sergeant, he left and drove to Essex.

It was very early. The storm over London hadn’t cleared the air here. The clouds were heavy, the rain dismal, and he had had no breakfast

Hamish said, “It willna’ improve your mood.”

He waited in a lay-by until eight o’clock, and then drove the short distance to Witch Hazel Farm. He found Edwin standing in the doorway, looking out at the weather.

“It doesn’t appear that this rain will stop,” Edwin called as Rutledge got out of the motorcar. “Good God, man, what happened to your face?”

“An altercation with a belligerent prisoner,” Rutledge said.

“Peter’s funeral is today. Did you know?”

“I spoke to Mrs. Teller yesterday in London. She told me.”

They walked indoors, and Edwin said, “What about Jenny? Can we go ahead there as well? I think it’s not in Walter’s best interests to go on brooding. We’ve hardly clapped eyes on him. He stays in his room. Leticia has been taking up his meals.”

“I see no reason not to release the body,” Rutledge said. “I’ve decided to agree with Inspector Jessup for now that these were accidents. I have found no evidence that they weren’t.”

“I don’t see how anyone would gain by their deaths. Financially or otherwise.”

Rutledge said, “It has nothing to do with money. What concerned me was the fact that your brother is no longer alive to deny he was married to Florence Marshall. And Jenny Teller is no longer alive to be hurt should the legitimacy of her marriage be questioned.”

“I don’t think—”

“No. I’m sure none of you did when first you embarked on this venture.”

Edwin said, “As I was about to say, I don’t think justice would be served by pursuing this.”

Rutledge entered the study to find the family collected there, save for Walter. They looked tired, dispirited, and isolated in their own thoughts.

Mary said, “The funeral is at two o’clock this afternoon. Did Edwin tell you?”

He thanked her, and asked after Harry.

“He’s bearing up well enough. The rector’s son gave him a puppy. I don’t know what Walter will say to that—he never cared for pets—but it has taken Harry’s mind off death.”

Rutledge was reminded of another small boy rewarded by a puppy from the litter in the barn.

Leticia said, “Did you speak to Susannah, Inspector? Is she coming?”

“I expect to see her,” he said.

She started out of the room. “I’ll see that her bed is made up.”

Rutledge had the feeling that his very presence dampened the conversation. He followed Leticia out into the passage. “I don’t believe she’ll stay here,” he told her.

“Well. Her choice, of course.”

He went to the nanny’s room that had been Jenny’s sanctuary and sat there until it was time to come down for the service. It was a quiet room, serene and seemingly distant from the tense atmosphere of the study, and from its windows, Rutledge could count the motorcars and carriages arriving for the funeral.

He made a point of attending. The church was larger by far than the one in Hobson. He watched the mourners gather and listened to a well-meant eulogy by Mr. Stedley, extolling the Captain’s bravery, his sense of duty to God and country, and his love for his family.

And then Peter Teller was buried in rain that pattered softly on the cluster of umbrellas struggling vainly to keep the mourners as dry as possible. But the earth that was to be sprinkled into the grave struck the coffin in muddy clumps, and he saw Susannah Teller wince at the sound.

She had held up remarkably well, greeting the guests with quiet dignity, her face nearly invisible behind the long silk veil of mourning, her feelings hidden as well. But he heard her voice tremble once or twice.

Afterward, the guests returned to Witch Hazel Farm for the funeral repast.

Mollie and her cohorts had done their best, and the family stood about in the drawing room and the dining room, making the right remarks and responding to questions that must have galled them.

Rutledge watched Susannah Teller, with Edwin at her side, as she greeted each guest and thanked them for coming.

When the last of the mourners had left, Edwin went straight to the drinks table in the study, pouring himself a whisky. He held it out to his wife, but Amy shook her head, asking for a sherry.

He brought her a glass, then turned to Rutledge.

“Nothing. Thanks.”

Edwin sat on the small settee and said, “God.” He looked tired and drained.

“It was a nice service,” Amy said. “Everything considered. A few gawkers, there