Satterthwaite laughed. “When it comes to money, people change. It’s amazing how quickly distant relatives come out of the woodwork when someone dies, wanting their share. Never gave the poor soul the time of day when he was alive, but now he’s dead, he’s their dearest cousin, however many times removed. They arrive to present their case. Then they stumble over a wife in some dark corner of Lancashire, and something has to be done about her, doesn’t it? For all we know, Peter Teller’s last will and testament was among those letters, and someone wanted it destroyed. That’ud toss the cat amongst the pigeons, wouldn’t it?”

An interesting explanation for the missing letters as well as the murder. “Is the farm all that valuable?”

“The farm is hers, not his. But how do we know what else he might have owned elsewhere that was valuable? Florence might not have been told about that. Or never wanted to face up to the fact that he was dead and the will ought to be taken to a solicitor. She had everything she needed right here.”

It was possible, but a stretch of the imagination. Still, Rutledge found himself considering it again over his dinner, losing track of Mrs. Greeley’s gossip.

He stayed one more night with Mrs. Greeley, and then left early to make the journey back to London.

Speaking to Satterthwaite the night before his departure, he said, “I want to see if I can find Teller’s relatives. They may be able to shed more light on who inherits. Did Florence Teller have a solicitor?”

“She never had cause to need one,” the constable told him. “As far as I know.”

“Then perhaps Peter Teller did. Meanwhile, if you find any information on a walker, call me at the Yard. If I’m not there, ask for Sergeant Gibson.”

On the drive south, the bird Jake, in the cage set in the passenger’s seat, was quiet, almost, Rutledge thought, as if he understood he would never go back to Sunrise Cottage. He sat on one of his perches, sometimes plucking listlessly at his feathers, occasionally muttering to himself, and showing no interest in his surroundings.

Rutledge spoke to him from time to time, as he would have spoken to a dog traveling with him. But except for that one moment in Mrs. Blaine’s kitchen and again when the rug was put over the cage last night, he’d said nothing remotely resembling human speech.

Hamish said, “He remembers what he hears o’er and o’er again.”

And that was just as sad.

Arriving in London, Rutledge stopped at the Yard and handed the cage and parrot to a startled Sergeant Gibson. “Find out what to feed him, and see that he’s kept quiet until I come back for him.”

“What to feed him?” the sergeant repeated. “I don’t know anyone who has a parrot.”