She offered them the horsehair settle, and the two men sat gingerly side by side on the stiff upholstery. It smelled of dust and old dog. She herself took a very pretty wing chair covered with a faded but handsome brocade. On the table at her elbow was a collection of shells and a number of pottery jugs with the names of seaside towns painted on them. Where her guests had worked?

Hamish, his Covenanter soul offended by anything remotely smacking of the godless theatrical world Mrs. Rollings inhabited, declared, “She’s no’ going to give you an honest answer! It isna’ in her nature.”

“We’ll see,” Rutledge told him. Aloud he asked, “Did you like Miss Kenneth?”

“What has liking got to do with it?” She stared at him, genuinely surprised. “As long as my guests pay me on time and in full, I like them very well.”

“Was she a clever girl?”

“She was pretty. She thought that would take her far. But not far enough if she ended up in the river.” Mrs. Rollings leaned forward. “Now what was this about Iris’s belongings?” There was an avaricious glint in her eyes.

“Do you know if she might have owned a pair of old shoes, a man’s, with a worn heel and a tear in the sole?”

Mrs. Rollings’s eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. “Old shoes? Men’s shoes?”

“Yes. We’d like very much to know if she possessed such a pair.” Realizing that the concept was totally foreign to his hostess, Rutledge added, “Perhaps from some role or other.”

Wilkerson, stolid and silent, was looking around the room as if he expected to find something nasty hidden behind the wallpaper.

“Well, I should think not! She wasn’t the kind of girl who played in farce—she didn’t have the talent for it! It was more in her line to stand there looking respectable and drawing custom. She was quite lovely in green. You’d have thought her a lady, if she didn’t open her mouth.” Lovely was pronounced as luuvley.

Wilkerson said, “Then you are telling us that no such shoes were found in her belongings?”

“None that I know of! And I was fairly careful in searching through them.”

“Would another—er—guest have searched them before you did?” the Sergeant continued.

“Here! There’s no stealing in my house.”

“No, surely not,” Rutledge soothed. “But if you come across old shoes like those I’ve described—even in an unexpected place—will you send a message to Sergeant Wilkerson here?”

“Is there a reward for what you want to know?” she asked sharply.

“No. But it will be in the public interest.”

Her expression informed him what she thought of the public interest.

Hamish had been right. Rutledge stood up, and Wilkerson lumbered to his feet as well.

“You’ve been most helpful, Mrs. Rollings. Thank you for your time.”