“Sadly enough, that’s often the case,” Rutledge answered her. “It’s one reason why housebreakers—and the like”—he added hastily—“are often successful. But I have no authority here, Mrs. Wainer. Except to assure the Bishop that everything possible is being done to find Father James’s murderer—”

“And how, pray, could you hope to assure the Bishop of that, when you haven’t lifted a finger toward setting Inspector Blevins on the right track?” Her eyebrows rose, and she regarded him with a scornful expression.

“The Yard—” Rutledge began.

But she was not interested in the politics of the Yard or its role outside London. Like Bryony in Norwich, she was concerned only with finding a reason for an otherwise incomprehensible crime.

He had disappointed her. And her face let him know it.

Making amends as best he could, Rutledge said, “You tell me that goodness makes enemies. Can you give me the names of anyone who might have had a reason to harm Father James?”

“Don’t be daft. If I could have made such a list, I’d have handed it over to Inspector Blevins. And I never heard Father James speak ill of anyone. He had a way with him, listening to what was said to him, considering what was to be done for the best. And, good man that he was, he always looked for the best in people. But he didn’t always find it. There are some that are two-faced, smiling and agreeable under your eye, but mean-spirited and venomous behind your back. He knew that, just as any good policeman should.”

Her views on the failings of human nature met with approval from Hamish. He said, “Aye, a man owed my grandfather money, and said he couldna’ pay it back, his business was sae puir. But it wasna’ true. He was hiding the profits.”

Rutledge said, “You were in this house every day, going about your duties. How did Father James behave those last weeks? As he always had? Or could you see that he was worried, preoccupied?”

For the first time, he caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes. It was unexpected, as if she had locked it away and didn’t want to bring it into the light.

Mrs. Wainer was silent for a moment, then answered, “I’d find his bed not slept in, some mornings. And he’d often be standing at the kitchen window by the back garden, looking out, the tea already made, as if he hadn’t been able to rest. That last morning, he turned a surprised face to me when I came in at my usual hour. As if he’d lost track of the time.”

“Was there a problem in the parish that kept him awake?”