He could see that it was the case here. For every surname there was a list of Christian names. Under Satterthwaite he saw three, and under Greeley five. There was a Taylor, a Blaine, and two Jordans. He could see them in his mind’s eye, marching together out of Hobson to find the nearest recruitment office, then returning together in new uniforms where the crease was still sharp and their caps sat at a jaunty angle. Off to kill the Hun . . . And die themselves, whether they shot a Hun or not.

He was turning away when the elderly man walking past stopped to speak to him. Although graying and distinguished, with a trim white mustache, his shoulders were beginning to stoop with age. His voice was educated and strong, without the heavy local accent.

“That’s from the fields,” he said, using the tip of his cane to point to the irregular stone some three feet high that was the centerpiece of the memorial. “We thought that fitting. They came from this land, and many of them never returned to it. And so they still have a part of it.”

“Yes, it’s moving,” Rutledge answered.

The man lowered his cane to marble tablets encircling the stone. “My sons are there, both of them. My nephews too.” The cane moved on to point to the name of Cobb, and the long list beneath it. “My elder son, Browning, and his brother, Tennyson. A schoolmaster’s folly, those names. I come by every morning to greet them and every evening to say good night.”

“It’s a quiet place to be remembered.”

“You served in the war?”

“France. The Somme.”

“You saw some of the worst fighting. Though I daresay none of it was better than any other.”

Rutledge could only nod.

“You’re here, I think, because of Mrs. Teller. A sad thing. There’s no one in Hobson who would have hurt her. I can’t think why a stranger might.”

“No one has been able to offer the police any useful information. Yet I’ve discovered in places barely as large as Hobson that grudges can run deep. And in the end, they often surface in violence.”

Cobb shook his head. “I repeat. Not here.”

“Apparently her husband was with his regiment more often than he was here in Hobson,” Rutledge said, changing the subject. “It must have been a lonely life for her. Waiting for him to return. And not knowing, throughout the war, if he would.”