Cobb took off his gloves and swatted at an insect busy about his ears. “I want to know. Have you found her killer? Don’t lie to me, I want to know. I can’t sleep nights, sometimes, thinking about everyone who knew her, anyone who could have done such a thing, and I need to know. I come into Hobson sometimes and look at the faces of people I meet on the street or in a shop or sitting next to me on a Sunday. And I think, could that be him? Or that one? My uncle tells me I’ll drive myself mad doing that, but it’s the only way I’ll have any peace, finding him before the police do.”

“I can’t tell you how the inquiry is progressing. I will say that it’s possible that we know who it was.”

“And the bird? He’s been no help? My mother-in-law told me you’d taken Jake. I was glad. I thought she might do it a mischief with its squawking so loud she couldn’t sleep. And Betsy wanted no part of it.”

“The bird hasn’t said much. So far.” He hesitated, then said, “If you found something unusual—out of place—tell Satterthwaite, will you?”

He left Cobb there and went into the house, walking through the empty rooms, listening to the sounds of his own footsteps in the silence. Hamish, in the back of his mind, was busy, but he could find nothing to trigger a sudden thought or offer a glimmer of light.

Nothing had changed. He hadn’t expected it to.

And that was the problem. Nothing had changed, he could see only what he had before. With the eyes of the past, not the present.

He considered what to do about Cobb coming to tend the flowers, and decided he was doing no harm. And it gave him something to think about besides taking the head off whoever had killed Florence Teller.

Without speaking to Cobb again, he left the house and drove back to Hobson.

Rutledge and Satterthwaite ate their dinner together at a pub in Thielwald. The food was heavy, suitable for men who did physical labor, filling and satisfying. As Satterthwaite promised, the pudding was excellent, and as they were finishing it, he said to Rutledge, “You’re quiet.”

“I was thinking about a birthday celebration. Tonight in Essex.”

“Did you want to be there?”

“I wasn’t invited. I just have a feeling that I shouldn’t have stayed over. I should have gone directly back to London.”

“One day won’t matter.”

Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Rutledge was putting his valise and a packet of sandwiches prepared by Mrs. Greeley into his motorcar, when Lawrence Cobb came down the High Street and nodded as he walked up to Mrs. Greeley’s door.