“I did speak to your grandmother. Last night. It appears her side of the family came from Dorset, not the Tellers. They were an Essex family. As your brother is now.”

That shook Teller. “Indeed.” He strove to recover and said, “You had no business speaking to my grandmother without Edwin or I being in attendance. Her mind is slipping .”

“It was clear enough on the important issue, last night.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Rutledge.”

“I daresay we could compare the handwriting where that Peter Teller signed the church register to yours. There’s your desk, if you care to write a brief sample for me. And then I’ll take my leave.”

“I’m writing down nothing. I’ll speak to my solicitor about this business. We’ll see what he has to say. Because I’m innocent, you know. And I won’t be dragged into another man’s folly, just because I share a similar name.”

He gestured to the door. “I think you ought to leave now. I’ve made my position clear. There’s nothing more to discuss.”

Rutledge left. But as he was shutting the door, he glanced back into the study.

Peter Teller was dragging his bad leg in the direction of the whisky decanter on a tray by the desk.

If Peter Teller was at home, the chances were his brother Edwin had returned as well.

Rutledge left his motorcar outside the Captain’s house in Boling-broke Street and walked the short distance to Marlborough Street.

Amy Teller was at her door, just bidding a woman good-bye. She was on the point of shutting the door after her guest, when she happened to see Rutledge coming toward her down the pavement.

She froze, uncertain what to do, and finally as the motorcar with her guest inside drove away, she called to him, “I didn’t expect to see you again, Inspector. What have we done now?”

He smiled. He’d had time to do some thinking on his walk, and he said, “I hope, nothing. No, it’s information I’m after.” He’d reached the steps to the house door, and she moved aside to let him enter the cool hall.

“There’s been a murder,” he began and watched her eyes widen at the words. “No one you know, I shouldn’t think. But she happened to be married to a Peter Teller, who died in the war. We’re in search of any family he might have had, here in London or perhaps in Dorset.”

“Edwin has cousins in Dorset. On his mother’s side.” She hesitated. “Does—Was the murder in Dorset?”