The contrast with Priscilla Connaught was striking. Mrs. Barnett looked tired, her hands red from dishwater, and her black dress rumpled from the heat of the kitchen.

Rutledge offered to take the heavy tray, but she shook her head. “I’m used to it. But thank you.” She rested it on the polished wood of the reception desk, and said thoughtfully, “I didn’t know you were a policeman.”

“I wasn’t here in a strictly official capacity. Not at first,” he answered her. “But Inspector Blevins is understandably eager to complete this investigation. I’ve been asked to stay on until then.”

“Yes, I’d heard there was an arrest.” She looked around her at the lobby and the stairs to the rooms above. “I was glad it wasn’t someone who had stayed here, that week. That would have been shocking! We always have a few guests for such an event.”

Taking the opportunity presented, Rutledge asked, “Would you mind telling me what you know about Miss Connaught?”

Alarm filled Mrs. Barnett’s eyes. “I can’t believe she has anything to do with Father James’s death!”

“She offered some information, that’s all. I wondered if it was trustworthy.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Barnett turned the tray a little, thinking. “It probably is, because she has no particular reason to lie, as far as I know. She keeps to herself.” And then as if prompted by his attentive silence, Mrs. Barnett explained, “Which hasn’t endeared her to most of the women here in Osterley. Many of them have put her down as a snob. That reserve of hers shuts people out. My late husband always believed she’d been involved in some sort of scandal, and was banished from Society.” She tilted her head, in the way women did when amused about the antics of men. “Well, that’s the romantic view, anyway.”

“What’s the general impression?” Rutledge asked, as if merely curious.

“That the only reason she’d be content in Osterley for so many years is that she has nowhere else to go. Occasionally she’s invited to dinner, to make up the numbers, and if she accepts, she’s pleasant company. But not the sort of woman another woman would sit down and have a good gossip with. Men seem to find her rather attractive and well-informed. But she’s not a flirt. I’d always wondered if she was married to someone rather unpleasant and there was a nasty divorce. The woman who cleans for her helps out here at the hotel when we’re busy, and according to her, Miss Connaught has no photographs or other personal things in the house, as if there’s no past that she cares to remember.”

Hamish commented, “Or no future to fill . . .”

Realizing that she had said more than she intended, Mrs. Barnett reached for her tray. Glancing up at Rutledge, she added, “I shouldn’t have told you that! It’s no more than idle speculation and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t pass it on. As owner of the only hotel, my livelihood is dependent on my discretion.”