Monsignor Hols on said, “Good God, are you telling me that his son Arthur is behind all this killing? I’ve met the man—you’ll never sell him to a jury as a cold-blooded murderer! Charming and very well liked.”

“We were all searching for Walsh. And by sheer luck someone caught up with him. In my opinion that’s what happened. There’s a torn patch of grass, just a few feet from where the body lay. Some sort of struggle went on there. But no one’s going to tackle a man Walsh’s size, it would be suicide. Unless Walsh was on foot, and his killer was on the mare.”

“Which brings us back to Lord Sedgwick. If he was at the rectory when Father James was killed,” May Trent said, “then he’d want Walsh dead.”

Monsignor Holston said, “No. What I think Rutledge is saying is that just as Peter Henderson was a witness, so was Sedgwick. Without necessarily knowing the importance of what he saw.”

May Trent’s eyes, on Rutledge and speculative, were skeptical.

Rutledge looked at his watch. “We have five minutes before the dining room opens. I should go upstairs and change out of these wet clothes.”

As he closed the lounge door behind him, he overheard Monsignor Holston commenting to May Trent, “When I asked my Bishop to send for the Yard, I thought I was doing something good. What have I unleashed? ”

Luncheon passed in relative silence, each member of the small party lost in his or her own thoughts.

Over the main course May Trent said suddenly, “I’m going with you. When you call on Lord Sedgwick.”

“It’s not a very good idea,” Rutledge answered.

“It probably isn’t,” she agreed. “All the same, I’m going.”

But they were held up. A fire in one of the houses west of Water Street jammed the road with firefighters and a tangle of buckets, people, and frightened horses. The pouring rain, dropping out of a gray and light-absorbing sky, soon accomplished what the firefighters couldn’t, and the smoking, blackened rafters filled the air with the reek of burned wood as they loomed starkly against the clouds. But much of the house survived, and a great many of its contents had been saved.

One of the men fighting the blaze was Edwin Sedgwick, sleeves rolled high, face smeared with sweat and soot. As Rutledge joined the line, passing buckets from the well, Edwin shouted orders and encouragement, taking charge as if by right, and showing unusual skill at coordinating the mob of people.

Observing when he could, Rutledge saw that Edwin’s skill lay not so much in cajolery or good-humored bandinage but in the role of the local squire, the natural leader everyone turned to in time of trouble or danger. It was a role Edwin’s father played to the hilt, and the son had learned well. He took full advantage of it now.