Opening a door into a gracious room at the back of the house, the housekeeper stood aside to let Rutledge enter. Beyond the windows the rain fell softly on a garden already drab and colorless, and dripped from a small pear tree. A tall secretary desk, the doors in the upper half standing open and the front piled with papers, stood against the far wall, and there was a table and comfortable chairs set to catch the light spilling in the windows. A man in simple priest’s garb sat there, staring out at the wet flower beds, a book open in his lap. He looked up as the housekeeper gave Rutledge’s name with a flourish.

Hardly a den of iniquity, Rutledge silently pointed out to Hamish. This was more the study of a scholarly man, a place for retreat and thought.

Hamish reserved his opinion.

Setting his book aside and standing, the man crossed the room and held out his hand. “From London, are you? That’s a fair journey! Bryony, some tea for the two of us.”

She cast a quick, smiling look at Rutledge and said, “The kettle is already on the boil.” The door closed silently behind her.

“I’m Monsignor Holston,” the tall, thin man continued. He had an aesthetic face and the eyes of a policeman— intent, knowing. The long nose, bearing a pince-nez, was aristocratic and gave the face character if not beauty. But the grip of his calloused hand was firm, strong. He offered Rutledge one of the chairs by the table, and returned to his own to mark his place in the book, close it, and set it aside. “I’m instructed to speak to you on Bishop Cunningham’s behalf. He was called away on pressing diocesan business. Scotland Yard. Well, I’m pleased to see you, I must say. This matter of Father James’s death has been worrying. What can you tell me?”

Rutledge smiled. “It’s more a matter of what you can tell me. I’ve come to listen.”