had married in 1903.”

And still she sat stubbornly silent. But Rutledge could see tears bright in her eyes, tears of anger, frustration, and helplessness.

“How long have you known? At a guess, not very long. Was it during Walter’s illness? Did something happen then?”

He waited, giving her a chance.

Finally he said, “Peter Teller died trying to preserve that lie. When you got to him, he said, ‘It was me.’ And instead, so that it wouldn’t arouse any suspicion, you told everyone that he had spoken your name.”

He thought for a moment she would fling open the motorcar’s door and run down the drive in the rain to get away from him.

“And Leticia, you and your husband, along with Mary, tried to pry the truth from Walter on Sunday after I’d gone north. Did Jenny overhear you? Is that why she took an overdose of laudanum?”

She broke down then, her face in her hands.

It had mostly been conjecture on his part, putting together what he knew with what he suspected, and holding the two together with a tissue of guessing.

He added as he prepared to let in the clutch and start down the drive, “Peter didn’t kill Florence Teller—but I tell you again it’s possible Walter thought he had, and killed him. That’s why I need to know how he felt about Florence Teller, and if he would avenge her when the chance presented itself.” He handed Amy Teller his handkerchief, adding, “I think you can see my dilemma. Inspector Jessup is already suspicious. If I walk away, and don’t do my duty, someone else will. And it will be worse. I’ll do my best to protect Harry. But I will need help.”

Chapter 30

Amy was out of the motorcar almost before Rutledge had come to a stop. He watched her dash through the rain into the house as the constable opened the door for her.

He sat where he was, feeling distaste for what he had just done. But Amy Teller was the only one he thought might eventually tell him the whole truth.

“Ye may be wrong,” Hamish warned him.

The study door was shut, and Rutledge opened it, expecting to find most of the family gathered there. But Walter Teller was sitting alone.

“If you’re looking for the others, they’re in the drawing room. I don’t know whether they’re leaving me alone to grieve or if they can’t bear my company.”

His voice was dispassionate, as if he had shut off his own feelings.

Rutledge said, “They’re still trying to come to terms with your brother’s death. And now this—”

He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Teller said, “Tell them I’m not seeing anyone.”

But it was the rector, Mr. Stedley, who stuck his head around the door. “Walter? They told me you were in here.” He was tall and robust, with a deep voice. “I thought I should come. Mary is with Harry. There’s nothing I can do in that quarter at the moment.”

Walter, rising, said, “Ah, Stedley. Thank you for your care of Harry. It’s very kind of you and Mrs. Stedley to take him in. It’s been very difficult for all of us. And it will be hardest for him.”

“The question is, what can I do for you? Would you like me to go to Jenny and say a prayer?”

“I—yes, if you would. I’m sure she would have wanted that. She’s in the room where Harry was born.”

As the rector went up the stairs, Walter said, “It’s beginning. The flood of mourners. And each time I speak to them, her death becomes a little more real.”

“You must have seen death many times in your work abroad.”

Walter laughed without humor. “My first posting, I buried twelve people on my first day. A cholera epidemic. It was only the beginning. I should be accustomed to death. And then the war. I lost count of the number of men who died in my arms inside and outside the medical tents. Sometimes kneeling in the mud, sometimes watching shells scream over my head. Sometimes by a cot with bloody sheets, or in an ambulance, before the stretcher could even be lifted out. I was quite good at giving a dying man the comfort necessary to make the end easier. And all the while, I knew I was lying to them and to myself. I will say one thing for the King James version of the Bible, the words are sonorous and speak for themselves. All I had to do was remember my lines.”

Rutledge thought about the curate