churchyard to the north porch door was heavy with rain, and his shoulders were soaked by the time he reached the shelter of the church door. Opening it, he brushed the water from his face before he stepped inside.

“Henderson? Inspector Rutledge. I’d like to speak with you, if you’re here.”

His voice echoed in the silence, almost an obscenity in the peace of the nave and the soft patter of rain against the stained glass. This morning, dark as it was, the colors were deeper and richer, but without life.

Rutledge waited.

Then he heard someone near the choir. “I’m here. Give me a minute.”

Peter Henderson, rising from a pew, tried to straighten his coat and brushed a hand over his hair before walking toward Rutledge. “What do you want?”

“Verification. That’s all. The Vicar tells me that you saw Walsh the night he came in here to hammer off his chains.”

“Yes.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you follow him, when he left?”

“I knew who he was. I’d seen him at the fair at St. Anne’s. I thought it best.”

“Where did he go?”