"Where did she send the letters to Lieutenant Teller? What regiment? Do you remember?"

"But they didn't go to his regiment, sir. They were mailed to an address in Dorset. Lieutenant Teller had told her it was faster than waiting for the Army to send them on. Still and all, it was sometimes many months before a reply came."

"Where in Dorset? Do you remember?" He tried not to sound eager.

She frowned. "A place called Sedley, I think it was. Peter Teller, in care of A. R.-no, I believe it was A. P. Repton, Mistletoe Cottage, Sedley, Dorset," she finished triumphantly, and smiled at him. "I rather liked Mistletoe Cottege."

Repton was the name of the village outside Witch Hazel Farm, where the Teller family had lived for generations. In Ess.e.x, not Dorset.

He thanked her and left.

So much for the theory of blackmail.

"Any luck, sir?" the constable asked when Rutledge came back to the motorcar and they drove on.

"Another dead end, most likely. At least there was no correspondence between Mrs. Teller and her husband's family."

Satterthwaite said, "Just there," and pointed out the police station, which looked as if it had once been a shop itself, the front window overwhelming the door set to the side. Inspector Hadden was waiting for them with a scruffy-looking young man who was, Rutledge thought, an undergraduate student somewhere.

He was introduced as Benjamin Larkin, who stood to shake hands with Rutledge and the constable. His voice, when he spoke, was educated, and he said at once, "I was in a pub south of Morecambe when I heard there was a murder over by Hobson. A woman in an isolated farmhouse. So I got in touch with the police. It appears to be the same one I pa.s.sed several days back. I was going to stop in and ask to refill my water bottle, but there was a motorcar on the far side of the hedge, and so I moved on."

"A motorcar? Did you see anyone in it?" Hadden asked.

But Rutledge said, "Start at the beginning if you will."

"It was mid-afternoon, I think. I was coming over the rise, taking in the view, and there was a house to my left. I saw a pump in the kitchen yard and I thought I might stop and refill my bottle. But no one was about, so I thought perhaps I'd come around the front and knock, rather than help myself. The view was rather nice, and I moved toward my right to see more of it, when I realized there was a road below the house, not just a lane. I didn't remember that being on the rough map I had, so I stopped and dug in my gear for it, to be sure I wasn't in the wrong place. I was walking and looking at the map when I saw a motorcar was stopped at the end of the high hedge surrounding the front garden. It seemed to me that the owner might have come up from Morecambe-it was that kind of motor, and it occurred to me that it would do no harm to ask for a lift. No one was around, so I sat down by a small shrub and ate the last of my biscuits, hoping he wouldn't be long. I was just putting away my map when I could hear footsteps. And there he was, hurrying back to the motorcar. He was lame, finding it difficult to deal with the crank, but before I could collect my gear and hail him, the motor turned over, and he hobbled around to haul himself in. I didn't like the look of the situation-he appeared to be angry or upset, not the time to ask favors. I just walked on, and thought no more about it, until I heard talk in the pub where I spent last night."

"Did he see you?" Hadden asked.

"I have no idea. Probably not. I did notice that he glanced around, as if looking for something, but it all happened rather fast."

"Where did he go from there?" Rutledge asked.

"He was driving east."

"What can you tell me about the motorcar?"

"It was a black Rolls, well kept and quite clean. I hadn't expected to see that out here." He turned to Inspector Hadden, adding, "With no disrespect. But it was more the sort of vehicle you'd find in a city. It hadn't been used to haul cabbages or saddles or hens."

"And the man?" Rutledge said. He had more or less taken over the questioning, Hadden deferring to him.

"Lame, as I told you. Tall, slim. Darkish hair, military cut. Well dressed. Like the car, he seemed out of place here."

"Was there a quarrel, do you think? Was that what had upset him?"

"I can't say. I wasn't close enough to hear if there was. But no one was shouting, if that's what you're asking. Still, not the time to be knocking on doors or asking for a lift."

"Did he have a cane? Or some sort of tool in his hand-did you see him toss anything into the motorcar, like a box?"

"I don't know-no, actually I do." Larkin squinted, as if bringing back the scene in his memory. "He was empty-handed when he went to crank the car. But if I'd seen a cane, I wouldn't have been surprised, given the problem with his legs."

"Describe the Rolls, if you will."

"Black, well polished, 1914 Ghost, touring car. Rather like the one you drove up in, save for the color."

And very like the one Edwin Teller had just driven away in.

Hamish said, "Do ye believe the lad?"

All things considered, Rutledge thought he did. Larkin needn't have come forward, for one thing. He'd already disappeared into the landscape. But sometimes cases turned on unexpected evidence like this.

