The curate added with a smile, “Of course, attending services here at St. Bart’s was never compulsory.”

Rutledge found he was learning as much about Peter Teller as he was about the man’s widow. She was well liked, people had known her as a child and accepted her as one of their own. But her husband apparently had kept to himself when he was in Hobson, making very little effort to fit into his wife’s social life. Which of course had made the local people more curious about him than they would have been if he’d attended church services and spent an evening in the pub. It was in a way very selfish.

Hamish said, “Selfish? Or secretive?”

Or perhaps Peter Teller—like Chief Superintendent Bowles—felt he was a cut above the local people, unwilling to sink to their level?

Then why had he chosen to live here? He didn’t make his living in Hobson, he was free to go. Or was it his wife’s choice, because he was away so often and she preferred familiar surroundings to Dorset or London?

A little silence had fallen. Rutledge said, “I’m curious about Teller’s background. Did you marry them? Did any of his family come to Hobson for the ceremony?”

“It was my predecessor who officiated. I wouldn’t know who was or wasn’t among the guests, or who stood up for him.”

“What attracted Peter Teller to Florence Marshall? Was it money, do you think?”

“You never met Florence. There was something about her that drew people to her. As for money, she’d inherited from her aunt, and I understood that Peter’s late father had left him well-to-do. It was never an issue, as far as I know.”

“Can we find the date of their marriage in the church records?”

“I needn’t consult them. They were married in the early spring of 1903. My sister was married in May of that same year. In 1913, when I happened to mention to Mrs. Teller that I was taking a few days to go and celebrate Katie and Ralph’s tenth anniversary, she told me it was her tenth as well. I brought her a small gift from Katie, on my return. She was that pleased. I don’t believe her husband was here to mark the occasion. A pity.”

Rutledge, walking back to the High Street, paused at the Great War Memorial just at the turning into Church Lane. He always spared a moment to acknowledge the dead. The Hobson men who had gone off to fight had served together. It was a common practice, for these men who had never been as far as Carlisle or Chester, much less London, felt more comfortable in one another’s company. And consequently, they often died together.