Mary collapsed over Teller’s body, telling him that she hadn’t meant for him to die, begging his forgiveness. Rutledge picked up the revolver and put it in his pocket. He felt drained, but his mind was already setting out what had to be done next. He found sheets in the bedroom and tore them into strips, rough bandaging of a sort. And working swiftly, he moved the woman aside, leaving her huddled in a corner, crying, as he ripped the buttons from Teller’s shirt and set about keeping the man alive.

The sun was just showing over the horizon when Mary Brittingham got to her feet. The first rays struck the front of Sunrise Cottage and illuminated the faded red door.

She looked down at Teller, still unconscious but alive.

Turning to Rutledge, she said, “Will you give me the revolver? I’ll write anything you wish me to write. But I don’t want to hang.”

“You’ve killed two people. It was nearly three. A court will have to set this to rights. I can only do my duty.”

“And if you let me be tried, Harry will be branded a bastard. Everyone will know. That’s worse. We can end this here, quietly. A lover’s quarrel People will wonder at it, then forget us.”

“Susannah Teller will want to see you hang if you killed Peter and tried to kill her. I’ve got to take you to Constable Satterthwaite, and bring a doctor back here with me. It’s been a long night. Don’t make it any longer.”

“All right.” She seemed resigned to her fate, her face lined with fatigue and grief and despair. “Will you at least let me make a cup of tea? I don’t think I can endure the rest of this without it.”

“No. Did you have a coat?”

“I left it in the parlor, I think.” She looked down at Walter Teller. “I wish I’d never come. But I didn’t want him to go to the gallows in my place. At least cover him with something. A blanket from one of the beds upstairs.”

Rutledge stooped to retrieve the bloody cloth from the table to spread it over Teller. And at the same instant, Mary Brittingham made a lunge for the revolver in his pocket.

It was well out of her reach. He had seen to that. But she was driven by something stronger than muscle and bone. Her will carried her across the distance, and her hand gripped the metal just as his clamped down over it.

There was a struggle. She was unbelievably strong, and it took every bit of his own strength to turn the weapon toward the wall as she managed to pull the trigger.

The second shot went into the ceiling before he could force the revolver out of her hands and shove her hard as far away as he could.