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.

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.