On Harrow Hill

Although St. Giles was just the proverbial stone’s throw across the village square from police headquarters, Gurney decided to take his car. He had a notion that, after speaking with Angus Russell’s bereaved sister, he might head out along Waterview Drive to Mary Kane’s house. Sometimes following the route of a killer—driving where he drove, seeing what he saw—led to some unexpected insight. But first, and more concretely, he wanted to get a better reading on Hilda Russell, whose presence in the conference room had told him nothing.

As he was turning into the driveway next to St. Giles Church, he noted some work underway on the path by the corner of the building. Two men were spreading new gravel on the area where Billy Tate had landed. If the large bloodstain on Tate’s hoodie were any indication, the gravel under him would have been stained as well, accounting for the cleanup underway.

Gurney followed the driveway to a parking area that separated the church from a large Victorian house, painted in muted shades of blue and gray. A neatly swept bluestone path, purple petunias planted on either side, led from the parking area to the porch steps. A mechanical twist doorbell in antique bronze was set in the center of the front door. As he was reaching for it, the door opened.

“You’re right on time,” said Hilda Russell, stepping back to let him in. She was still wearing the shapeless gray suit and black turtleneck. “Come this way.”

She led him through a dark, wood-paneled center hall to a bright, airy room at the rear of the house. Floor-to-ceiling windows reminded Gurney of the tall windows in Angus Russell’s bedroom. They looked out on a tranquil English-style garden, full of spring flowers and weeping cherry trees in blossom. A gardener was pushing a mower along a path through the flower beds.

The cherrywood desk, cabinets, and bookcases in the room were in the simple Shaker style. The brightly upholstered couch and armchairs were large and comfortable-­looking. A brick fireplace had been swept clean of ashes. A crystal vase on the mantelpiece was overflowing with jonquils and daffodils.

“Very nice,” said Gurney as he took it all in. “Is this your office?”

“It is, but I try to keep it as un-businesslike as possible. Please, have a seat.” She gestured toward one of the armchairs by the fireplace.

She took the one that faced it. “So. How can I help you?”

“First, let me offer my condolences. I apologize for the need to bother you with questions at a time like this.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “No apologies necessary. Ask whatever you wish.”

“You were very quiet in that meeting this morning. I was wondering why.”

“My mother’s favorite saying was, ‘Learn to listen, then listen to learn.’ I seem to have made it my own.”

He smiled. “Do you live here in the rectory?”

“I do. Upstairs. Comfortable little retreat, all to myself.”

“Is that where you were when Tate fell off the church roof?”

“You mean, when Jehovah’s thunderbolt struck down the evil instrument of Satan?” Her portentous tone was belied by the spark of sarcasm in her eyes. “Yes. Sound asleep, so I missed all the drama. But I shouldn’t joke.”

“Why do you suppose he was up there?”

“I assume to spray that symbol on the steeple—emblem of hellfire, or so I’ve been told.”

“Does that shock you, someone doing that to your church?”

“After hearing confessions for nearly forty years, including ten as a prison chaplain, I’m not impressed by a bit of vandalism. More concerning is the way this sort of thing is used by the slick, pompadoured Silas Gants of the world for their own ends.”

“How about Tate’s revival after being pronounced dead? Were you impressed by that?”

“I might have been more so if it were the first time.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Billy has a dark history. Sick relationships surrounded by salacious rumors, none of which am I inclined to discuss. However, as I’m sure you’re aware, it’s a matter of public record that his father was convicted of shooting Billy and putting him in what was believed to be a vegetative coma. Two days later he opened his eyes, asked where he was and why the hell he was connected to all those damn machines. The doctors couldn’t account for it. A miracle, they called it.”

“And now there’s been another one.”

“‘Miracle’ is a rather imprecise term. I came close to being expelled from the seminary for arguing that it has no real meaning at all.”

“What would you call his latest revival?”

“Considering the subsequent events, I’d call it unfortunate.” She paused, her gaze on the empty fireplace. “I understand you have evidence connecting him to my brother’s murder.”

“Does that surprise you?”