In the motorcar once more, they drove on.

In another mile or so, a dead tree lifted bare, twisted arms toward the sky, and just beyond, there was a church, a short tower rising from the plain upright brick facade.

Early Victorian, at a guess, Rutledge thought, looking up at the tower. And not a very happy example of village church at that. He wondered what his godfather, the architect David Trevor, would make of it, and he smiled.

The sign between the porch and the road was almost Pre-Raphaelite in its design and would have done justice to an Arthurian legend. It read, in elegant letters set out in gold leaf, THE CHURCH OF ST. EDWARD THE CONFESSOR.

Rutledge regarded that with wry amusement. Very fitting, he thought.

Beneath were the times of services and the name of the pastor: Morrison. Below that was a quotation from the Psalms:

I will lift mine eyes unto the hills…

“ What is it doing out here? In the middle of nowhere?” Frances asked as they drew even with the signboard. “And there’s no Rectory. No churchyard. How very odd.”

It was not strictly speaking ugly, but there was something about the church that stirred the voice in Rutledge’s head. Hamish had been quiet all morning, and now he was a restive presence in the back of Rutledge’s mind.

Rutledge tried to ignore him. He said to his sister, “Perhaps the village was moved.”

“Yes, that could be, of course. But surely not the churchyard as well?”

He braked, the engine idling. A gust of wind hit the motorcar, shaking it. “It may serve a scattered population.”

“It looks as if it’s been exiled,” she remarked. Then, turning to her brother, she asked, “Ian, what brought you here? And don’t tell me again that it’s curiosity.”

“Actually it was. That much is true. I wanted to have a look at this part of Essex.”

“Then it has to do with an inquiry?”