He smiled. “I don’t know much about women’s clothes, Inspector. It was summery, like flowers. I do remember her straw hat, though. I didn’t much like it. Her hair was pretty enough without it.” His eyes were clear, untroubled.

“And after that?”

“She went away. I think she was quite angry.”

“Do you know why?”

“She said something about a train. She was afraid she might miss it.”

Mrs. Daulton was gazing at her son with rapt attention, hanging on his words as if he were delivering the profoundest of answers, making her enormously proud of him. Rutledge found himself thinking, This man’s tragedy isn’t his, he doesn’t know what he’s lost. It’s his mother’s. His wounds are the death knell to any ambitions for him, and she can’t accept it. She’ll push her son as long as she can. She’s another civilian casualty, like Marcus Johnston.…

She turned back to him. “Inspector, if you should want to speak with me at any time, leave a message at the rectory. I always check the little basket by the door.” With a nod, she walked on. Henry followed.

Hamish said, “She’s a strong woman. I think it did na’ come naturally to her. It’s there in her eyes. Long years of pain. Did you take note of it?”

“Yes, I saw it.” But Rutledge’s eyes were on the Wyatt house. He could just pick out the shape of someone in an upstairs room, looking out. He would have sworn it was Aurore.

When Rutledge stepped through the garden gate, he could hear voices from the museum, Simon’s deeper tones, and then, as counterpoint, Elizabeth Napier’s lighter responses.

He turned that way but glanced up at the window on the first floor. Yes. Aurore was standing there looking out, her face still, her body like a statue in its unyielding stance. And yet behind the stillness was not rigidity, nor was it tranquility. There was only an air of waiting.…

He knocked at the door of the museum, although it was open to the muggy air. Surely not, Rutledge told himself, very good for the hide puppets or the small, fragile wings of butterflies.

“Come in!” Simon called impatiently.

Rutledge stepped inside and found Wyatt with his guest in the second room. Elizabeth was holding a lovely sandalwood carving in her hand, this one of a god with an elephant’s head, human foot lifted as in a dance, one arm raised.

“—Ganesh,” she was saying. “I remember Margaret mentioned him as one of her favorite Hindu figures. And much nicer, I must say, than that ugly one with all the arms! Shiva, I think? The destroyer. Yes, that matches, doesn’t it? You find yourself picturing death when you look into his face!”

“Rutledge,” Simon acknowledged, over her head. “Have you any news?”