But she didn’t. He described Hood, and she told him that such a person was not likely to be among the shop’s clientele.

Rutledge thanked her and left while the voice of Hamish MacLeod drummed in his head.

He drove back to the police station and circled the blocks as best he could, on the off chance that he could spot Hood again. But by this time the streets were busy, people hurrying about their business, and one man could be anywhere, coming out of a pub just after he’d passed, walking into a shop just before he arrived. It was a waste of time, but he gave it an hour anyway.

He couldn’t be sure. But something about the shabby, scruffy-bearded man had struck him, and he wanted to speak to him again. What had Walker said? That the man was coming from the direction of the Abbey, and that a constable had taken him to find something to eat.

He told himself it couldn’t be Walter Teller.

But there was a good chance that it might have been.

Rutledge drove on to Suffolk, to a small village not far from the Essex border. The house he was searching for was down a lane beyond the high steepled church, a winding stretch of road bordered by wildflowers that meandered another quarter of a mile before he saw the stone gates. The house itself was not as large as Witch Hazel Farm, but set among trees as it was, he could feel the country quiet and hear birds singing as he came to a halt by the door.

He was directed to the gardens by a housekeeper, and there he found Leticia Teller entertaining a small boy who was squatting by a pool watching pollywogs swim through the murky water.

“And there’s another one, Harry.” She pointed one out to him. “Just there, beside the lily pad. Oh—there it goes.”

Another woman sat in the shade, smiling fondly at the child.

Miss Teller looked up as Rutledge came through the hedge. She was tall, like her brothers, her face a softer version of Peter’s. Attractive, with hazel eyes and a presence that some might find chilly. He gave his name and showed her his identification, and she proceeded to look him up and down.

“I didn’t know the Yard had been brought into this matter.”

From her tone, he thought she disapproved of such a move.

“I believe you were in Portsmouth when that decision was made,” he countered. “Perhaps it might be wise to speak privately.”

She turned to Harry. “Well, we’ll leave the pollywogs to rest awhile, shall we? I think there might be lemonade in the kitchen, if you ask nicely. And clean your feet before you run in.”

The boy straightened, a sturdy fair-haired child with a ready smile. “They won’t go away, will they?”

“No, they live here, and they’ll be waiting when you come back.”

He nodded happily and dashed off.

“Walter’s son,” Leticia Teller told Rutledge. She turned to the other woman, who had risen from the bench on which she’d been sitting and come to join them. “Mary Brittingham. Jenny Teller’s sister.”