Gifford came in with apologies. “A week ago, I’d invited friends to dine with me. We decided not to let the upheavals of last night affect our plans. Though to tell you the truth, no one is in a festive mood! What brings you here at this hour of the night? Shouldn’t you be in your bed? You look like death walking, man!”

Rutledge laughed. “I’ve heard that enough to believe it. I won’t keep you long. I need to learn who arranged for Mrs. Baker—Herbert Baker’s ill wife—to have the treatment she required for her consumption. It’s rather important.”

Surprised by the request, Gifford smoothed the line of his beard with the back of his fingers. “I don’t know. That is, I never knew. Nor did Dr. Stephenson. A bank in Norwich sent me a letter instructing me that an anonymous benefactor had requested a sum of money be set aside for the care of one Margaret Baker, wife of Herbert, of this town. I was to use it to pay any medical bills, as required by her doctors, associated with her illness.”

“Mrs. Baker wasn’t particularly well-known. Her illness wasn’t uncommon. Why should she be singled out by a Norwich bank for such a generous gesture?”

Gifford frowned. “I have no idea. I didn’t ask. I saw no reason to. The papers were in order—and Mrs. Baker was seriously ill. Stephenson told me later that better care extended her life by several years.”

“But surely you must have guessed who was behind this generosity. Baker’s employer, for one.”

“The thought crossed my mind. But I didn’t pursue it. Stephenson does what he can on his own, and there are other people in Norfolk who support a variety of charitable activities. The King has been known to act anonymously. And he knew the Sedgwick family.”

“I can’t imagine how the King discovered that an obscure coachman’s wife, living quietly in Osterley, was in need.”

“No, no, the King doesn’t handle such matters himself; you misunderstand,” Gifford answered. “But he has deep roots in Norfolk and apparently feels strongly about them. The staff at Sandringham raised a troop of their own, during the War. He and the Queen took a keen interest in the men. It’s not impossible that someone in the Household brought the Bakers to the attention of the staff.”

“Yes, I understand. But in my view, they’d be far more likely to have a word with Lord Sedgwick rather than go to the trouble of making arrangements with a bank in Norwich. Is there any way that this—kindness—could be traced through the paperwork?”

“I doubt it. Bankers are worse than stones when it comes to divulging information. Immovable.”

Rutledge thanked him and left. Stones could be moved. If Scotland Yard wanted the information badly enough . . .