“Thank you!” she said again, and turning, walked swiftly out to the lobby, in the direction of the lounge.

Rutledge resumed his seat as Hamish said, “It’s no’ a name you ken?”

“No. But if she’s already learned that I’m from the Yard, she must live here in Osterley.”

Finishing his trifle quickly, Rutledge left the dining room and went down the passage to the lounge.

But it was empty, except for one of the families who had dined at the hotel.

“She hasna’ waited,” Hamish pointed out. “A woman will change her mind, if she canna’ be sure she’s doing what’s best.”

Rutledge turned back to the dining room and met Mrs. Barnett coming through the glass doors. “Oh—there you are! I put Miss Connaught in the small parlor, just there—” She pointed to a closed door beyond the lounge. “There will be other guests having their tea in the lounge. I thought you might prefer a little privacy.”

“Yes, thank you,” he said. “Could you bring us tea in about five minutes?”

“I’ll be happy to, Inspector.” Her voice held a cooler note.

Hamish said, “Aye, they know now who you are.”

His anonymity—his role as a man with no ties to the problems of Osterley—had been stripped from him. There had been a new reserve in Mrs. Barnett’s manner. And it would soon be reflected in that of other people. His questions would be met with reticence.

Rutledge walked on to open the door Mrs. Barnett had indicated.

Priscilla Connaught was sitting by the small hearth, staring at the empty grate. She rose as Rutledge entered the room, facing him as if uncertain whether or not she really wanted to speak to him. Frowning, she gnawed her lip.

She was tall, rather slim, with dark hair showing only the first hints of graying, but her face was that of someone who suffers constant pain. Not lined so much as the planes worn down to bone, giving them a severity that was not unattractive.

Over the dark gray dress she was wearing was a matching coat with a lovely little gold pin at her lapel, stylish but somehow conveying a sense of mourning in the austerity of the cut. Her hat was a softer shade of gray with a small bunch of white feathers where the brim lifted on the left side.

A woman who would stand out wherever she was.

Hamish murmured something, but Rutledge didn’t quite catch it, only the words “. . . a fierce pride . . .”

Miss Connaught was saying, “I hope you didn’t rush your meal on my account—” Her voice was strained.