INSTEAD OF FETCHING HIS LUGGAGE FROM the boot as he’d planned, Rutledge drove to St. Anne’s rectory. The mixture of watery sun, clouds, and drizzle that had pursued him all morning had given way to fairer skies. If the sun stayed out, he thought as he pulled into the short drive, the day would soon be pleasantly warm. A light wind riffled his hair as he went up the walk to the door and lifted the coffin knocker. After a time Mrs. Wainer came to answer the clamor, and recognizing the Inspector on the doorstep, greeted him with noticeable relief.

“I thought it might be someone wanting Monsignor Holston!”

“I hope I haven’t taken you from your dinner,” he said.

“No, I’ve finished. Do come in!” she said, and was on the point of leading him back to the Victorian parlor when he stopped her.

“I’d like to see Father James’s study,” Rutledge said gently, “if it wouldn’t be too much trouble for you.”

She turned her head toward the stairs. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not go up there just now. I still find it hard.” She looked at Rutledge again. “It’s Sunday, and he was always on time for his dinner, and hungry, having fasted. There’s no one to cook for now, though I’d bought a nice bit of ham, hoping Monsignor Holston would stay. . . . I feel at sixes and sevens!” There was a sadness in the words that touched Rutledge. “Well. The Bishop will send a new priest when he’s ready.”

“It should be reassuring to know that Inspector Blevins has found the man responsible.”

The housekeeper answered, “Oh, yes.” But her response was polite, with no sense of relief. Only acceptance. “Of course I told the constables the Strong Man had been in the house. But I never dreamed— He seemed—I don’t know, apologetic about his size, afraid of bumping into anything. Go on, if you like. There’s no harm can be done. And maybe some good. Up the stairs then, and the second door on your right.”

“Toward the house next door,” Hamish observed.

Rutledge thanked her and started up, becoming aware of how little noise he made on the solid treads—a muffled step, a sound you’d miss if you weren’t listening for it.

When he’d reached the landing, he turned. Mrs. Wainer was still standing by the parlor doorway, unwilling to remember what lay at the top of the stairs. There was an expression of deep grief on her face. Then she walked away down the passage, as if turning her back on what he was about to do.