“Not at all,” he replied with a smile. “I did take the liberty of asking Mrs. Barnett to bring us tea.” In an effort to put her more at ease, he asked, “Do you live here in Osterley, Miss Connaught?” He indicated her chair, and after she sat down stiffly, her back ramrod-straight, he took the one on the other side of the hearth.

“Yes—yes, I do. I’m—not a native of Norfolk. My family is from Hampshire.”

“I was surprised to find the harbor has all but vanished.”

“I—it has been silting up for well over a century, I believe—”

A silence fell. The room, small but comfortably furnished, seemed to stifle her. She looked at the chairs and tables, the magazines on a low stand, the several pieces of Staffordshire porcelain on the mantel—anywhere but at Rutledge’s face.

The door opened and Mrs. Barnett came in with their tea. Miss Connaught seemed almost relieved at the interruption, her eyes following the settling of the heavy tray on a table at her elbow.

Rutledge thanked Mrs. Barnett, and when she had gone, he said, “Would you rather I poured?”

Priscilla Connaught looked up at him, startled. “Yes. Would you? I—” She smiled for the first time, giving her face a little color. “I really think I’d drop the pot!”

He filled their cups, asked her her taste in sugar and cream, and handed her one of them.

She sat back, seeming to draw comfort from the warmth between her two hands. After a silence, she said, “I’ve come to ask you something that matters very much to me. I went to see Inspector Blevins, but the constable on duty tells me he’s gone home and I didn’t want to disturb him there. I’m not on the best of terms with his wife.”

“I don’t know that I can help you—” Rutledge began.

“It isn’t a state secret!” she said abruptly. “Surely not. I need to know, you see—I need to know if the man they have at the police station is the person who killed Father James. The constable suggested that I speak to you.”

Ah! Rutledge thought. Aloud he said, “Inspector Blevins believes that the man is the murderer. Yes.”

“And what do you think?”

Parrying the question, he asked, “Do you know Matthew Walsh?”

Surprised, she said, “Is that his name? No, I have no idea who he is.”

“He came to the bazaar. He was the Strong Man.”

“Oh. I do remember seeing him. He was quite a spectacle, actually. Why do they think he killed Father James?” She sipped her tea, and he thought for an instant that she was going to spill it—the contents seemed to move in tiny waves, in concert with her nervousness.

“Why are you so concerned for him?” Rutledge asked.