had changed, he could see only what he had before. With the eyes of the past, not the present.

He considered what to do about Cobb coming to tend the flowers, and decided he was doing no harm. And it gave him something to think about besides taking the head off whoever had killed Florence Teller.

Without speaking to Cobb again, he left the house and drove back to Hobson.

Rutledge and Satterthwaite ate their dinner together at a pub in Thielwald. The food was heavy, suitable for men who did physical labor, filling and satisfying. As Satterthwaite promised, the pudding was excellent, and as they were finishing it, he said to Rutledge, “You’re quiet.”

“I was thinking about a birthday celebration. Tonight in Essex.”

“Did you want to be there?”

“I wasn’t invited. I just have a feeling that I shouldn’t have stayed over. I should have gone directly back to London.”

“One day won’t matter.”

Chapter 24

Rutledge was putting his valise and a packet of sandwiches prepared by Mrs. Greeley into his motorcar, when Lawrence Cobb came down the High Street and nodded as he walked up to Mrs. Greeley’s door.

It was then that Rutledge saw the left side of his face. There was an angry welt along his cheekbone. It was oozing a thin line of fluid and blood.

Shutting the driver’s door, Rutledge said swiftly, “What’s happened?”

“Nothing. I’m leaving Betsy. I told her as much last night. That this marriage is a pretense and we’re both better off out of it. I came to see if Mrs. Greeley will give me a room for a few days, just until I can make arrangements.”

“Why not stay with your uncle?”

“He’s old. I don’t want him caught up in my troubles.”

Rutledge said, “Work it out. Florence Teller is dead.”

“Look, I’m tired. Working in Florence’s—Mrs. Teller’s garden yesterday I could see my way for the first time. I’m still mourning her. I will be for a very long while. It’s not fair to Betsy, it’s not fair to me, pretending I have deep feelings for her. We’ve no children. That’s a blessing. And so I’ve told her. I also told her that she could have the farm. I won’t send her back to her mother. They don’t get on.” He smiled grimly. “I should have waited until she’d set down the hot bread tray. The corner of it clipped me. She’s gone home to her mother. But she’ll be back. She likes the house. It will matter more than I do before very long.”

He’d thought it all out, just as he said.

But Rutledge persisted. “You’re doing to Betsy what Teller did to his wife.”

“No. I married a Betsy who didn’t exist. The true woman is nothing like the one I courted. She’s not sweet and loving and caring. She’s like her mother, mean-spirited, discontented, selfish. The day after I married her, I knew it was a mistake. This has nothing to do with Florence. I was expecting to be happy. I really believed we could be happy.” He shook his head. “You can’t make love happen when there are lies to start with.”

Hamish said, “It willna’ do any guid. He’s made up his mind.”

Rutledge silently acknowledged that. “I’m just leaving. Mrs. Greeley will be glad to offer you my room, I’m sure.”

Cobb looked sharply at Rutledge. “You aren’t coming back. What about her killer?”

“I’m going to take the killer into custody. I won’t be needing the room again.”

Cobb thanked him and was about to turn away. Then he said, “What becomes of Jake? When you’ve made your arrest? I’m offering to take him. I can now. He sometimes speaks with her voice. It would be a comfort.”

“Even when that voice says good night to her husband?”

“That doesn’t matter to me. It’s her voice. Close enough. I’ll hear it again.”

“I’ll see what can be done,” Rutledge promised, thinking that Frances would be delighted to hear that Jake had a permanent home.

And with that, Lawrence Cobb opened the door to Mrs. Greeley’s house as Rutledge turned the bonnet of his motorcar toward the south.

Chapter 25

On his way into London, Rutledge made a detour to Chelsea, but the Channing house was quiet, the drapes still pulled across the windows, as they had been for days. The long golden rays of the setting sun touched them with brightness, but it was only a shallow reflection, not the lamplight he had hoped to see. He couldn’t bring himself to walk up to the door.

She was in good hands, wherever she was. He could only