“The only thing that ever worried Herbert Baker as far as I know was his wife’s illness. It was hopeless from the start, but he sent her to London to be treated. Tuberculosis, and too advanced when Dr. Stephenson caught it to expect a cure.” He shrugged. “She was the kind of woman who never complained, never sent for a doctor except in childbirth, used her own remedies for whatever ailed her, and generally died as she’d lived, as self-effacing as possible. But the sanitarium gave her two more years of life, and I don’t believe any of the family would have considered it money wasted!”

“Sanitariums are expensive. Where did a poor man find the money?”

“Charity, if you want my honest opinion. It’s happened before, actually. Not three years ago there was a woman who needed surgery for her goiter, and a generous contribution from her employer paid the better part of the cost. It was done with circumspection—I handled the paperwork myself, as the donor wished to remain anonymous—and this woman has never learned the truth. She believes she paid the entire fee.”

Rutledge said, “You’ve been very helpful. One final question: Were both of Baker’s sons in the Army?”

“Martin was sent home, compassionate leave when his father’s health began to fail, and Ellen wasn’t up to running the household on her own. Dick was wounded, as I think I mentioned. Both men from all reports did their duty.”

But as Rutledge had learned, having used that phrase more times than he cared to remember, the words were a catchall when an officer knew too little—or too much— about a soldier under his command.

“Did their duty” covered a multitude of sins. . . . Had Herbert Baker begged absolution for one of his sons, from Father James?

Rutledge had left the solicitor’s office and was walking back toward the Osterley Hotel when a large motorcar with a uniformed driver pulled up beside him. In the rear seat, Lord Sedgwick leaned forward.

“I say, have you had your luncheon yet?”

Rutledge turned. “Good morning. No, it’s still fairly early—”

It couldn’t have been more than eleven-thirty.

“Well, come and dine with me. And I’ll have Evans here bring you back afterward. My son’s returned to Yorkshire, and I’m damned if I can stand my own company for another meal. Mrs. Barnett at the hotel”—Sedgwick chuckled—“will turn me out if I appear unannounced a second time within the week. Or have you made a commitment to her?”

Rutledge had not.

“Then come along and bear me company, if you will. We can talk about something other than the price of sheep and what cabbages are currently fetching!”

Hamish warned, “It’s no’ a very good idea—!”