“You can’t go inside,” he warned them. “This is still an active murder inquiry.” What he wanted to say was that it wasn’t a spectacle for the Teller family. How Florence Teller had lived and died was now police business.

“I understand,” Edwin said. And Rutledge was surprised to realize that the man did. “It just seemed—the right thing to do.”

“Then I’ll go with you.”

He could tell it wasn’t what they wanted, but he got into the motorcar and told Edwin to follow the High Street out of Hobson.

As they went, Amy commented on how empty the landscape was, and how lonely. Rutledge thought it was a reflection of someone brought up in the south, where the roads seldom lacked some form of habitation for very long.

Edwin was silent, concentrating on driving. When at last they began to crest the rise before the house, Rutledge said, “Ahead you’ll see a hedge. Stop at the gate.”

He could feel the tension in the two people in the front seat. And he thought, Is this how Hamish knows what’s on my mind?

But there was no time to consider that as Edwin came to a halt in front of the house.

“Sunrise Cottage,” Amy read, then looking up the path to the house, she said, “A red door. Once.”

Rutledge said, “Mrs. Teller painted it to celebrate her husband’s homecoming. Only he never returned. She left it, perhaps in the hope that someday he would. Or because she couldn’t bear to give up all hope.”

Edwin sat there, looking up at the house. “It’s not a very pleasing house, is it?” he mused aloud. “Small and plain and isolated. She lived here alone? That’s sad. He could have done better by her.”

“Perhaps it was what she wanted,” Amy said after a moment. “What she was used to. She took pride in it—you can see that.”

“Still . . .”

The silence lengthened. Finally Edwin let in the clutch and said, “I must find somewhere to turn around.”

“There’s a farmyard just down the road,” Rutledge told them.

Edwin found it and was soon headed back into Hobson.

When they reached the police station, Rutledge said, “Mrs. Greeley’s house is just there. I’m sure she will let you have a room to freshen up. She needs the money.”

Edwin thanked him and drove on.

Rutledge could see them speaking together, but not even Hamish’s sharp hearing could discern what was being said.

Satterthwaite had come out and was looking after them. “And who might they be, when they’re at home?”

“Edwin Teller and his wife, from London. He considers himself the head of the Essex branch of the family. He felt it was his duty to be here, to represent the family that we haven’t found. His brother is Captain Peter Teller.”

“Kind of him,” Satterthwaite said shortly. “Where’s his brother, then?”