He broke off as the fresh pot of tea and a dish of biscuits was set before them. When the woman had gone away again, Rutledge said, “I appreciate your sense of duty. I shall look into the matter. I can’t promise anything, but I will respect your confidence as far as I’m able.”

Kenton appeared to be relieved. That was clearly what he had come to ask.

“Theo was a good man,” Kenton went on. “I don’t know how we’re to replace him. Steady, dependable. Amazingly gifted when it comes to working with wood. Well liked by the others in the firm. Such a loss. I’ve been asked to say a few words at his funeral.”

He paused, stirring his tea, as if it were the most important task of the day.

Rutledge said, watching his face, “I don’t think that’s what you’ve come here to tell me.”

Kenton met his gaze. “No. No, it isn’t. I don’t know where to begin, I suppose.”

“What had Hartle done that could be of interest to the police?”

He turned to the window, ignoring the question. “My mother had a companion for many years. She had an arthritic condition and was a regular visitor to the spas of Europe, looking for a cure for the pain if not the disease. When she fell ill at Würzburg, a young woman named Hilda Lentz nursed her back to health. When my mother recovered, she asked Hilda to come back to England with her. The idea of travel must have appealed to her, because she agreed. But instead of returning to Germany, she married the son of one of our friends, a man named Peter Hopkins, and they had three children. She continued to work with my mother until her death. And Hilda died of appendicitis a year or so later. She’d lost a child, a daughter, in childbirth, but her sons were treated more or less as members of our family. Carl Hopkins in fact came to work for me, because he has a way with machinery that’s invaluable.”

“What does he have to do with Theo Hartle?”