The butler, noting his crisp collar and the set of his suit across his shoulders, said, “I’ll ask if Mrs. Atwood is at home this afternoon.”

He led Rutledge to a coldly formal room and left him there for nearly seven minutes. The walls, sheathed in blue silk, shimmered in the light from the long windows, and the French chairs that set off the white marble of the mantel were arranged for elegance, not comfortable conversation. There was no carpet on the floor, and on closer inspection, the walls as well as the fabric covering the chairs were worn. But over the mantel was a wonderful painting of the view he’d seen coming up the drive. It was a younger time, the trees were not yet mature, there were sheep grazing the smooth lawns, and the house did not have the patina of age, but the serenity was there, unchanged.

The butler returned and conducted him down the passage to a sitting room that also showed wear. Well-worn chintz, a faded carpet on which an elderly spaniel slept noisily, and an air of comfortable, genteel shabbiness told him that the house had suffered much use during the war and had not yet reclaimed its former elegance. But the windows faced the pond and the stream, framing the view and bringing in the soft light of afternoon. It was peaceful.

Mrs. Atwood was standing by the empty hearth as he came in. A pale woman in every sense, slim and willowy in pastel green, pale of hair and eyes and skin, as if all the color had been washed away in the long, careful years of family breeding.

He discovered very quickly that the character had not been washed away.

She said with graciousness that was backed by steel, “I have spoken to—um—a Sergeant Gibson. There is nothing more I wish to say to the police.”

“That’s quite possible,” he answered. “Sergeant Gibson was here as a duty. I have come as an emissary of Lady Maude Gray.”

Something unexpected stirred in the pale blue eyes. They were the color of faded lupines, hardly differentiated from the white surrounding them. “I have not heard from Lady Maude in some years.” Her voice was neutral, giving nothing away.

Hamish, silent until now in the shadows of Rutledge’s mind, said softly, “She doesna’ care for yon Lady Maude. . . . ”

Making a note of it, Rutledge answered, “It isn’t surprising. She quarreled with her daughter. I cannot say she regrets that quarrel, but she has come into information now that has disturbed her. It’s very possible that Eleanor Gray is dead. How and where she came to die we don’t know. I am doing what I can to find answers.”

Surprise flared in the long face. “Dead! But your sergeant—”

“—said nothing about that. Yes, I know. On my instructions.”

He let the silence fall and gave her time to digest his curt answer.