Rutledge was beginning to see a pattern in the dispassionate account Monsignor Holston had given. His reasoning had been easy to follow—someone who had no connection with the church might have considered the candlesticks and the crucifix an unexpected windfall. This thief hadn’t. But he’d known or guessed where to look for the money. As Holston had all but said, the evidence pointed directly to a member of the church. But was that his only deduction?

There were shadows behind the priest’s eyes, worry more than mourning. Rutledge decided to bide his time.

As Monsignor Holston settled to his tea, Rutledge asked, “Have the police interviewed members of St. Anne’s congregation? Surely they were most likely to know that the bazaar money was still in Father James’s hands. As well as where it was being kept.”

“Oh, yes, that was done, and done again. There are, as in every parish, Catholic or Protestant, a few . . . er . . . black sheep. These were questioned a third time. But such men aren’t likely to commit murder—petty theft, perhaps. Even burglary, if pressed by circumstances. There were at least three needy parishioners who might well have talked their way out of trouble, if Father James caught them in his study. Ill wife in one case, and too many children to feed in another, and a third is known for his taste for the horses. In their straits, any sum might have been tempting. In Inspector Blevins’s opinion, none was likely to be a killer. He said not one of them had the stomach for it.”

“Perhaps Inspector Blevins should be searching for a man who might have had one of the booths at the fair. Or had come to the fair for the express purpose of finding money somehow. And chosen to come back and try his luck at the rectory, when he had been unsuccessful anywhere else.”

The cake was heavy with eggs and sultanas. Rutledge thought, Frances would tell me it’s strengthening. . . .

“Yes, the local authorities have been quite thorough there also. They’re still searching for individuals who had set up a booth and any strangers who had drawn attention to themselves. Apparently it isn’t easy to trace their movements—this is a popular time of year for harvest fetes and bazaars. They could be in a dozen towns.”

Rutledge finished his cake and set aside his plate. The thin man opposite him had consumed three helpings to his one. Filled with a nervous energy that demanded stoking, Monsignor Holston seemed not to notice the richness of the cake.

“Let’s return to my earlier suggestion—and yours. What if we turn the tale around, and ask ourselves if the priest was killed—and the pittance taken to cover up the crime?” Rutledge asked.