Aylesford, with its handsome narrow bridge and narrower twisting streets, was a pretty little town on the Medway. The house Rutledge was seeking was within sight of the church. It was a Tudor building almost as narrow as it was tall.

He knocked at the door and was received by an elderly man in rusty black, his long face wrinkled with age and exposure to the sun.

Rutledge identified himself and explained his errand.

Mr. Forester, it seemed, was the secretary of the Society and handled all correspondence for it. The Alcock, he informed Rutledge, had been founded in the early part of the nineteenth century, and since that time had been very well supported by patrons who believed in the Society’s work and its attempt to bring enlightenment to the forgotten parts of the world. Victoria herself had visited the tiny headquarters before she had succeeded to the throne, and above the hearth there was a small painting of the event done by Forester’s predecessor. He pointed it out proudly and invited Rutledge to admire it.

He asked Rutledge to join him for tea, and they sat in the parlor on chairs Rutledge was certain the great Elizabeth would have recognized, with straight backs and seats hard as iron, discussing the Society’s aims and goals and record.

“And Walter Teller?”

“He was always reliable, a steady man who was able to find common ground with the local people and work with them in projects designed to better their lives. A school, for instance, or a new well, or a market that attracted commerce to the area. Very practical things, you might say, but through them, people could be persuaded to find worth in Christianity and turn their thoughts to conversion.”

“I understand,” Rutledge said, “that you’ve only recently written to Mr. Teller.”

“Yes. In fact, I have a copy there in my desk. I keep meticulous copies of all correspondence. My records are excellent.” He set aside his cup and went to the desk, where he found the folder he wanted and brought it back to his chair.

“Let me see.” He thumbed through several sheets before finding the one he was after. “Here it is. Mr. Teller has been some years out of the field—his book, of course, and then the war—and we are experiencing a little difficulty in finding good men to send to established missions, much less new ones.” He looked up at Rutledge. “Sadly, the world has changed now. Before the war, there was a fervor for service.

We’ve grown sadly bitter and tired these past two years. Our missionaries are older, on the point of retiring. We’d like to see Mr. Teller return to the field. Indeed, it is more than like—there is need.”

“And has he responded to your call for serving?”

“Not so far. But you told me earlier that he’d been ill. Perhaps that has been the reason?”