“I hoped I was.” He laughed harshly. “I wasn’t like the rest of them. I had no calling, you see. I became what my father told me to become. And Peter hated the Army as much as I hated my own work. I’d have liked being a soldier, I think. But who knows? I might have hated that too.”

Which, Hamish was remarking to Rutledge, explained why he had told Florence Marshall that he was a soldier. Living a lie because it made him feel better about his lack of choice in the matter, made him appear to be dashing and romantic in the eyes of a young woman who had never seen the world beyond where she lived. And yet, cowardly enough that he used his brother’s name, for fear his father would somehow learn of his rebellion.

They could hear Mr. Stedley, the vicar, coming down the stairs.

Teller shook himself, as if awakening from a reverie, as if he’d been talking more to himself than Rutledge.

“She’s very peaceful,” Mr. Stedley said, coming into the room.

“Yes.”

“Is there any comfort I could offer you, Walter?”

“Thank you, Rector, for coming. You might wish to speak to the rest of the family. We’ve been overwhelmed by events. I’ll be in touch about the service. I think Jenny would have liked you to conduct it.”

“Yes, of course.” He looked from Teller to Rutledge and back again. “If you need me, you’ve only to send for me.”

And he was gone. Walter Teller sighed. “Next it will be the police cornering me, asking questions. And then Mary will be at me again, or Leticia. And then my brother. I’d like to lock the door and pretend I’m not here.”

Rutledge rose. “I’ve brought Timmy’s photograph from the cottage.”

Walter Teller was very still. Then he said, “Perhaps his mother would have preferred to have it buried with her.”

He lost his temper. “What did Timmy do? Fail his father by dying when it wasn’t convenient to come home and pray for him?”

Teller’s face went so white Rutledge thought for an instant his heart had stopped. And then catching his breath almost on a gasp, he said only, “Peter would be grateful to you.”

Rutledge went outside to walk off his anger. The rain had moved on, black clouds toward the east, the sky overhead still roiling as the weather fought for stability. He went to the other side of the house, unwilling to pass the roses, and instead crossed the lawn toward the little stream, swollen with rain and threatening to overflow into the grassy water meadows on either side. He could feel the soles of his boots sinking into the soft earth, and moved a little above the soaked banks.