The innkeeper made a wry face. “Not so’s you’d notice,” he said reluctantly. He put down his beer and looked out at the garden. “People are queer, you know that? Simon Wyatt’s grandfather, now, the one on his mother’s side of the family, he lost his wife early on. Nothing seemed to count with him after that, he couldn’t settle to farming or anything else. Then one fine day he went off to see the world. Sent home boxes of whatever struck his fancy—dead birds and strange-looking statues and other knick-knacks he picked up along the way. He was set on making a museum, though who’d come to look at such oddities, I ask you?”

“Not every man’s taste,” Rutledge agreed. “In London? That might make a difference.”

“No, here in Charlbury,” the innkeeper said. In the back toward the kitchen a man’s voice called, “Mr. Denton?”

He answered over his shoulder. “Aye, I’m coming, man!”

“Shall I carry down the next keg, then?”

“Put it with the others, Sam. I’ll sort it out later.” He smiled ruefully at Rutledge. “Anything else, sir? The dray brought my beer this morning. If I don’t watch, Sam’ll be drunk as a lord on whatever he can find that’s open. Old fool! But help’s hard to find. If there’s no work on the farms, the younger ones are off for London or wherever they can find a job. If he wasn’t so good with the horses, I’d have been shut of him years ago.”

Rutledge drained his glass and thanked Denton, then made his way out into the sunlight again. Sitting on a bench outside the door was the man he’d seen earlier. He was pale, his face beaded with sweat.

“Are you all right?” Rutledge asked. “I saw what happened.”

“Bloody brat! His mother can’t do anything with him. Needs a man’s firm hand. Preferably applied to the seat of his pants!” He cleared his throat and said, “I’m all right. As right as I’ll ever be.”

Something in the timbre of his voice made Rutledge turn to look at him. “Canadian, by any chance?”

“I lived there for a time. Alberta. Damned beautiful part of the country! Ever been there?”

“Never had the chance,” Rutledge answered. “I met a number of Canadians in the war.”

The man held out his hand and Rutledge took it. “My name’s Shaw. You aren’t a Dorset man.”

“Rutledge. I’m from London.”

“I hate the bloody place. Too crowded, too dirty, too old. A man can’t breathe there.”

“No,” Rutledge said, knowing what Shaw meant. “Do you have family here?” It was the opening he’d waited for, to bring up the subject of the Mowbrays.