"Where are you studying?" Rutledge asked, curious.

"Cambridge," Larkin answered and named his college. "Which is why this was a walking tour and not two weeks in Italy. I couldn't afford it," he added with a grin.

"Did you see anyone at the house? A woman? Or notice that the house had a red door?"

"I never saw the door. No one was in the kitchen yard. I don't know about the front garden. There was the hedge, you see. Nearly as tall as I was."

Rutledge turned to Hadden and Satterthwaite. "Anything else?"

They had no further questions. Rutledge thanked Larkin and told him he could go. And then he said as Larkin reached behind the desk and lifted his haversack, "Would you mind if I looked in that?"

Larkin slung it off his shoulder and said, "Help yourself. Mind the dirty wash."

But there was nothing in the pack that could have been used for a weapon. And nothing that could have come from Florence Teller's house. Only spare clothes, a tarp for wet weather, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, a comb, a block of soap, a razor, a book on English wildflowers and another on birds, a heavy bottle for water, and a small sack of dried fruit, biscuits, sweets, and a heel of cheese. Nothing, in fact, that a walker shouldn't have, and everything he should.

Hamish said, "He could ha' left behind anything he didna' want you to see."

It was true. But the very compactness of the haversack, intended to minimize weight and maximize comfort in a small s.p.a.ce, didn't allow for extras.

Rutledge nodded, asked for his address at Cambridge, and when that was done, thanked him again. Larkin went out the door.

"What do you think?" Inspector Hadden asked, echoing Hamish.

"I'll ask the Yard to be sure he's who he says he is. But I expect he's telling the truth."

"Was it Teller coming home?" Satterthwaite asked. "If it was, he has money now. I never thought he did before. He had enough that he wasn't looking to live on Florence's money from her aunt. But not rich."

"A good point," Rutledge acknowledged. "Pa.s.s the word to keep an eye on Larkin while he's in the district. He might be able to identify the driver, if we find him."

Turning to Satterthwaite, Rutledge said, "Did you look at that hedge around the front of the house? If I wanted to rid myself of a murder weapon, I might consider sticking it deep in there. It's thick enough."

Satterthwaite said slowly, "No, we did not. Under it, yes. But we'd have seen anything in the branches, wouldn't we?"

"It won't hurt to have another go at it."

By the time they reached Sunrise Cottage, clouds were building far out over the water, and Satterthwaite, scanning them, said, "Looks like this fine weather is about to break. I'm glad the service was dry."

Rutledge agreed with him. But he thought they had another hour.

They searched the hedge carefully, together pulling at the thickest parts of it and then letting them fall back into place. Inch by inch, they worked one side and across the front. As they came round to the corner closest to the house, Rutledge had to step into the hedge to make it easier to part the thick branches there, and grunting, Satterthwaite pushed and shoved at them. Rutledge nearly lost his footing and caught the constable's shoulder to steady himself. He turned to look down.

The earth under the hedge was thick with last winter's fallen leaves and possibly those of winters before that. They formed a light bed perhaps a good inch or so deep.

Cobb, the schoolmaster, had told Rutledge that since the war, there had been no one but his nephew to help with the farm. And this was proof of it.

"What's the matter?" Satterthwaite asked as Rutledge knelt to run his fingers through the damp and rotting ma.s.s.

He had to dig deep into the soil below, but it was loose enough and damp enough for him to wedge his fingers behind something there.

He found what he was after and pulled it toward him. He could hear the constable's indrawn breath as he realized what was coming to light.

Not a walking stick as the doctor had first suggested, but the remains of a Malacca cane. Rutledge stood up with it in his hands.

Although filthy, with leaves still clinging to it, it was not an old and rotting thing. It had been hidden here fairly recently, buried just deep enough that a policeman searching among the spa.r.s.e hedge trunks close to the ground would have seen only what he expected to see-the carpet of leaves. But someone had taken the sharp end and used it to thrust the length of the cane out of sight well below that layer.

"If I hadn't felt it under my sole, I wouldn't have thought to dig," Rutledge said, running his hands along the wood, gently brushing off the debris.

"There's no head," Satterthwaite pointed out.

The head had been broken off, and the smooth dark red shaft was still raw where the wood had been splintered.

"It would match the wound in Florence Teller's head-or at least the murderer thought it might." He frowned. "It wouldn't be easy to snap off the head. Rattan palm canes are very strong. There must have been a weakness-where the cane had dried and cracked around the k.n.o.b that served as a handle."

"Why leave the rest? Why not take the cane and throw it off a bridge far from here?"

