“What would you have done if you’d found him in Cornwall, confused and difficult to handle?”

“I—I don’t believe I considered that possibility. I thought he might be grateful that someone was there, and come back with me without fuss.”

Rutledge let it go. Whatever motivations the Teller family had had for going off on their own, they weren’t about to confide in the police. Until Walter Teller was found dead, there was no way to persuade his family otherwise.

“Has Teller had a history of such disappearances?”

“Good heavens, no! Nor has he ever been this ill, except of course for his bouts of malaria. That’s what was so worrying.”

Was, not is.

As if the solution was already known to them.

Rutledge said, “Early this morning, the police discovered Teller’s clothing in the possession of a man who claims he found them beside the Thames.”

“But he couldn’t have—” She caught herself and added, “Surely you don’t believe Walter drowned himself? I won’t, for one.”

“Mrs. Teller, the man’s been missing for several days. Half of London is searching for him. And he’s nowhere to be found. Suicide, to put it bluntly, remains an option.”

With that he thanked her and wished her a good day. But he had the strongest feeling that a good day was not in the cards for the Teller family.

It had been a long morning. He changed his mind about going on to the Yard and instead turned toward Frances’s house.

Rutledge had spent as much time as he could spare from the Yard with his godfather. During the day, Trevor entertained the boy with the swans in St. James’s Park, the ravens at the Tower, and the giraffes at the Regent’s Park Zoo. And in the evenings, after the child had been put to bed, the two men sat in the garden, talking as they had once done before the war and the loss it had brought in its wake.

Trevor had been a very fine architect before the death of his son had sent him into early retirement. He said one night, “I remember when your parents lived here in this house, and the parties they gave. Nothing elaborate, you understand, but we always enjoyed those evenings. Sometimes your mother would sit in the drawing room and play the piano while your father and I took our brandy out here after dinner. She was such a fine pianist. Your father was very proud of that.”

Rutledge said, “I remember her playing. I wish Frances would use the piano from time to time. But it sits closed from one year to the next.”

“Yes.” Trevor sighed. “Tell me about Frances. She hasn’t married. Was there someone in particular?”

“I always thought she might marry Ross. But there was someone else she loved for a time. Nothing came of it. Nothing could. Lately there was another man who seemed to take her fancy. I thought she was in love with him. But she hasn’t mentioned him for some weeks.”