Was it a polite social response, the “I’m quite well, thank you” that can mean anything from blatant good health to one foot in the grave? Because if Rutledge was any judge, Henry Daulton’s brain was permanently damaged. But then he was no judge of how far Daulton had come.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he responded with equal politeness, then added, “Did you see Miss Tarlton during her stay in Charlbury? In particular on the last day of her visit?”

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t—to speak to, I mean. As I was coming away from the Hamptons’, she was at the gate in front of this house, standing there as if waiting for someone. Later Henry told me she’d rung the bell at the rectory, searching for me to ask if I might drive her in to catch her train. But before he could fetch me from the garden, she called out that Mrs. Wyatt had come after all, and she would go with her.”

“What was she wearing? When you saw her at the gate here?”

“Oh—I remember thinking how wonderfully cool she looked, on such a warm day. A floral pattern, quite pretty. Mauve or pink or lavender, I’m not exactly sure. It was the overall effect I noticed, and the hat.”

“Hat?” He remembered that Mrs. Hindes had mentioned a fetching hat.…

“Yes, a straw, with an upswept brim on the left side. Many women can’t wear hats like that—I’m one of them! Aurore—Mrs. Wyatt—could, of course, and certainly Miss Tarlton does them justice. It’s the height, I’m sure.”

She herself was wearing a very conservative hat, in a medium shade of blue. It had an air of efficiency about it rather than style. She was a very efficient woman, Rutledge thought. In a courtroom she would make an unflappable witness, her words well ordered and to the point.

But if that indeed was Margaret Tarlton murdered in a field, where was her hat? Suitcases, hats, children …

“I’d like to ask your son if she was wearing her hat when she came to your door.”

“May I ask why all this interest in Miss Tarlton’s apparel?” She looked from Simon to Rutledge. “Is anything wrong?”

Besides being efficient, she was clearly no fool.

“Just a matter of routine. We’re interested in everyone who arrived in Singleton Magna on the train last week.”

“Ah, yes, that poor man who killed his family. I sometimes think the war has driven all of us into madness!”

Rutledge turned to Simon Wyatt. “You still haven’t answered my last question.”