“Does he resemble Peter Teller, do you think?”

Satterthwaite considered the question. “In a vague way. Hard to judge with yon beard. Remember, I’ve not seen the man for years. I don’t know how the war changed him.” After a moment, he said, “Does the wife know about Florence?”

“Amy? Yes. She must.” Rutledge, looking back to his first meeting with her, nodded. “But it’s Peter’s wife who has taken the news the hardest.”

St. Bartholomew’s bell, rather more tinny than deep throated, had begun tolling the age of the departed.

Satterthwaite nodded. “It’s time.”

They walked down the High Street, turning up Church Lane at the war memorial. Rutledge saw Cobb pausing there for his morning greeting to his sons, then move on, his cane supporting him over the uneven ruts of the lane.

Watching him, Rutledge said thoughtfully, “Edwin Teller’s brother was badly wounded in the war. He’s in need of a cane as well. But he doesn’t always have it to hand.”

“I’m told Mr. Cobb sleeps with his on the bed, on his wife’s side.”

“You’ve looked into his nephew Lawrence? Anything more on that front, since I left?”

“I’ve kept my eye on him. But there’s nothing there.”

“I saw him wielding a hammer in anger.”

“We’ll see, shall we, if there’s any guilt shown today.”

“Fair enough.”

People from the village were also walking up the lane, and among them Rutledge saw the Tellers in mourning black that was stylishly cut and out of place here among the rusty black of ordinary clothes that hung unused from Monday to Saturday.

St. Bart’s was as plain inside as it was on the outside. Built for sturdiness, built to last, built to worship and not adore. Rutledge had the fleeting thought that Cromwell would have approved. But the people of Hobson had probably not approved of Cromwell or King Charles. Their independence came from the land they farmed, not from London, and it was a hard life, short as well.

The service was brief and as plain as the surroundings in which it was held. The curate spoke simply about our dear departed sister, listing the major events of her life and commenting only once about her death, as an undeserved tragedy. He read several Psalms, and the choir led the mourners in three hymns, including “Rock of Ages.”

And then they moved to the churchyard, watching the plain coffin being lowered into the ground. Next to the open grave was the small patch of grass, slightly lower than its surroundings, that marked her son’s resting place. A rosebush bloomed where a stone should have been, the small pink blossoms reminding Rutledge of one very much like it he’d seen in Florence Teller’s garden.

Beyond Timmy’s grave was a third, the sod flat and untouched.