Jimson was working in the yard, mending the wheel on a barrow, his gnarled hands deftly shifting the shaft to bring the worn place within reach. He didn’t look up until Rutledge’s shadow fell across his shoulder and onto the dirtstained wood of the long handles.

“Lord, you know how to startle a man!” Jimson said, straightening up and dropping the shaft. “Now look what you’ve done,” he went on in an aggrieved voice, his face twisting to see Rutledge against the brightness of the sun.

“I need your help,” Rutledge said. “I can’t go to your master or your mistress, the police from Singleton Magna are coming soon with a search warrant. But I want to go through the house and the barn. Now. Before they get here. Will you walk with me?”

“What’re you looking for, then? What’s the police after?”

“A suitcase belonging to a dead woman. A pretty hat. A murder weapon.”

“Pshaw! There’s no pretty hat here. Nor suitcases I don’t know about. If it’s a murder weapon you want, take your pick.” He gestured to the array of tools lying in the dust at his feet. “Any one of those will kill a man.”

Hammer, a spanner, a pair of clamps, all of them—he was right—potential weapons.

But Rutledge shook his head. “No. Not these.”

“Then what?” Jimson demanded. “That stone? A length of wood?”

“I don’t know. All right, we’ll forget the weapon for the time being. The suitcase. We’ll search first for that.”

“What does it look like, then? Mrs. Wyatt, she has suitcases in the attic.”

“I don’t know, I tell you! If I did, I wouldn’t be here. Look, this is useless, Jimson! I need to walk through that house, I need to see for myself what’s in the barn. Hildebrand and Truit will be here in the morning—”

“Truit, is it?” Jimson demanded, incensed. “We’ll see about that. All right, then, the front door’s open, and I can see it from here. Touch anything that don’t need touching, and I’ll know it.”