son was wrong, choosing professions for his sons. Peter was never right for the Army, and Edwin hated taking over the estate. He let Walter have the use of the house and spent his time in London. Walter protested, saying that his congregation in West Africa didn’t live so grandly. But Jenny loved it, and he gave in. Walter wasn’t suited to the church, he never had a true calling, if you ask me. I heard him say once that he’d seen such shocking things his very soul was scarred. A dreadful thing for a man of God to say, don’t you think? If Walter could have escaped from that life, I think he would have. But like his brothers, he was a dutiful son. I find that very sad. Of course Leticia never minded anyone. She went her own way from childhood. I never trusted her. I don’t know why. She had no smooth edges. Only sharp ones. I expect that’s why she’s never married. I’m rather tired now. Thank you for coming. We’ll visit again another day, I hope. It’s been very pleasant.”

And she walked out of the room with the maid and never looked back.

Chapter 20

An old woman on the verge of senility had told him more about the Teller family than she’d realized. Driving to his flat, Rutledge considered the small pieces of information she’d supplied.

That the family had connections to Dorset, though not in the Teller line. That there was no other member in the extended Teller family by the name of Peter. That her son—the father of three sons—had chosen their professions—and the school for his grandson as well.

These were echoes of what Rutledge had heard in Lancashire.

Florence’s husband had claimed his family was from Dorset. That his father had chosen his profession for him. He’d also claimed to be an only child—but that could have been the reason given for never taking his bride south to meet his family and never being visited in turn by anyone from Dorset.

Hamish said, “Captain Teller has a wife.”

“So he does. And he wasn’t always a captain. I’ll have a word with him in the morning.”

Undressing for bed, Rutledge stood by his window where a very faint breeze was stirring. The day had been hot, nearly breathlessly so.

Chief Superintendent Bowles was likely to have an apoplexy if he was presented with a possibility of bigamy in the Teller family.

It was nine o’clock when Rutledge reached Bolingbroke Street and knocked on the door of Peter Teller’s house.

The housemaid who had admitted him before took him this time to the study and left him to stare at the books lining the walls as hunting trophies stared back with glassy eyes. Even though it was a warm day, the doors into the garden were closed.

Peter Teller came in shortly afterward, and Rutledge noted that he was sober, although he looked very tired. And he was limping heavily, walking without crutches or cane. He regarded Rutledge with a mixture of surprise and apprehension but said only, “Don’t tell me my tiresome brother has gone missing again?”

“As far as I know, he’s in Essex and safe as houses. No, I’ve come to speak to you this time. About a murder in Lancashire.”

There was a sudden strain in Peter Teller’s face. “I don’t know why anything in Lancashire should concern me. Certainly not a murder.”

“The interesting thing is that the victim was married to a Peter Teller.”

Teller’s lips tightened. “I’m sure she was. But she was not married to me.”

“Are you aware of another Peter Teller in your family?”

“Are you aware of all the Rutledges in England who may or may not be related to you?” he countered.

“I have only to match the dates of your leaves with your namesake’s appearances in Hobson. It may take some time, but it can be done.”

“Then come back and talk to me when you’ve done that.”

Rutledge considered the man. Was it bluster, or was he speaking the truth? If he had to guess, it was a little of both. The question was, where did the truth end and the lies begin?

Hamish said in Rutledge’s ear, “And who in Lancashire will remember the exact dates?”

In truth, someone had removed the letters that might go a long way toward proving those dates.

Perhaps it wasn’t a matter of inheritance after all, but of a man’s handwriting.

But why kill Florence Teller now, when the secret had been kept safe all these years?

“Don’t stare at me like that,” Teller said irritably.