She pointed to the markers at her feet. He saw he’d been right: here lay her brother’s wife and child. “I was just asking Rector if there was room here beside Mary. He says there is. I don’t know quite what sort of service to have.” She frowned. “My husband feels it ought to be brief, without much ceremony. But Theo didn’t kill himself, did he? It doesn’t seem right.”

“A proper one,” Rutledge answered her without reservations. “The fact that his life ended abruptly makes no difference. The service should be the same as he’d have been given as an old man, with all honor due him.”

She smiled, tears filling her eyes. “Yes. Thank you. That would be fitting.” She turned to the rector. “There we are, then. I’ll think of what hymns he’d have liked, and any favorite scriptures.” She bit her lip.

Rutledge knew what was on her mind.

“Your brother’s body,” he said gently, “will be released very soon.”

She nodded, unable to trust her voice. The rector took her arm and walked with her a little way until they were out of the churchyard and standing in the drive up to the rectory.

Rutledge gave them a chance to finish their private discussion, but as the rector turned and nodded to him, he caught them up.

“Now,” Mrs. Winslow asked brightly, as if to affirm that she was in control of her feelings again, “you wanted to speak to me?”

He thanked the rector, and then said to her, “There’s a tearoom next to the bakery, I believe. Would you like a cup?”

She hesitated. “Yes, I would,” she admitted frankly, “but there’s my husband. I ought to see if he’s all right.”

“He will manage very well,” Rutledge told her, and gestured toward the road. She went with him, the two of them walking in silence until they were halfway to the tea shop.

“I wonder,” Rutledge began, “how well Theo Hartle knew Daniel Pierce?”