She looked uncertain, but he handed her a few coins, and she pocketed them almost before her fingers had closed over them. “I’ll just be across the way, then,” and she gave the door a little shove to open it again.

Rutledge walked in. The room had been serviced, and there wasn’t much to see. It was well appointed, in a French Provincial style that was suited to a bridal suite. Long windows overlooked the street, and beyond that, the strand, and he remembered someone opening the curtains last evening. He walked over and looked out.

It was indeed a beautiful view, far out to sea. Sunlight glistened on the water, sparkling as the waves rolled inland, and the salt-tinged air blew the lacy curtains against his face.

Turning back to the room, he considered it. A wardrobe. A desk. Tables on each side of the bed, drawers below. One could hardly hide a garrote and a supply of identity discs here, and risk having a maid or one’s bride stumbling over them.

Crossing to the desk, he picked up the scrolled silver frame that stood there and looked at the man and woman standing by the white swans that guarded the terrace. They looked happy, carefree, holding hands and smiling for the camera.

He recognized the man at once. A high brow, strong straight nose, firm chin. He’d seen him before, only not as clearly as here in the photograph. The first time, he’d been standing at Reception, staring, when Rutledge had stepped out of the telephone closet. And he was the man Rutledge had followed to this room only last night—or early this morning to be more precise. Had he also been in the churchyard last evening? Hard to say. Yes, possibly.

Daniel Pierce looked nothing like his brother. A good face but not attractive, as Anthony had been even in death.

Hamish said, “The second son.”

Second in all things.

The woman beside him was fair and very pretty, dimpling into a smile that made her seem almost beautiful.

He recalled hearing his sister Frances saying something about all brides being beautiful, and here it was certainly true.

At her feet was a little dog, tongue out as he panted in the warmth of the summer’s day. Of indeterminate breed, fur overhung his dark eyes in a fringe that was almost frivolous, and he looked up adoringly at his mistress. Her dog, then.

Rutledge walked to the wardrobe and looked inside. There was a pair of suitcases, without monograms, her clothes and his, side by side, shoes below, hats on the shelf above.

Shutting the wardrobe doors, he saw the small dog basket next to this side of the bed, and in it, folded into a square, was a blanket hand-embroidered with the name Muffin.