herself with children. But they weren’t hers, were they? They went home every day to their own families. It was on the first holiday she’d taken from teaching that she met Peter Teller and fell in love. I don’t believe she had high expectations of it turning into something more. Not from the start, knowing he was in the Army.”

“Did you meet Teller, talk to him?”

“I’d see him on occasion on the High Street. He didn’t frequent the pub and he wasn’t gregarious. But I found myself thinking sometimes that he was a tormented man. I don’t know precisely why—he was a cheerful sort in a brief conversation about the weather, where he’d be serving next, or what plans he might have for his son’s education. Alas, Timmy died young. It was a devastating blow to both parents. As you’d expect. No one should have to endure such tragedy.”

Hamish said, “He speaks for himsel’.”

“Was Teller eager to see his son follow him into the Army?”

“Not at all. In fact, he told me once that the only bright spot in the coming war was that Timmy would never have to go off and fight. A war to end all wars, they claimed. But it will be forgotten in a generation, and there will be another.”

And then Cobb hesitated. “Perhaps I should tell you. My nephew, Lawrence Cobb, worked on Mrs. Teller’s farm when she needed help. He was glad to do it. I think he’d have married her if word had come that Teller had been killed. But of course he was missing, and that’s very different.”

“Was she in love with your nephew?”

“No. Loneliness might have, in the end, brought them together. But it was not to be. Lawrence married Mrs. Blaine’s daughter instead. Only last year.”

“I’d like to speak to Lawrence,” Rutledge said. “If you’ll give me your nephew’s direction?”

Cobb did, after a moment’s hesitation.

Hamish said, “He’s no’ pleased now. He wishes he hadna’ telt ye about his nephew.”

Rutledge thanked him, and Cobb nodded, then walked on without looking back, leaning heavily on his cane.

Rutledge drove out of Hobson to the northwest, and after two false starts he found the farm where Lawrence Cobb lived.

A man was in the barn, working on a steam tractor. Rutledge could hear the clang of a hammer on metal. He walked back there, and as he came through the door, the man yelled, “Damn!” and began to suck his thumb where the hammer had struck a glancing blow.

“Lawrence Cobb?” Rutledge asked, and identified himself when the man nodded. “I’ve come from Hobson. Your uncle suggested I might speak to you about Florence Teller.”

Suddenly wary, Cobb set down his hammer, glanced briefly at his bruised thumb, and then said, “You’re here about her death. Well, I had nothing to do with it, but if I ever lay hands on the bastard who did it, I’ll finish with him before the police can touch him.”

“Do you still care that much for Florence Teller?”

Cobb shot a look toward the house. “What if I do? She was married, I couldn’t speak to her. It came to nothing. She guessed what I was feeling, and we decided it was best that I move on. I did. My wife and I are happy.”

But Rutledge thought it was not true. Content, perhaps, but at least on Cobb’s part, not happy.

“Do you know who might have wanted to kill her?”

“No one in Hobson. I’d have torn out their throats if anyone touched her. I think if it hadn’t been for Timmy, she might have turned to me when Teller went missing. But she loved her son, and she loved his father. Never mind how he treated her.”

“What do you mean, treated her?”

“If I’d had a wife like that, I wouldn’t have stayed away so many years at a time. I’d have written more often. He sent gifts, but it wasn’t the same as being there. After Timmy died, she needed him more than ever. But I think coming here hurt too much, and his visits got fewer and farther between. Or so it seemed to me.”

“There were letters?”

“She kept them in a little rosewood chest on the table beside her favorite chair. When I was working there and came in for a cup of tea or mug of water, I sometimes saw her putting one away, as if she’d just read it again. Her lifeline, she called that chest.”

But there had been no such chest by the chair nor anywhere else in