Rutledge heard a hidden bitterness in the philosophy, although Sedgwick’s tone had been light. But money was not always a guarantee of perfect happiness. . . .

The detective in him intrigued, Rutledge cast about for another subject of interest to the man at his side. “You spoke of a son. I think he must have dined last night at the hotel.”

“Arthur? Yes, he’s the elder. He went to the Front and came home a broken man. He’s still in and out of hospital. Wound in his back. Edwin, the younger of the two, had a gift for languages and was given the task of dealing with prisoners. Or the French. Whoever was most troublesome!”

Rutledge suppressed a smile. The French were not always the most comfortable of allies. And interrogating prisoners never went smoothly.

“Edwin keeps a boat in Osterley,” Sedgwick went on. “He and that fool dog of his go hunting in the marshes. Shooting isn’t allowed, but the dog’s nose stays sharp. Edwin takes him to Scotland for the Season.”

Hamish reminded Rutledge of the man rowing into the quay with a dog in the thwarts. The woman who had offered him a lift had called him Edwin. . . . Edwin Sedgwick? Rutledge rather thought it was. The same man had been in the lounge bar in the hotel outside Norwich.

They had reached the outskirts of East Sherham and turned onto a road where tall old trees marched on either side. Overhead, branches arched high to form a cool and shaded canopy, and the undergrowth along the verges was still thick and full here at the end of summer. Ahead Rutledge could see the walled grounds of an estate, with ornate gates marking the entrance to the drive. The crest on the heavy, gilded wrought iron bore the motto “I Will Persevere.” Two handsome pillars on either side were surmounted by a griffin. These apparently had belonged to the original owners: Time had etched them, wind and rain had worn them, but they had been carved to last.