Looking around him at the town of Osterley, where a watery and inconsistent sunlight was reflected from the flint walls, Rutledge found himself thinking that he would be on his way back to London tomorrow. Back to the letters lying unopened in the desk drawer in his sitting room. Away from the smell of the marshes and the call of gulls overhead. He answered absently, “The local police will know more about such evidence than I do.”

But would they? Whatever lay at the core of this murder, whether it was theft or a killing with a purpose, someone appeared to have covered his tracks very well.

Was he clever—or merely lucky?

Hamish said, “For a man who willna’ be involved with this death, you ask a good many questions.” There was a taunt behind the simple words.

Rutledge said, “No. I’ve merely tried to be sure that the good Bishop’s fears are unfounded. . . .”

But was that really true? In Rutledge’s experience, investigations often floundered when the police failed to ask the right question. Or failed to look behind the most obvious evidence at what could have been overshadowed by it. Damning connections grew out of persistence, connections that at first glance were not even visible. Most mistakes were made by the human element—the refusal to be objective.

An old Sergeant at the Yard had told him once, at the start of his own career, “When the police look for guilt, there’s always enough to serve their purpose. Nobody is free of guilt. But if you search for the truth, now, that’s a different tale!”

What was intriguing about this case was the reaction of those who were close to Father James. They ignored the theft and believed that nothing short of a Greek tragedy could explain this murder: The assumption that the death of great men grew out of cataclysmic events. It was implicit in their denial of the facts: Even though a small sum was stolen, it had nothing to do with the actual crime.

But what if it had? A life was not always given its real value. . . .

Hamish said, “Aye, but what if this killer only hunts priests, and there’s another one in jeopardy now?”

Neither theft nor Greek tragedy but madness? Rutledge raised his eyes to look up at the church standing high above the road, and wondered how such a killer would choose his next victim. Or if he had already killed before . . .

Since the Osterley police station was no more than a few doors from the doctor’s surgery, Rutledge left his motorcar where it was and walked there.

The sign was still up, and he started to turn away, intent on the drive back to Norwich. But there was the sound of a voice somewhere inside, and he hesitated, then reached for the knob, thinking he might find someone with whom he could leave a courtesy message for Inspector Blevins.