and was looking after them. “And who might they be, when they’re at home?”

“Edwin Teller and his wife, from London. He considers himself the head of the Essex branch of the family. He felt it was his duty to be here, to represent the family that we haven’t found. His brother is Captain Peter Teller.”

“Kind of him,” Satterthwaite said shortly. “Where’s his brother, then?”

“Does he resemble Peter Teller, do you think?”

Satterthwaite considered the question. “In a vague way. Hard to judge with yon beard. Remember, I’ve not seen the man for years. I don’t know how the war changed him.” After a moment, he said, “Does the wife know about Florence?”

“Amy? Yes. She must.” Rutledge, looking back to his first meeting with her, nodded. “But it’s Peter’s wife who has taken the news the hardest.”

St. Bartholomew’s bell, rather more tinny than deep throated, had begun tolling the age of the departed.

Satterthwaite nodded. “It’s time.”

They walked down the High Street, turning up Church Lane at the war memorial. Rutledge saw Cobb pausing there for his morning greeting to his sons, then move on, his cane supporting him over the uneven ruts of the lane.

Watching him, Rutledge said thoughtfully, “Edwin Teller’s brother was badly wounded in the war. He’s in need of a cane as well. But he doesn’t always have it to hand.”

“I’m told Mr. Cobb sleeps with his on the bed, on his wife’s side.”

“You’ve looked into his nephew Lawrence? Anything more on that front, since I left?”

“I’ve kept my eye on him. But there’s nothing there.”

“I saw him wielding a hammer in anger.”

“We’ll see, shall we, if there’s any guilt shown today.”

“Fair enough.”

People from the village were also walking up the lane, and among them Rutledge saw the Tellers in mourning black that was stylishly cut and out of place here among the rusty black of ordinary clothes that hung unused from Monday to Saturday.

St. Bart’s was as plain inside as it was on the outside. Built for sturdiness, built to last, built to worship and not adore. Rutledge had the fleeting thought that Cromwell would have approved. But the people of Hobson had probably not approved of Cromwell or King Charles. Their independence came from the land they farmed, not from London, and it was a hard life, short as well.

The service was brief and as plain as the surroundings in which it was held. The curate spoke simply about our dear departed sister, listing the major events of her life and commenting only once about her death, as an undeserved tragedy. He read several Psalms, and the choir led the mourners in three hymns, including “Rock of Ages.”

And then they moved to the churchyard, watching the plain coffin being lowered into the ground. Next to the open grave was the small patch of grass, slightly lower than its surroundings, that marked her son’s resting place. A rosebush bloomed where a stone should have been, the small pink blossoms reminding Rutledge of one very much like it he’d seen in Florence Teller’s garden.

Beyond Timmy’s grave was a third, the sod flat and untouched.

No one stepped forward at first to throw in the first handful of earth until the constable came up, did his duty, and said under his breath, “I hope you’ve found peace, now.”

Edwin walked up, stared for a moment into the grave, as if he were praying, and then took a firm handful of earth and scattered it gently. It dropped like the first sounds of a heavy rain on the roof as it struck the wooden coffin. Amy Teller followed him, and others came up as well, among them Mrs. Greeley and then Sam Jordan. Lawrence Cobb, watched by his uncle, paused for a moment looking up at the cloudless sky, then gently dropped a yellow rose into the grave. It landed at the broadest part of the coffin, and he nodded, as if that was what he’d intended. Without a word, he walked on, ignoring the red-haired woman just behind him. Rutledge could see her resemblance to Mrs. Blaine, but Betsy was slimmer, prettier. Her mouth was drawn tight now, and he noticed that she didn’t look into the grave or reach for a handful of earth. Instead her eyes were fixed on her husband.

Hamish said, “He’ll no’ spend a restful night.”

Rutledge was the last of the mourners to step forward. Mr. Kerr gave the benediction, and then Florence Marshall Teller was left to the attentions of the gravediggers and the sexton.

Rutledge stood there