“It did sometimes,” she admitted. “He called them my spots, and told Mum to wash my face in buttermilk. And he tried it once, but they didn’t go away. ‘You’ve got spots,’ he’d say, and sometimes I’d cry. Mum said he was just being a boy. They went away when I was older, my freckles, I mean, and I was glad of it.”

Boys will be boys . . .

Where else had he heard that? Was it Constable Walker who had said it?

Rutledge stopped, turning to face her. “Did he tease anyone else? Or were you his favorite target, because you were his sister?”

“Oh, they were always teasing one another,” she said. “It could be cruel, sometimes, you know. But they didn’t mean it to be. It’s just that children see things that adults try to pretend don’t exist. Jimmy Roper’s ears stuck out when he was small, and they told him he looked like a jug. And Mary, Will’s sister, stuttered. They’d mimic her something fierce, which only made it worse. This was in the school yard, when the schoolmistress wasn’t in hearing. Or on the way home, sometimes. Miss Tate helped her overcome her stutter, but it must have been hard to do. And there was another boy, I forget his name. But they tormented him too, when no one was about. We never told. We didn’t dare, although I said to Theo more than once that it was unkind.” She shaded her eyes to look up into Rutledge’s face. “Boys don’t always think, do they? That words can hurt?”

“And the other boys—Jimmy Roper, Will Jeffers, even Anthony Pierce—went along with tormenting other children?”

“Anthony didn’t like it, but he was too afraid to speak up. He was a little younger, and not as big then as the other boys. Could we turn back now? I really shouldn’t have walked this far.”

They had reached the churchyard. Rutledge said as they reversed their direction, “You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Winslow. If you think of anything else, will you leave word for me at the police station?”

“Yes. I will.”

She walked back into her house and closed the door on the narrow world that encompassed her life now. He thought how pity, mistaken for love, could ruin lives. It was what he hadn’t wanted from Jean.

Which reminded him of Meredith Channing, but he shut his mind to that memory and went to find the constable.

Walker was glad to see him. “Speaking no ill of a man unable to speak for himself,” he said after greeting Rutledge and asking if he was taking over the inquiry, “but Inspector Mickelson was not pleasant to work with. I can’t think why the Yard would replace you.”

“Mrs. Farrell-Smith complained of my conduct. She also believes I tried to murder Inspector Mickelson.”