That rosewood box—what had it contained besides letters from a soldier on the other side of the world to a lonely wife waiting for him to be given another leave? A will? An exchange of correspondence of a different sort that had gone unnoticed in a tiny village like Hobson where the business of everyone was everyone’s business? Hardly likely.

“There’s the ither town . . .”

And Hamish was right, there was Thielwald. But how would Florence Teller have got there and back, to fetch her mail? It was too far to walk.

Still, the farmer with the sick ram might occasionally have given her a lift.

Rutledge couldn’t accept that the woman he’d seen lying dead on a table in Dr. Blake’s office was a blackmailer.

“Or ye do na’ wish to believe.”

The main road forked, and Rutledge followed the sign to Repton. Not five miles on, he came to the turning into Witch Hazel Farm.

As the drive meandered toward the house, it passed a bed of handsome roses just now in their prime that gave off a sweet perfume in the warm air and filled the car with their spicy scent all the way to the door of the house.

He lifted the knocker and let it fall. After a moment or two Mollie, the housekeeper, answered the door.

“Mr. Teller, please. Inspector Rutledge to see him.”

“Inspector.” She repeated the word cautiously. “I’ll see if he’s in,” she said finally and disappeared, leaving him to admire the white roses in stone tubs by the door. They hadn’t been here when last he called, he thought.

Mollie had come back, and she led him to the study, whose windows looked out toward the drive. Teller had seen him coming, Rutledge suspected.

Walter Teller was sitting in a chair, an open book in his lap, and he said as Rutledge came in, “One of my brothers has disappeared?”

It was dark humor, not intended as a jest.

He offered Rutledge a chair and then went on, “Do people always suspect the worst when a policeman knocks at their door? Or do you sometimes bring joy in your wake?”

“We seldom have the opportunity to bring joy. But yes, sometimes.”

“Did you come from London? May I offer you some refreshment?”

“Yes, I drove here from London. And no thank you.”

Teller marked his place, closed his book, and set it to one side, as if preparing himself.

Rutledge said, “There’s been a murder, and I’m trying to find the family of a man who died in the war. They may be able to cast some light on the last wishes of the victim and who is to inherit.”

Teller frowned. “A death in Repton? Why wasn’t I told?” He got to his feet. “I’ll come at once.”

Rutledge said, “Not here in Repton, no. The man I’m after is Lieutenant Peter Teller—”