"The killer wouldn't have wanted to be seen with it in his possession."

"But if he brought it here-"

"Yes, that's the point. But it only became a weapon once Florence Teller was killed. Before that it was simply someone's cane."

He looked around. The tidy bit of lawn, the flowers on the path, the step and the street door . . . They hadn't been disturbed.

Hamish said, "The step."

It was a long, rectangular slab of stone, smoothed to serve the doorway. Rutledge walked over to it and ran his hands along the edge. Someone could have shoved the head of the cane under the slab, and with the force of anger or of fear, managed to snap it off. Brush the earth back again, where the head had dug in, and who would notice what had been done. If the police hadn't found the cane, the slab of step would hold no significance. Someone, having just killed, had taken the time to think through what to do with the weapon.

That was an interesting look into his state of mind, whoever he was.

Rutledge began to sift the earth very gently through his fingers, moving aside a plant and reaching down under the stone. The head of the cane wasn't there. He hadn't expected it to be, but he'd had to be sure.

He was just smoothing the earth back into place when Hamish said, "There!"

Rutledge stopped. There was nothing he could see at first, and then he recognized what was caught in the roots of the pansy.

It was not as big as a toothpick. Just a fine splinter of wood, like the proverbial needle in a haystack. It was, in fact, more like a needle than anything else, one that had been held to a flame and tarnished.

He dug it out carefully, blew away the earth that smothered it, and put up his hand for the broken end of the cane that Satterthwaite was still holding.

There was no match, of course, but there was no doubt that it was the same wood.

Satterthwaite said, "It was savagely done."

"He'd have liked to hit her a second time, I expect. One blow was not enough to satisfy him. I wonder why? Because she died so easily? Or would her battered head give him away?"

"The walker. Larkin."

"I doubt it. The only thing taken was a box of letters."

"I wonder where the head of the cane might be? Was it valuable, do you think? Larkin indicated he had no money to speak of, this summer."

"He might have found the cane here, and stolen the head. But that would be after the murder, and her body would have been lying here in plain sight. Still-" Rutledge turned to stare beyond the gate, in the direction of Thielwald. "It's just as well we're keeping an eye on him." He returned to the cane in hand. "It will be a miracle if we ever find the rest." It must have been distinctive, It must have been distinctive, he thought, this head. They were usually ivory or gold, with initials or a figure that could easily be identified and therefore was equally d.a.m.ning. He wondered if Edwin Teller would be willing to describe his brother's cane. he thought, this head. They were usually ivory or gold, with initials or a figure that could easily be identified and therefore was equally d.a.m.ning. He wondered if Edwin Teller would be willing to describe his brother's cane.

Teller's motorcar? Teller's cane? But none of these was proof of murder. Only that he was here on the day that Florence Teller died. Or one of his brothers was here . . .

"The man in the motorcar. He didna' have a cane when he left," Hamish pointed out.

"But we don't know if he carried one with him when he arrived. For all we know, he found the body and panicked."

He'd spoken aloud.

Satterthwaite said, "The man in the motorcar? That could be. He didn't have the casket of letters either."

"What if he'd already put them in the boot? He might have returned to the house to destroy the cane."

"True enough. I'd sworn we'd searched that hedge carefully."

"I'm sure you did. But not the ground below it. Only for something caught in it." Rutledge put the splinter of wood carefully away in his handkerchief and then dusted his hands.

Looking up at the sky, at the heavy dark clouds drawing closer, he said, "We'll be caught yet." Turning to Satterthwaite, he said, "Did you sift the ashes in the stove? In the event anything was burned in there?"

"We did. And nothing came to light. Of course, it might not have, if there were no hinges on that box. Or clasp. It'ud burned right up. But that would take time. In my mind, he took the box with him."

"All right then. I think we should be on our way to Hobson, before that storm gets here."

As it happened, they had only just reached the police station when the dark clouds, heavy with rain, rolled in on their heels. Satterthwaite thanked Rutledge, and said, "You're staying the night?"

"I want to take the cane to London as quickly as I can. I'll see that you know what we found out."

"You think the answer is in London then? One of those brothers."

"I don't know," Rutledge told him. "But you and I have run out of suspects here. Let me try in London."

Satterthwaite grinned. "You'll drown before you get there." And he made a fast dash for the door of the station just as the first heavy drops of rain became a raging downpour.

Backed with wind, it was a cold rain for June. And it followed Rutledge nearly as far as Chester. He ran out of it there and considered staying the night another fifty miles down the road. But his mind was busy with new directions, and he was in a hurry to test them.