He filled Bowles in on the direction he felt the case was taking, and got in return a tongue-lashing for disturbing the Teller family without permission.

"You're mad if you believe they have had any hand in this business. I'll be hearing complaints next, and what am I to say? That you've taken leave of your senses? And why aren't you in the north? It makes no sense to be frittering your time away in London. She wasn't murdered here, this Teller woman, and there must be a dozen Peter Tellers out there. Find him."

"Gibson has given me a list of those he found. Not one of them is of the same age as we believe Teller would have been now."

"Then tell Sergeant Gibson to look again."

Rutledge went in search of Gibson.

The sergeant said in resignation, "I'll be bound I found every one there is. But I'll look again."

Rutledge left him muttering to himself about time wasted.

He headed north, picking up rain showers halfway. And then it cleared as he turned toward Thielwald and Hobson.

Constable Satterthwaite had nothing to report when Rutledge walked into the station and greeted him.

"But I'm that glad to see you again. Any luck in the south?"

"The Yard is still searching for Lieutenant Peter Teller's family. I'm beginning to think we have already found it. The Chief Superintendent disagrees. Here are the facts. There's a Teller family in London. Three brothers, one of them presently a captain in the Army. There's no reason they should even know Florence Teller's name, but her death came as a shock to them. I'm beginning to wonder if her killer realized she was dead."

"He made no effort to find it out," Satterthwaite responded angrily. "Which in my book is still murder. What brought him here?"

Rutledge said, "That's why I've come back. That and the funeral. Do you think Mrs. Greeley will have a room for me again?"

"Indeed, sir. She was asking just yesterday if I was expecting to see you."

"No sign of the murder weapon?"

"As to that, he must have taken it with him."

"The services for Florence Teller?"

"They're tomorrow," Satterthwaite told him. "I'm glad you'll be here for them."

"So am I," Rutledge said, and went to find Mrs. Greeley.

To his surprise, the next morning Edwin and Amy Teller arrived in good time for the service.

They found Rutledge just coming out of the police station and asked if he could give them directions to the house where Florence Teller had lived.

"You can't go inside," he warned them. "This is still an active murder inquiry." What he wanted to say was that it wasn't a spectacle for the Teller family. How Florence Teller had lived and died was now police business.

"I understand," Edwin said. And Rutledge was surprised to realize that the man did. "It just seemed-the right thing to do."

"Then I'll go with you."

He could tell it wasn't what they wanted, but he got into the motorcar and told Edwin to follow the High Street out of Hobson.

As they went, Amy commented on how empty the landscape was, and how lonely. Rutledge thought it was a reflection of someone brought up in the south, where the roads seldom lacked some form of habitation for very long.

Edwin was silent, concentrating on driving. When at last they began to crest the rise before the house, Rutledge said, "Ahead you'll see a hedge. Stop at the gate."

He could feel the tension in the two people in the front seat. And he thought, Is this how Hamish knows what's on my mind? Is this how Hamish knows what's on my mind?

But there was no time to consider that as Edwin came to a halt in front of the house.

"Sunrise Cottage," Amy read, then looking up the path to the house, she said, "A red door. Once."

Rutledge said, "Mrs. Teller painted it to celebrate her husband's homecoming. Only he never returned. She left it, perhaps in the hope that someday he would. Or because she couldn't bear to give up all hope."

Edwin sat there, looking up at the house. "It's not a very pleasing house, is it?" he mused aloud. "Small and plain and isolated. She lived here alone? That's sad. He could have done better by her."

"Perhaps it was what she wanted," Amy said after a moment. "What she was used to. She took pride in it-you can see that."

"Still . . ."

The silence lengthened. Finally Edwin let in the clutch and said, "I must find somewhere to turn around."

"There's a farmyard just down the road," Rutledge told them.

Edwin found it and was soon headed back into Hobson.

When they reached the police station, Rutledge said, "Mrs. Greeley's house is just there. I'm sure she will let you have a room to freshen up. She needs the money."

