“I wish you would be as honest with me,” Rutledge answered. “Why did you hate Father James?”

She sighed in resignation, brushing the edge of her hand across her forehead. “It was a very long time ago. Well in the past, and nothing to do with the police. It was before he became a priest. I went to him for advice, and he gave it to me. I followed it because I trusted him. And it ruined my life. It destroyed everything I believed in and loved and cared about. And this man who was so wise and compassionate and understanding became a priest. I have often wondered just how many other lives he ruined in his righteous belief in his own infallibility. But as long as I could hate him, I had something to live for, you see! And now that’s been taken away from me. And I really have nothing left. When that man killed Father James, he might as well have killed me, too!”

She swept past him, and out the door. Rutledge, staring at her stiff and uncompromising back, let her go.

Rutledge was halfway up the stairs when he thought about Monsignor Holston. He went down again to the lobby, found the telephone in the little alcove behind the desk, and put in a call to Norwich.

Eventually the priest answered, sounding out of breath. Rutledge identified himself.

“Sorry, I had to make a dash to answer the phone. Is there more news?”

“No, I’m afraid not. But I do have a small mystery on my hands. Tell me, do you know anyone called Priscilla Connaught?”

Monsignor Holston considered the question. “Connaught? No, I can’t place her.”

“She’s a parishioner here at St. Anne’s.”

“Was she at Mass this morning?”

“I didn’t see her. Tall, slim, graying dark hair.”

“No. I can’t put a face to the name. Does it matter? You could speak to Mrs. Wainer. She’d be able to tell you, surely?”

“Probably not important,” Rutledge said lightly. “Apparently Miss Connaught knew Father James a good many years ago. His death seems to have upset her more than most.”

“Priests have friendships, like anyone else. That shouldn’t surprise you.” There was a smile in the voice at the other end of the line.

“No, as a matter of fact, it doesn’t,” Rutledge responded. And after thanking Monsignor Holston, he hung up the telephone receiver.

Hamish said, “She wasna’ the kind of friend yon priest in Norwich would be told about. If she believed that Father James had ruined her life.”

“Yes,” Rutledge said slowly. “It’s an interesting thought, isn’t it? I wonder if she came to Confession every week to tell him how much she hated him. The skeleton at the feast, reminding the merrymakers of their fate. Or in this case, the priest of his failure.”

The dining room was closed, the French doors shut, and Mrs. Barnett was just coming out of the lounge with a tray laden with the cups and pots of tea that she had collected there.