Thank you for the surprising contents of your parcel. It had not occurred to any of us to look for a flint knife. We were told that the wound was oddly shaped, and so we developed a list of foreign knives—African, Southeast Asian, Middle Eastern—and the theory was that in his travels, Wheeler had lived in a port where such souvenirs were available to buy or steal. Portsmouth, Southampton, Dover, London, and so on. We had one promising lead, an Oxford don, retired to Dartmouth, whose home was broken into while he was abroad and several objects from his Near Eastern collection were stolen. Alas, when he returned and inventoried what was missing, a selection of Yemeni knives, they didn’t match the dimensions of the wound. Your flint knife is a far more likely candidate. What more can you discover about its origins? Meanwhile, I shall ask a friend who is interested in such topics if he can detect traces of human blood on your find. His home laboratory must surely be useful for something other than mystifying his wife, family, and friends.

I must say, this is encouraging. But I absolutely refuse to let my hopes be raised again, lest they be dashed as so many others have been.

I must have intrigued you with my account of this unsolved mystery. I should have warned you that it was bound to cause sleepless nights and overwork one’s imagination.

And it was signed simply Cummins.

Smiling, Rutledge returned the letter to its envelope and put it in his valise.

Now if he could only have equal success in solving his own mystery.

Mr. Kenton, who owned the furniture works where Theo Hartle had been employed, came into the dining room of the hotel as Rutledge was finishing his luncheon.

He was a tall, stooped man with graying hair and spectacles. He stood in the doorway, looking around, and as the woman who served meals approached him, he asked her a question.

Rutledge looked up from his plate of cheeses just as she was pointing to him.

The man came over, introduced himself, and asked if he could join Rutledge for a few minutes, or if Rutledge would prefer to meet him in the hotel lobby after his meal.

“Yes, of course, sit down,” Rutledge answered, and signaled the woman to ask for a fresh pot of tea.

Kenton thanked him and said, “This business with Theo has been heavy on my mind. I come here reluctantly, you understand, because what I’m about to tell you is something I refuse to believe. Still, I’m no policeman, and if there is any possibility that I am right, then I have a duty to those who have died to talk to you.”