Edwin thanked him and drove on.

Rutledge could see them speaking together, but not even Hamish's sharp hearing could discern what was being said.

Satterthwaite had come out and was looking after them. "And who might they be, when they're at home?"

"Edwin Teller and his wife, from London. He considers himself the head of the Ess.e.x branch of the family. He felt it was his duty to be here, to represent the family that we haven't found. His brother is Captain Peter Teller."

"Kind of him," Satterthwaite said shortly. "Where's his brother, then?"

"Does he resemble Peter Teller, do you think?"

Satterthwaite considered the question. "In a vague way. Hard to judge with yon beard. Remember, I've not seen the man for years. I don't know how the war changed him." After a moment, he said, "Does the wife know about Florence?"

"Amy? Yes. She must." Rutledge, looking back to his first meeting with her, nodded. "But it's Peter's wife who has taken the news the hardest."

St. Bartholomew's bell, rather more tinny than deep throated, had begun tolling the age of the departed.

Satterthwaite nodded. "It's time."

They walked down the High Street, turning up Church Lane at the war memorial. Rutledge saw Cobb pausing there for his morning greeting to his sons, then move on, his cane supporting him over the uneven ruts of the lane.

Watching him, Rutledge said thoughtfully, "Edwin Teller's brother was badly wounded in the war. He's in need of a cane as well. But he doesn't always have it to hand."

"I'm told Mr. Cobb sleeps with his on the bed, on his wife's side."

"You've looked into his nephew Lawrence? Anything more on that front, since I left?"

"I've kept my eye on him. But there's nothing there."

"I saw him wielding a hammer in anger."

"We'll see, shall we, if there's any guilt shown today."

"Fair enough."

People from the village were also walking up the lane, and among them Rutledge saw the Tellers in mourning black that was stylishly cut and out of place here among the rusty black of ordinary clothes that hung unused from Monday to Sat.u.r.day.

St. Bart's was as plain inside as it was on the outside. Built for st.u.r.diness, built to last, built to worship and not adore. Rutledge had the fleeting thought that Cromwell would have approved. But the people of Hobson had probably not approved of Cromwell or King Charles. Their independence came from the land they farmed, not from London, and it was a hard life, short as well.

The service was brief and as plain as the surroundings in which it was held. The curate spoke simply about our dear departed sister, listing the major events of her life and commenting only once about her death, as an undeserved tragedy. He read several Psalms, and the choir led the mourners in three hymns, including "Rock of Ages."

And then they moved to the churchyard, watching the plain coffin being lowered into the ground. Next to the open grave was the small patch of gra.s.s, slightly lower than its surroundings, that marked her son's resting place. A rosebush bloomed where a stone should have been, the small pink blossoms reminding Rutledge of one very much like it he'd seen in Florence Teller's garden.

Beyond Timmy's grave was a third, the sod flat and untouched.

No one stepped forward at first to throw in the first handful of earth until the constable came up, did his duty, and said under his breath, "I hope you've found peace, now."

Edwin walked up, stared for a moment into the grave, as if he were praying, and then took a firm handful of earth and scattered it gently. It dropped like the first sounds of a heavy rain on the roof as it struck the wooden coffin. Amy Teller followed him, and others came up as well, among them Mrs. Greeley and then Sam Jordan. Lawrence Cobb, watched by his uncle, paused for a moment looking up at the cloudless sky, then gently dropped a yellow rose into the grave. It landed at the broadest part of the coffin, and he nodded, as if that was what he'd intended. Without a word, he walked on, ignoring the red-haired woman just behind him. Rutledge could see her resemblance to Mrs. Blaine, but Betsy was slimmer, prettier. Her mouth was drawn tight now, and he noticed that she didn't look into the grave or reach for a handful of earth. Instead her eyes were fixed on her husband.

Hamish said, "He'll no' spend a restful night."

Rutledge was the last of the mourners to step forward. Mr. Kerr gave the benediction, and then Florence Marshall Teller was left to the attentions of the gravediggers and the s.e.xton.

