Hamish said, “The sun could ha’ lightened his hair.”

That was true. But was it Pierce?

Or had he caught a glimpse of the murderer, who would have every reason by now to know what the man from London looked like.

Better to let it go. Rutledge said, “I was probably mistaken.”

“Or wishful thinking,” Walker replied with a grin. Then it vanished as he added, “Despite what his father says, I don’t know of any reason for Daniel to be living in Hastings, within a stone’s throw, you might say, and not keeping in touch with his family. If you want my opinion, for what it’s worth, Daniel Pierce is living in London, where he’s his own man. It’s what I’d do, in his shoes.”

Rutledge was sorely tempted to ask Tyrell Pierce if he kept a photograph of his sons at the brewery, but better judgment prevailed. It was not yet the time to let the man at The White Swans—if he was indeed Daniel Pierce—know that he’d been identified.

On the other hand, there was a question he wished to put to Theo Hartle’s sister.

He went to the Winslow house and knocked at the door. He was almost certain someone was inside, and he waited. Eventually, Winslow himself opened the door, his face sour.

“I’m not up to visitors today,” he said plaintively. “You must come back another time.”

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you. It was your wife I wished to see.”

That brought a grunt from the man in the chair. “She’s not here.”

Rutledge thanked him and left.

As he walked back to the Hastings Road, which formed the main street of Eastfield, he asked himself where Mrs. Winslow could be found at this hour of the day. The greengrocer’s, the butcher’s, the bakery?

He stepped into each shop, but didn’t see her. Not doing her marketing, then. He paused outside the police station and thought about it.

Her brother was dead. The rectory. He turned and walked toward the churchyard.

Hamish said, “Aye, she wouldna’ wish to have her husband with her.”

And Rutledge saw that she was indeed standing in the churchyard, pointing to a space next to two stones. Hartle’s wife and child?

The rector and Mrs. Winslow looked up as he approached across the freshly mown grass of the churchyard.

“Not more bad news?” the rector asked anxiously.

“No. I’ve come for a word with Mrs. Winslow, when she’s finished her business here.”