“You’ll have to question everyone at the bazaar again. To see if the two men recognized each other that day.”

“I don’t see how it was possible for Walsh to recognize Father James—he was dressed as a clown to entertain the children, and his face was painted. But of course Father James could well have remembered him.”

Hamish reminded Rutledge, “Mrs. Wainer spoke of clown’s paint. He was still wearing it when he handed her the bills and coins they’d taken in.”

So she had. Rutledge regarded Blevins, trying to read his face. “Asking Walsh is the simplest way to find out,” he observed.

“You can’t ask him anything without being cursed and abused. Better to find out from the War Office than give that clever bastard some way of crawling out of this charge!”

“Does Sarah Hurst still have the letter?”

“It was written to Judith, who showed it to her, and there’s no way of knowing if Judith kept it. Much less what’s become of it since she died. But Hurst thought we ought to know, and rightly so.”

“Could Walsh have been searching for it? Either time he was at the rectory?” It was not uncommon to keep letters after a loved one died.

“Lord, no, how would he have known such a letter even existed? No, it’s a false scent, and I’m not going to be sidetracked by it. Besides, if Father James had learned something incriminating about Walsh, he wouldn’t have told his sister, would he? Let’s leave it! I told you only because I thought you’d agree with me that it’s not important.”

Hamish reminded Rutledge of an exchange during last night’s dinner at the Norwich hotel on the subject of the murder having to do with the War:

And how to find such a needle in a haystack of returned veterans?

Yet that same needle might have found Father James, nearly a year after the War had ended . . .

Because he’d come to a bazaar?

“I see your point.” It was enough to satisfy Blevins. Changing the subject, Rutledge told him, “I’ve been to the rectory to look at the study.”

“Doesn’t tell you much, does it? Mrs. Wainer scrubbed that carpet nearly through to the nap, trying to get out the blood. Wouldn’t hear of having a constable do it for her. It was her place, she insisted, not his.” He wolfed down the last sandwich, then began to fold the serviettes in which they had been wrapped. A B in Gothic script had been embroidered into one corner, entwined with a sprig of lilac.

“A great deal of force was used to open the desk.”

“More than needful. Yes, that’s true. But I doubt our blossom of fragility back there in the cells knows his own strength. The same force was used to kill Father James.”