He came up the sweep of the drive as the sun broke out of clouds and bathed the house in golden light, turning the windows to burnished copper, the stone to warm peach. It was remarkably beautiful. He pulled up to the steps and then walked a little way from them to look up at the house. This was what made David Trevor love the sticks and stones of building. The angles and shapes, the use of light and shadow, the grace and elegance of line.

We have come a long way from stone hovels and mud huts, he thought. In skill and in knowledge. But we still kill. . . .

He went up the steps and rang the bell.

The butler came to answer it and with perfect poise informed him that Lady Maude was not at home today.

Rutledge would have wagered a year’s pay that it was a lie.

But he accepted dismissal without demur.

Lady Maude did not wish to see him.

Was she afraid that he had brought her news she couldn’t accept? He had a feeling that the quarrel with Eleanor had wounded the mother as well as the daughter who walked away. Love could be terribly hurtful.

HE PULLED INTO Duncarrick in the early hours of evening and parked the motorcar in its usual place. After lifting his luggage out of the boot, Rutledge walked toward the front of the hotel, his mind still on Eleanor Gray.

He ran into Ann Tait as he turned the corner and begged her pardon.

Recognizing the Inspector, she said, “Where have you been, then?”

Setting down his cases, he answered, “I’ve been in Durham. Where are you going?”

She lifted the hatbox in her hand, its flamboyant ribbon catching the light from the windows. “A delivery. There’s to be a christening tomorrow.”

He said, “You weren’t here in Duncarrick, were you, when those women were murdered out on the western road? In 1912, I think it was?”

“Good heavens, Inspector! What women?” She looked alarmed.

“It doesn’t matter. I’d been thinking that Duncarrick was a quiet backwater, and someone corrected me, saying that there had been several murders here before the war.”

“That’s a fine thing to tell me, walking down these streets in the dark!” She was angry with him, her face flushed.

“It was an old crime, and you have nothing to fear. If you like, I’ll just set these in the hotel lobby and walk with you.”

She wasn’t mollified. “And ruin my reputation for good? They’ll be whispering behind their hands tomorrow. And I can’t afford it!”

He said contritely, “I’m sorry. I thought the murders were common knowledge. I’ll walk down the other side of the street and keep an eye on you.”