Chief Superintendent Bowles was likely to have an apoplexy if he was presented with a possibility of bigamy in the Teller family.

It was nine o’clock when Rutledge reached Bolingbroke Street and knocked on the door of Peter Teller’s house.

The housemaid who had admitted him before took him this time to the study and left him to stare at the books lining the walls as hunting trophies stared back with glassy eyes. Even though it was a warm day, the doors into the garden were closed.

Peter Teller came in shortly afterward, and Rutledge noted that he was sober, although he looked very tired. And he was limping heavily, walking without crutches or cane. He regarded Rutledge with a mixture of surprise and apprehension but said only, “Don’t tell me my tiresome brother has gone missing again?”

“As far as I know, he’s in Essex and safe as houses. No, I’ve come to speak to you this time. About a murder in Lancashire.”

There was a sudden strain in Peter Teller’s face. “I don’t know why anything in Lancashire should concern me. Certainly not a murder.”

“The interesting thing is that the victim was married to a Peter Teller.”

Teller’s lips tightened. “I’m sure she was. But she was not married to me.”

“Are you aware of another Peter Teller in your family?”

“Are you aware of all the Rutledges in England who may or may not be related to you?” he countered.

“I have only to match the dates of your leaves with your namesake’s appearances in Hobson. It may take some time, but it can be done.”

“Then come back and talk to me when you’ve done that.”

Rutledge considered the man. Was it bluster, or was he speaking the truth? If he had to guess, it was a little of both. The question was, where did the truth end and the lies begin?

Hamish said in Rutledge’s ear, “And who in Lancashire will remember the exact dates?”

In truth, someone had removed the letters that might go a long way toward proving those dates.

Perhaps it wasn’t a matter of inheritance after all, but of a man’s handwriting.

But why kill Florence Teller now, when the secret had been kept safe all these years?

“Don’t stare at me like that,” Teller said irritably. “I don’t even know who you’re talking about. Pray, who is this woman I’m said to have married?”

“Florence Teller, née Marshall.”

“And she married a Peter Teller.”

“Lieutenant Peter Teller. A career Army officer who was posted all over the empire at various times. As, I believe, you were.”

“My grandfather—you have only to ask my grandmother—was a man who liked women. How do I know that your Lieutenant Peter Teller isn’t one of his bastards?”