The gatekeeper, reluctant to come out in the rain, called from his doorway, “Who’s there?”

“Inspector Rutledge. Lord Sedgwick is expecting me.”

The man, a hood over his head, hurried to open the gate and let them through. Rutledge drove on. Halfway down the looping drive to the house, he said to his passenger, “If you’ve changed your mind, you can stay in the car. I don’t expect this to take very long.”

“No. I have a stake in this. In a way.”

“As you wish.” But he was not pleased with her answer.

The house was in darkness, save for lights on the first floor and in the hall. He lifted the knocker on the door and let it fall. The two of them huddled under the umbrella as they waited. Hamish was a constant barrage now in the back of Rutledge’s mind, like very distant thunder, warning him to walk carefully.

May Trent said, “I think it’s turning colder.” As if to prove her words, her breath came out in a small white puff. She shivered.

The door opened, the housekeeper holding the lamp high to see their faces in the shadow of the umbrella.

“Inspector Rutledge and Miss Trent. To see Lord Sedgwick,” he said briskly.

She said, “It’s such a nasty night, isn’t it! Do come in. I’ll let His Lordship know you’re here.”

They stepped into the hall, the umbrella dribbling a tiny stream of water across the floor as Rutledge furled it and left it outside. The housekeeper was gone only a few minutes. She led them to the salon, with its broad windows and the dark, wet sweep of the lawns beyond.

Lord Sedgwick was sitting there, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He rose and greeted his guests with warmth.

“Do sit down! You’ve come about the reward, have you? Has Blevins made up his mind who should have it?”

“I rather think he’s leaving the decision to you. But I haven’t come about Walsh. I’m here about your late coachman, Herbert Baker.”

Surprised, Sedgwick said, “Baker? What does he have to do with Walsh?”

“Can you tell me who in your family made it possible for his wife to have the medical attention she required?” His expression gave away nothing but polite interest. “It must have cost more than Baker could afford in a lifetime.”

“Baker’s wife? Ah. I have a feeling that must have been Virginia. My daughter-in-law. She no doubt arranged for money to be sent anonymously. Very much the sort of thing she would do.” There was a blandness in his voice that Rutledge found irritating.

Even if she’d had no idea what she was signing, Virginia’s name would surely be there, in the bank’s file of correspondence. Because that’s when the planning must have begun.