That hardly sounded like a murderer. And yet—and yet the man had been out very late. Alone.

Hamish said drily, “This willna’ sit well with Mrs. Farrell-Smith.”

When Rutledge awoke in the morning, the sun was well up. As he’d crested the ridge coming out of Hastings, he had seen the first hint of dawn struggling for a foothold among the clouds scudding east. The sun, apparently, had finally won, although there was no strength to it, as if it held on by a thread.

He ate a hasty breakfast and drove first to the home of Jimmy Roper. It was early for a social call, but not for the police to knock at the farmhouse door.

The housekeeper opened it a crack and peered out. “If you’re wishing to see Mr. Roper, he’s not himself this morning. Call again, if you will, later in the day.”

“Scotland Yard. It’s important that I speak to him.”

Grudgingly, she opened the door to allow him to come inside. The passage was furnished simply, one narrow table with cut flowers in a black glass vase, a portrait above them, and across the way, by the stairs, another portrait facing it.

Looking at that one, a man and a woman in wedding clothes, he thought this must be the elder Roper himself and his wife. Young and happy and unaware of what the future might bring.

The housekeeper led Rutledge to a small parlor, opening the door to usher him in. It faced west, and on this dreary morning was still filled with shadows.

Rutledge thought he was expected to wait here, but as he turned he saw that Roper was seated in a chair by the window, a rug across his knees, his head tilted at an angle that indicated he was dozing.

“Mr. Roper?” the woman said, crossing the room to nudge him gently. “There’s an inspector from Scotland Yard to see you.”

The man lifted his head and looked up at the woman bending over him. “What did you say, Sadie?” The words were slurred.

“Scotland Yard to see you.”

“I thought the bastard was dead,” he replied in clearer tones.

“As far as I know, he’s still alive,” Rutledge answered, coming forward so that Roper could see him in what light there was. “I spoke to you in the village, shortly after your son was killed.”

Roper turned to stare at him. “So you did. What brings you here?”

“I’d like to talk to you about your son. Do you feel like answering a few questions?”

“My son is dead,” he said flatly. “What’s the use of talking about him? It won’t bring him back, will it?”

“It won’t,” Rutledge agreed. “But in remembering, you may find a little solace.”