Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery by Charles Todd Page B

did you know that?”
    “Most Medieval buildings are. Do you suppose the killer was dressed as a priest or the like, someone who wouldn’t be noticed because he appeared to belong in a church?”
    “Carrying a rifle?” Warren went on toward the choir. “But then he could have hidden it in a valise, a musical instrument case. Still, he’d have to open it, wouldn’t he, and assemble the rifle. A grave risk.”
    “Was there a published schedule for the guests to arrive?”
    “No, none. He couldn’t have known when to be prepared.”
    “And so he must remain invisible until he was sure.”
    “The organist brought a large portfolio with him. His music. But he was playing when the shot was fired. There are dozens of witnesses to that. The florists brought in long boxes full of flowers for the arrangements. Some of the flowers were quite tall at the back of the baskets. We searched the lot. Even the van they came in. Under the seats. The organ loft. Behind the organ pipes—have you ever looked behind those pipes? I had the altar cloth and the misericords in the choir searched. Everywhere we could think of, in the event he’d hidden his rifle and planned to retrieve it later. But he hadn’t. Or else he’d extracted it before we got to him.”
    There was nothing to see, Rutledge thought, but the beauty around him.
    He started back toward the West Front. “Without the rifle, there’s no way to learn where he got it. The Army, most likely. But when? At the Armistice? Was he still in France then? A few must have been smuggled into the country without the Army’s knowledge. Still, they were damned thorough.” Then over his shoulder, he added, “Why did Captain Hutchinson have to die? And on that day? Was there a particular order in the two deaths? Was it opportunity or was there a pattern behind the order?”
    “I can tell you why that day. Hutchinson had come up from London for the wedding. It was very likely that he’d return to London on Sunday evening at the latest. There were a number of parties and dinners before the nuptials, of course. But they were private and by invitation only. That means that his arrival here at the Cathedral would be his only public appearance, so to speak. The local newspaper carried several accounts of the wedding festivities, mostly after the fact. My wife had read them, and so I looked them up. Hutchinson was mentioned several times. And the wedding in general created quite a stir.”
    “Which means our man—the shooter—could be local.”
    “Yes, very likely,” Warren said harshly. “More’s the pity.”
    “Why was Swift running in the by-election?”
    “That I can answer. Swift had been a solicitor before the war. There was no one to take over for him during the war, and his chambers were closed. When he came home again, the view is his heart wasn’t in it. He must have seen standing for the seat of his late MP as offering a way out.”
    “What happened to him?”
    “Mr. Davidson died of cancer in the early summer.”
    “If Hutchinson was related in some way to the bridegroom, was Swift connected to the man as well? However distantly? Grandmothers, wives, great-aunts? Any questionable inheritances?”
    “I asked the bridegroom that question. He’s not related to Swift in any way. But whether Swift and Hutchinson are related is another matter.” Warren took a deep breath as they left the Cathedral and stepped out into the late afternoon sunlight. “I can’t walk in there without thinking of that Saturday. Where was I? Oh. For what it’s worth, I think they’re random, these killings. Targets chosen for no other reason than that they are there, wherever the shooter wants to try his luck again. I don’t envy you having to get to the bottom of this one. I’ll help you in any way I can.” He began to walk briskly back toward the police station. Over his shoulder he said, as Rutledge followed him, “But the truth of the matter is, with all due respect, I don’t