“To Tom Randal’s farm.”

“Walsh didn’t go anywhere near the Randal farm. Not according to Henderson. He was moving as swiftly and quietly as he could. Walsh, I mean. Covering the ground faster than most. Peter kept up with him until he was well beyond Osterley. Then he turned back, not wanting to be spotted.”

Rutledge shook his head. “That can’t be true. The mare at the farm went missing in probably that same time frame. And it was her shoe that killed Walsh.”

Sims said, “That’s why we didn’t tell you, May Trent and I. I’ve never known Peter to lie to me, but he was very cold and hungry, walking that far, and he might have made up a story in exchange for his breakfast. It seemed—a little less like begging, I suppose.”

Rutledge got up and helped himself to the bacon and a slice of burned toast. Sims said, “There are boiled eggs in that covered dish.”

Rutledge lifted the lid and set an egg on his plate, cracking it and spooning out the yolk. He said, “What else has Henderson seen, wandering around in the dark?”

Sims buttered his own slice, frowning at the burnt taste. “He seldom talks about his life—or what he’s witnessed. I think the only reason he told me about his encounter with Walsh was his need for food and a little warmth.”

“Yes, it may be true.” Rutledge added pensively, “I should have expected that between you, you and Father James could have found work for Henderson—doing the heavier labor for old Tom Randal, for instance. And Mrs. Barnett must need someone to help with upkeep at the hotel. It’s a barn of a place for a woman on her own.”

“She doesn’t have the custom to hire anyone else, even for a pittance with room and board. Tom Randal refuses to consider help on the farm. No one else in Osterley needs Henderson. Too many people are out of work, that’s the trouble—the shopkeepers and farms can find help two a penny without turning to a man with Peter’s history. Lord Sedgwick hired him until Dick, Herbert Baker’s younger son, was fit again for light duties. The house in Yorkshire is closed while Arthur Sedgwick recovers from his own injuries—if he’s not in hospital, he’s here in Norfolk or in London. Edwin lives in London most of the year. I’ve been corresponding with a woman in Hunstanton who may take Henderson on. She and her husband own a small pub, and need an extra man. But he’s not local, you see—and she’s wary of that.” Sims said tentatively, “What are you going to do about Virginia Sedgwick? I don’t quite see Inspector Blevins rushing to find out the truth, most particularly if it involves the Sedgwick family. He won’t like that!”