Rutledge laughed. He had been introduced to all the sisters of his friends and half their cousins—until he’d become engaged and thus considered off the market. A twinge of memory swept him. Jean had been the first to make it clear that he was not a good prospect now. Even for the most desperate spinster.

Gifford prepared to rise, bringing the interview to a close.

But Rutledge sat where he was. “There’s another matter. Did you also serve as solicitor to Herbert Baker and his family?”

It was Gifford’s turn to be surprised. “Herbert Baker? Good God, how did you come to know him?”

“I didn’t. But he died shortly before Father James’s death, and I’d like to know how his Will stood.”

Bewildered, Gifford said, “I don’t believe Father James witnessed it, if that’s your point.”

“No, but I understand from Dr. Stephenson that he was in attendance just before Mr. Baker’s death. What can you tell me regarding the Will’s provisions?”

Gifford steepled his fingers. “Very straightforward. There wasn’t much in the way of money, although Baker owned the house he lived in. It’d been his wife’s family home. Naturally he left that to the elder son, Martin, with the proviso that the other son, Dick, and the daughter, Ellen, live there until they married. Dick just came home from hospital, bad shoulder wound. And Ellen is the youngest. A late child.”

Rutledge considered how to put his next question, and decided to be blunt. “Were the three children Herbert Baker’s?”

“Good Lord, I should think they were! Ellen looks very much like her mother, and the brothers are the spitting image of Herbert. Same spare frame, and same high forehead, same left-handedness. Why on earth should you suppose they weren’t?”

“I don’t. I merely wondered if there could be any skeletons in the Baker closet.”

The grin reappeared. “Herbert Baker, if you’d known him, was not the man for skeletons. He was sexton at Holy Trinity until his health broke, and while he’d worked hard all his life, he hadn’t the money or the time to squander on wine, women, and song. A devoted father, most certainly. And as far as I know, an honest man.” The grin broadened into a smile. “If you want the truth, he probably led as boring a life as anyone in Osterley.”

“Then there was nothing that might have rested heavily on his conscience at his death?”