her in the face and tell her it wasn’t true. The only time I’d ever written Florence Teller was when Timmy died, to tell her how sorry I was over his loss. I doubt she kept it.”

Into the brief silence, he said to Rutledge, “You haven’t asked me if I killed her. Only what I had to say for myself.”

“Did you kill Florence Teller?”

Beside him he could feel Satterthwaite stir and then be still again.

“I did not. If I hang, I will tell the hangman I never touched her.”

“Then who did? Teller?”

“He must have done.”

Rutledge turned away.

The constable holding the lamp said, “Will that be all, then?” He shifted it to his other hand, preparing to close and lock the cell’s door.

“No. Not yet.” Rutledge walked away, through the gloom of the station and out into the cool morning air.

Satterthwaite’s silent accusation, as if Rutledge had betrayed him, kept him from thinking, and the beaten spirit of Lawrence Cobb, feeling his own sense of betrayal, clouded the issues.

And what were they? A dead woman. A broken cane with blood on the knob. A missing box of letters. Those were the facts, irrefutable, and the evidence must encompass them or it was faulty.

It was also a fact that Teller—or someone—had driven away around the same time Florence Teller was murdered. And Larkin, a walker, was a witness to that. The cane was a witness as well to Peter Teller’s presence. If he’d been chary with information about his regiment while living here in Hobson, he’d never have left that at Sunrise Cottage in his absences. It hadn’t been there for the killer to find ready to hand, until Teller himself brought it.

Teller—or Cobb? Where did the truth lie?

He walked on up the street, shops still closed, the milk van making its rounds, the sound of clinking bottles off in the distance, a crow calling from the church tower down another street, and wheels somewhere clattering over cobbles. A dog trotted up behind him, sniffed in his direction, and trotted on, looking for company. A cat in a house window silently meowed at him as he passed.

Go back to the evidence.

Hamish said, “It hasna’ changed.”

And that was true. It hadn’t altered. Going back over it was fruitless.

Rutledge swore.

He needed a night’s sleep, to clear his mind. But there wasn’t one in the offing.

Hamish was right. The evidence was the same. What was new?

The cane’s head had been found. Peter Teller’s regimental crest on it showed that Peter had been in Hobson, at Sunrise Cottage, on the day of the murder.

But that was all it showed. It couldn’t speak and identify who had used it.

Cobb’s words came back to him: She found the body. If she’d seen the cane and realized that the head was gold, she’d have taken it. She’s like a magpie . . .

And Satterthwaite’s voice: Mrs. Blaine reached for the paperweight, and I had to push Cobb back to the only cell.

After that, his own: What else was in that box? The deed to the house?

Cobb again: She’ll offer to buy Florence’s land. See if she doesn’t.

He could hear Mrs. Blaine threatening to wring Jake’s neck, because he didn’t talk, he only made a terrible racket.

Hamish said, “Aye, it wasna’ the letters.”

Rutledge turned on his heel and walked briskly back to the police station. He found that Satterthwaite had brought chairs to the cell door, and he and Cobb were staring at each other like mastiffs circling each other looking for a weakness.

Rutledge said to the Thielwald constable, “Handcuff him. I want to take him with us.”

“Back to Hobson?” the constable said.

“Where?” Satterthwaite demanded.

“Just do it,” Rutledge told them. “I’ll be in the motorcar.”

And he walked away.

His mind was on Hamish. Cobb in front, Satterthwaite in the back. And then both of them could watch Cobb.

The two constables emerged from the station with Cobb between them.

“This is most irregular. Sir?” the constable was saying.

“It’s all right. He’ll be back within the hour. Front, Cobb. Sit just behind him, Satterthwaite.”

They did as they were told. One look at Rutledge’s face, and none of them was willing to risk argument.

They drove in silence out of Thielwald to the road for Hobson, and then took the turning for Sunrise Cottage.

“We’re going back to the house?” Satterthwaite asked.

Rutledge didn’t answer, his mind on what was to come.

When he drove past the cottage and turned into the rutted lane to the Blaine farm, Satterthwaite said, “Here, you can’t call on her at this hour!”

“She