Blevins found the road, and it soon dwindled into a lane, hardly worthy of the name. A farmhouse faced a sloping hill of pasturage, where the white backs of sheep caught the morning spears of light. The lane continued, little more than a wagon wide now, last summer’s wildflowers brushing dry heads against the coachwork on either side. Within a few minutes they came to an open gate, where a muddy and well-rutted farm track began. “Here, I should think,” Blevins said, turning in.

The track climbed a hill for some distance, angling toward the shoulder and a cluster of young trees. Blevins followed it for some fifty yards, and then pulled in where bruised grass indicated that the doctor had stopped as well. Beyond that, the track’s ruts offered a challenge. Blevins said shortly, “I’d not like to find myself bogged down up there.”

Rutledge got out and Hamish said, at his shoulder, “Walsh could ha’ made it this far.”

It was true. They trudged in silence toward the copse of trees, and a constable stepped out of it, standing there waiting. Blevins was finding it hard to get his breath, and Rutledge glanced at him.

The Inspector’s face was nearly gray with strain, his jaw set and his body tense. With each stride he began to swear softly, trying to contain the pressure that was building in his mind. Rutledge’s longer legs made easy work of the hill, but his chest burned from the night of driving.

The constable, hunched against the morning chill, touched his hat to Blevins, and nodded to Rutledge. “Constable Tanner, sir. I thought you’d want to see this. The doctor says he’s dead, and they’re sending up a cart from the farm, to bring him in.”

“Who the hell is it, man?” Blevins halted as if unable to walk another ten yards. But it was his fear of the answer that had stopped him.

“It’s Walsh, sir. Just beyond the trees.” Tanner turned to lead the way, and Rutledge followed. Blevins moved slowly in their wake, as if unwilling to confirm the truth.

Tanner continued his report to Rutledge. “I can’t say how long he’s been dead—just before dawn, I’d guess, or not long after. His clothes are damp.”

Just beyond the trees, the land sloped again, this time to the south. And about ten feet beyond the crest lay the sprawled body of a man. Rutledge could see at once that it was Walsh—the size of the shoulders, the length of the awkwardly bent legs defined him before they had reached the head.

Rutledge looked down at the bloody dent in the temple, and had no need to squat on his heels and feel the hand nearest him for warmth or touch the throat for a pulse. But he did it anyway to give Blevins time to recover.