Rutledge stood there for a moment longer, then went to join Edwin and Amy Teller as they walked back to their motorcar.

"I'm glad we came," Edwin said with conviction. "It was the right thing to do."

"A very simple service," Rutledge said. "But I think it suited her."

"I've always liked that psalm," Amy said. " 'I will lift mine eyes unto the hills . . .-"

Edwin said, "The curate spoke of a child. A boy. Were there any other children?"

"Only the one son. I'm told he died of illness many years ago."

"But you told me-I thought you said he was still alive," Amy accused him.

"I said I was unable to ask his views," Rutledge answered her.

"How sad," Edwin Teller said. The words sounded sincere, rather than a conventional expression of sympathy. "For her."

"Was she your sister-in-law?" Rutledge asked without emphasis.

Edwin Teller stared at him. "This is neither the time nor the place," he snapped.

Rutledge replied, "Where then is the proper place?"

But there was no answer to that. Even Amy Teller looked away, her face pale.

They had nearly reached the Teller motorcar. Before he could press the issue, Rutledge was distracted by a boy running toward the churchyard, in the direction of Constable Satterthwaite. Rutledge excused himself and left the Tellers standing there.

By the time he'd reached the spot where Satterthwaite was standing listening to the boy, the constable looked up.

He said in a low voice, "A message from the police in Thielwald. They've found a walker who admits to being in the vicinity around the time Mrs. Teller was killed. He can't be sure of the exact day, but it fits well enough. He's being held there. Are you coming, sir?"

"Yes. My motorcar is at Mrs. Greeley's house."

"I'll meet you there in five minutes," Satterthwaite said. He thanked the boy and turned to speak to the curate, commenting on the service.

Thielwald had ancient roots, but the town itself looked as if it had been born in the last century and had no recollection of any past before that.

Rutledge had only seen it in late evening, the night he and Constable Satterthwaite had called on Dr. Blake, whose surgery was in a side street before they had reached the High Street.

He could see now that Thielwald's gray stone houses were crowded along the main road, which was bisected by a few cross streets. In the town center there were the usual shops and a busy pub called The Viking's Head. The church was just beyond the center, as plain as the one in Hobson but slightly larger, its churchyard cl.u.s.tered around it like lost souls on the windswept rise.

Hamish, who had been quiet during the service and the drive here, said, "It's no' a place I'd like to live."

Rutledge had been thinking the same thing-no character to set it off, no natural features to make it more attractive. A small town with no pretensions.

Seeing the post office set in a corner of an ironmonger's shop, Rutledge said, "Ah. I'd like to make a brief stop here before we see this walker. I want to ask the postmistress a question."

"Can it wait?"

"No." He halted the motorcar, and leaving it running, he said to the constable, "Wait here. I shouldn't be more than five minutes."

Striding into the ironmonger's, he turned to the left and found the tiny square of s.p.a.ce that was Thielwald's post office. The middle-aged woman behind the counter smiled as he approached and said, "What can I do for you today, sir?"

Rutledge identified himself and asked if she handled the mail for Hobson as well.

"Oh, yes, sir. It's carried up to the village once a day and delivered. Not that there's much of it, now the war's over. Business was quite brisk then, you know, everyone writing to a soldier son or father or brother. Quite brisk."

"Do you recall mail for Mrs. Florence Teller?"

"Yes, sir, that's Florence Marshall that was. She got the most exotic packets sometimes, covered with foreign stamps. I always wondered what was inside, you know. Mrs. Greeley told me once there were silk pillow slips from China. I hardly know where to find China on the map, and here's silk pillow slips coming to my own post office."

"It must have been quite exciting," he agreed. "Did Mrs. Teller write to her family or her husband's family in England?"

"Letters, you mean."

"Yes. Was there an exchange of letters with members of her husband's family? We're trying to locate them. It's the matter of her will."

"I don't believe she ever did. No, nothing like that. She wrote to Lieutenant Teller and he wrote to her. And that was the end of it."