“You can talk to me here, or you can talk to me at the police station,” he said angrily. “Your choice!”

“I’m leaving Osterley. I’ve only come to pack my bags and go. My friends are waiting—”

“They’ve gone to London,” he told her, guessing. “And I can put you under arrest if I have to, to keep you here. There’s an empty cell next to Walsh.”

She rounded on him, anguish in her eyes. “I won’t talk about it, do you hear! I couldn’t tell you anything if I had to, don’t you understand? I don’t know anything! I can’t remember anything!”

Hamish cautioned, “Someone is coming.”

There was the sound of someone walking down the passage, a soft footfall. It was Mrs. Barnett. She stopped in the doorway, horrified by the sight of Rutledge clutching May Trent’s arm as she tried to fight free of his grip.

“Inspector Rutledge!” Mrs. Barnett exclaimed, moving toward them.

He looked up, speaking with the cold air of command that had served him on the battlefield when his mind had been too tired and too worn to think. “Mrs. Barnett. Sit down. Now.”

She opened her mouth, stared at them, and sat.

“There’s a photograph on the bed. The one I spoke of earlier.” He kept his grip on May Trent’s arm as he spoke. The skin was warm through the cloth of the sweater she was wearing over her long skirt. “Pick it up, and tell me if you will, whether you recognize the woman in it.”

She reached for it, turning it over, frowning at the face looking back at her. “I think—well, I know it’s a photograph of Virginia Sedgwick. Lord Sedgwick’s late daughter-in-law.”

May Trent had begun to cry, her face averted, half shielded by her shoulder.

“She was the wife of his elder son? Arthur?”

“Yes. That’s right. But why should you be harassing Miss Trent with it? She never even met this woman, as far as I know!”

“How did Virginia Sedgwick die?”

“She disappeared. No one knew where she had gone. It was whispered that she’d run away from her husband, but I know that couldn’t have been true! She just wasn’t the sort.”

Hamish said, “It’s been said of many a wife. That she wasna’ the sort. But who can be certain?”

“I don’t understand, what is this about?” Mrs. Barnett was still wearing her apron, and she wiped a smudge from the glass over the photograph. “Please, will you not let Miss Trent go?”

“Did her husband ever find Mrs. Sedgwick?”