Rutledge was moving on to the lounge for his tea. In a quiet corner, where the bay window looked out over the dark gardens, he discovered that he was staring at his own reflection in the uneven, two-hundred-year-old glass. It distorted his features, giving him a sinister look. But mercifully, the chair had been set at an angle, the reflection of Rutledge’s right shoulder masked by the shadows of the velvet drapes, and there was no way to tell if there was anyone standing behind him— A shiver ran through him and he turned away from the window. Even the teacup in his hands couldn’t warm the coldness that had touched him—what if the chair had been placed only another few inches one way or the other, and he had stared without warning into a bloody and accusing face?

Hamish prodded again, the voice just out of Rutledge’s line of sight. Still shaken, it took him several minutes to answer.

Confession was a sacrament in the Catholic Church. . . . The stricture on silence was not as strong in the Church of England.

If there had been something on the old man’s conscience, something serious enough for confession to ease his dying, he might well have chosen not to tell his own Vicar. As Dr. Stephenson himself had pointed out, Sims knew the family—the wife, if there was one, the children. Instead Baker might have turned to a priest who not only was bound by secrecy but had no close ties with the survivors.

“I canna’ see it makes sae great a difference! Unless the truth would prevent Baker from lying in consecrated ground.”

That was something Rutledge hadn’t considered.

“He wouldna’ fash himsel’ o’er small sins,” Hamish continued. “And I canna’ think whatever it was weighed sae heavily on his conscience, if he carried it about wi’ him to auld age!”

Rutledge agreed. Nothing so common as infidelity or an unpaid debt would send Father James to the doctor to ask questions about Baker’s sanity. And a man confessing to a sin, even to a crime long forgotten by everyone else, would present no question of conscience for the priest. A dying man was past trying in a court of law. Justice, after a fashion, had been done.

Father James had spoken of the dead man’s Will . . .

What if one of the inheriting children had no right to the family name?

“Aye. That,” Hamish answered his thought, “would be a serious matter.”

Or had another name that had been kept hidden for a lifetime—

Was that the secret the dying man wanted to impart to Father James? To leave behind a record of a child’s true heritage?

Was it that responsibility that had kept the priest pacing the rectory floor at night? Surely he might have felt he owed some duty there.