Rutledge could see that Mrs. Farrell-Smith had cleverly sown seeds of doubt about her husband’s state of mind. If it came to Pierce’s ears that the man had killed himself, he would understand why.

He abruptly changed the subject. “Have you met Daniel’s wife?”

“Wife? Where did you hear that Daniel had married?”

“He was in Hastings, with his bride and her little dog.”

The elder Pierce’s face flushed with anger. “It’s not true. I can tell you it’s not true.”

“Why shouldn’t he wish to marry? The war is over, he wouldn’t be the first man to look for an anchor in his life.”

“Because the woman he has been in love with since he was sixteen is already married,” Pierce answered, goaded. “And I was glad of that, damn it. She wasn’t suitable, and I told him so. I thank God on my knees every night that her husband is still alive. And I pray that he stays amongst the living until whatever passion it is that my son feels for her has burned itself out.”

“Who is she?”

“Mrs. Winslow.”

Rutledge sat there and digested what he had just been told.

“Does she return his feelings?”

“She did when she was sixteen. But I put a stop to that. And a good thing too, because just before the war she chose to marry Winslow. I’m sure she’s regretted it every day since then. Martyrdom is best enjoyed briefly.”

A vicious remark, but then Peggy Winslow had threatened this man’s view of how his sons would prosper as he had prospered, climbing the social ladder with their looks, their charm, and their money. He’d seen Mrs. Farrell-Smith as eminently suitable for Anthony. He didn’t seem to know she preferred the younger brother.

“Where is he now, your son?”

“I don’t know. But that’s why he left Eastfield again so soon after coming home from France. He couldn’t bear to be in the same village with Winslow. He was afraid he’d do him a harm. And if you pass that on to anyone, even Constable Walker, I’ll tell the world you lied.”

That, Hamish was pointing out, explained why Pierce had been distraught when village men began dying. He’d been terrified that their deaths, even his own son’s, had been random, to make Winslow’s death, when it happened, seem part of a pattern that had nothing to do with the man’s wife.

Rutledge said tightly, “It’s not my intention to gossip. Unfortunately, I can’t walk away from potential evidence, however odd or unimportant it appears to be.”

“Did you see Mrs. Winslow’s cat?” Pierce asked.

“Cat? No, I’m afraid not. Should I have done?”