like that. She wrote to Lieutenant Teller and he wrote to her. And that was the end of it.”

“Where did she send the letters to Lieutenant Teller? What regiment? Do you remember?”

“But they didn’t go to his regiment, sir. They were mailed to an address in Dorset. Lieutenant Teller had told her it was faster than waiting for the Army to send them on. Still and all, it was sometimes many months before a reply came.”

“Where in Dorset? Do you remember?” He tried not to sound eager.

She frowned. “A place called Sedley, I think it was. Peter Teller, in care of A. R.—no, I believe it was A. P. Repton, Mistletoe Cottage, Sedley, Dorset,” she finished triumphantly, and smiled at him. “I rather liked Mistletoe Cottege.”

Repton was the name of the village outside Witch Hazel Farm, where the Teller family had lived for generations. In Essex, not Dorset.

He thanked her and left.

So much for the theory of blackmail.

“Any luck, sir?” the constable asked when Rutledge came back to the motorcar and they drove on.

“Another dead end, most likely. At least there was no correspondence between Mrs. Teller and her husband’s family.”

Satterthwaite said, “Just there,” and pointed out the police station, which looked as if it had once been a shop itself, the front window overwhelming the door set to the side. Inspector Hadden was waiting for them with a scruffy-looking young man who was, Rutledge thought, an undergraduate student somewhere.

He was introduced as Benjamin Larkin, who stood to shake hands with Rutledge and the constable. His voice, when he spoke, was educated, and he said at once, “I was in a pub south of Morecambe when I heard there was a murder over by Hobson. A woman in an isolated farmhouse. So I got in touch with the police. It appears to be the same one I passed several days back. I was going to stop in and ask to refill my water bottle, but there was a motorcar on the far side of the hedge, and so I moved on.”

“A motorcar? Did you see anyone in it?” Hadden asked.

But Rutledge said, “Start at the beginning if you will.”

“It was mid-afternoon, I think. I was coming over the rise, taking in the view, and there was a house to my left. I saw a pump in the kitchen yard and I thought I might stop and refill my bottle. But no one was about, so I thought perhaps I’d come around the front and knock, rather than help myself. The view was rather nice, and I moved toward my right to see more of it, when I realized there was a road below the house, not just a lane. I didn’t remember that being on the rough map I had, so I stopped and dug in my gear for it, to be sure I wasn’t in the wrong place. I was walking and looking at the map when I saw a motorcar was stopped at the end of the high hedge surrounding the front garden. It seemed to me that the owner might have come up from Morecambe—it was that kind of motor, and it occurred to me that it would do no harm to ask for a lift. No one was around, so I sat down by a small shrub and ate the last of my biscuits, hoping he wouldn’t be long. I was just putting away my map when I could hear footsteps. And there he was, hurrying back to the motorcar. He was lame, finding it difficult to deal with the crank, but before I could collect my gear and hail him, the motor turned over, and he hobbled around to haul himself in. I didn’t like the look of the situation—he appeared to be angry or upset, not the time to ask favors. I just walked on, and thought no more about it, until I heard talk in the pub where I spent last night.”

“Did he see you?” Hadden asked.

“I have no idea. Probably not. I did notice that he glanced around, as if looking for something, but it all happened rather fast.”

“Where did he go from there?” Rutledge asked.

“He was driving east.”

“What can you tell me about the motorcar?”

“It was a black Rolls, well kept and quite clean. I hadn’t expected to see that out here.” He turned to Inspector Hadden, adding, “With no disrespect. But it was more the sort of vehicle you’d find in a city. It hadn’t been used to haul cabbages