A shadow of relief passed over the priest’s face. He said, “I’m afraid that several other things point in that direction as well, which I felt the Bishop had to be told. Father James wore an antique gold medal of Saint James on a chain, a gift from his family when he was ordained. The candlesticks from his private altar might have fetched a goodly sum, as would the altar crucifix that was used as the weapon. They were old, at a guess they’d belonged to the priests of St. Anne’s since the early 1700s. Why should a thief pass up such tempting opportunities? If he’s in desperate need and has already committed murder? What’s another minute taken to stuff a crucifix in a pocket or candlesticks under one’s coat?” An eyebrow lifted quizzically, as if inviting Rutledge to prove him wrong.

“Perhaps because the thief was afraid they were objects far easier to trace than a small handful of bills or coins.”

“Yes, I’d thought of that, too. My answer was, the metal could be melted down, if you knew where to go. The thief might not receive more than a portion of its real value, but it must surely come to a tidy sum. I find myself returning again and again to the fact that if he’d wanted only the money, he could have run out, shoving Father James out of his way, and taken the chance that in such a brief, unexpected encounter in a dark room, he might not be recognized. Better that than the sin of murder on his soul!”

“He’s fearful,” Hamish interjected, “that he might ken the killer—”

The door opened and Bryony came in with the tea tray, shadowed by a tiger-striped gray cat. Bryony set the tray onto the table close to the priest’s elbow, cast an eye over it, then left, the cat following at her heels with a smug air. Rutledge tried not to remember a white cat lying on a pillow in an empty room, looking for its owner to come again.

“The rectory doesn’t own Bruce. The cat,” Monsignor Holston said in amusement, catching Rutledge’s eye on the animal. “He owns the rectory. If I understand his genealogy correctly, his great-great-grandmother was a resident here. That’s before the Bishop’s time, and mine.” He poured a cup of tea for Rutledge and then for himself, passed the pitcher of thick cream and the bowl of sugar. A plate of thin sandwiches and another of thin slices of cake followed.