The cane’s head had been found. Peter Teller’s regimental crest on it showed that Peter had been in Hobson, at Sunrise Cottage, on the day of the murder.

But that was all it showed. It couldn’t speak and identify who had used it.

Cobb’s words came back to him: She found the body. If she’d seen the cane and realized that the head was gold, she’d have taken it. She’s like a magpie . . .

And Satterthwaite’s voice: Mrs. Blaine reached for the paperweight, and I had to push Cobb back to the only cell.

After that, his own: What else was in that box? The deed to the house?

Cobb again: She’ll offer to buy Florence’s land. See if she doesn’t.

He could hear Mrs. Blaine threatening to wring Jake’s neck, because he didn’t talk, he only made a terrible racket.

Hamish said, “Aye, it wasna’ the letters.”

Rutledge turned on his heel and walked briskly back to the police station. He found that Satterthwaite had brought chairs to the cell door, and he and Cobb were staring at each other like mastiffs circling each other looking for a weakness.

Rutledge said to the Thielwald constable, “Handcuff him. I want to take him with us.”

“Back to Hobson?” the constable said.

“Where?” Satterthwaite demanded.

“Just do it,” Rutledge told them. “I’ll be in the motorcar.”

And he walked away.

His mind was on Hamish. Cobb in front, Satterthwaite in the back. And then both of them could watch Cobb.

The two constables emerged from the station with Cobb between them.

“This is most irregular. Sir?” the constable was saying.

“It’s all right. He’ll be back within the hour. Front, Cobb. Sit just behind him, Satterthwaite.”

They did as they were told. One look at Rutledge’s face, and none of them was willing to risk argument.

They drove in silence out of Thielwald to the road for Hobson, and then took the turning for Sunrise Cottage.

“We’re going back to the house?” Satterthwaite asked.

Rutledge didn’t answer, his mind on what was to come.

When he drove past the cottage and turned into the rutted lane to the Blaine farm, Satterthwaite said, “Here, you can’t call on her at this hour!”

“She keeps a dairy farm. She was up milking at four.” Drawing up at the front of the house, he said, “Cobb, stay here. And keep watch.” He strode up to the door and knocked. “Let me do the talking,” he told Satterthwaite.

“If you’ll just tell me, sir—”

But the door was swinging open, and Mrs. Blaine was standing there, a basket of eggs under her arm.

She stared at them suspiciously. “Inspector. Constable. I was just about to candle the eggs.” Then she saw Cobb in the motorcar, and said angrily, “What’s he doing here? He’s a dangerous man.”