“You aren’t paid to think,” Hildebrand said, unconsciously quoting Old Bowels. “You’re paid to find murderers. Stay out of my way until this is finished, I’m warning you!” He strode off, marching purposefully toward the car waiting for him at Truit’s house. Watching him go, Rutledge swore.

Hildebrand had hardly passed from view, on his way back to Singleton Magna, when the Napier car came down the same road, making for the inn. Rutledge assumed it was Benson, going to fetch Elizabeth Napier, then realized that there was a man seated beside him.

The car pulled up in front of the inn and Rutledge saw Benson pointing in his direction. Benson’s passenger nodded and got down, walking toward Rutledge. The distinguished face, the trim beard, the broad shoulders told him at once that this was Thomas Napier.

Napier said, as soon as he was within hearing, “Inspector Rutledge?’

“That’s right.” Rutledge had been in his car on the point of leaving, but killed the engine and got down to take the hand Napier held out to him.

“Thomas Napier, from London. Is there any place where we can speak privately?” he asked, looking around. “That bench over there by the pond, I think?” he went on, unconsciously choosing the place where Rutledge had questioned his daughter. The ducks had gone, leaving the surface of the pond like a mirror, reflecting the sky.

They walked in silence in that direction, and Rutledge let the older man choose his own time, his own words. But curiosity was rampant, and the tension in the other man had stirred Hamish into questing life.

“I don’t trust that fool Hildebrand,” Napier began. “Miss Tarlton’s solicitor called me today. He said that one of Hildebrand’s people had come to ask about Margaret’s will. There’s a clause in it that could cause a good deal of trouble for a good many innocent people. Margaret’s memory as well. I’ve spoken to Superintendant Bowles, and I’m not overly impressed by him either.”

They had reached the bench, and Napier sat down, scanning Rutledge from head to foot. “You look like the sensible sort. In the war, were you?”

“Yes,” Rutledge answered, obeying Napier’s gesture and taking the other end of the bench. “I was.” The words were more curt than he’d meant.