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Something had triggered the chain of events that ended in that meadow. Something said—or left unsaid. Something done—or left undone. Something felt, something glimpsed, something misunderstood, something that had festered into an angry explosion of gunpowder and shot.

Royston, Wilton, Mrs. Davenant, Lettice Wood. Four different people with four vastly different relationships to the dead man. Royston an employee, Wilton a friend, Mrs. Davenant a neighbor, and Lettice Wood his ward. Surely he must have shown a different personality to each of them. It was human nature to color your moods and your conversations and your temperament to suit your company. Surely one of the four must have seen a side to his character that would lead the police to an answer.

It was hard to believe that Charles Harris had no sins heavy on his conscience, no faces haunting his dreams, no shadows on his soul. There was no such thing as a perfect English gentleman—

Hamish had started humming a tune, and Rutledge tried to ignore it, but it was familiar, and in the way of songs that run unbidden through the mind, it dragged his attention away from his own speculations. And then suddenly he realized what it was—a half-forgotten Victorian ballad called “The Proper English Gentleman” written by a less well known contemporary of Kipling’s—less popular perhaps because his sentiments were bitter and lacked Kipling’s fine sense of what the reading public would put up with, and what it would turn from. But the ballad had been popular enough in the trenches during the war:

He’s a proper English gentleman who never spills

his beer.

He dines with all the ladies and never shows his fear

Of picking up the wrong fork or swearing at the soup

When it’s hot enough to burn him, or jumping

through the hoop

Of English society, and all it represents.

But he’s a damned good soldier in front of all the

troops

And marches like a gentleman in his fine leather

boots

And eats in the reg’lar mess and calls the men by

name

And shares the dirty work with ’em, what’s called

the killing game

Of English Imperialism and all it represents.

But by his own hearthside he’s a very different sort

And he beats his tenants quarterly and no one dares

retort,

He takes their wives and daughters, and never stops

to think

That a man might someday shoot him when he’s

had enough to drink!

Of English duplicity, and all it represents,

He’s the finest of examples, and there’s others of his

kind

Who keep their secrets closely and never seem to mind

That the man who sits at table and has their deepest

trust

Might carry in his bosom the foulest kind of lust,

Not English respectability, and all it represents.

So watch your step, my laddies, keep your distance,

ladies dear,

Watch out for English gentlemen and don’t ever let

them near.

Their faces won’t betray them, their deeds are fine

and true,

But put them near temptation and it really will not

do—

For certain English gentlemen and all they represent.

What was the secret behind Charles Harris’s very proper face? What had he done, this apparently “thoroughly nice” man, that had made someone want to obliterate him, and to choose a shotgun at point-blank range to do it?

Barton Redfern was just removing the coffee things and turning to limp back to the kitchen when Dr. Warren came through the dining-room door and, seeing Rutledge at the table by the window, crossed hurriedly to him.

“You’d better come,” he said. “They’re about to lynch that stupid devil Mavers!”

5

Mavers, sprawled in the dust by the worn shaft of the village’s market cross, was bloody and defiant, spitting curses as a dozen men tried to kick and drag him toward the broad oak tree that stood outside a row of shops. There was murder in the angry faces encircling him, and someone had found a length of rope, although Rutledge wasn’t sure whether the initial intent was to hang Mavers or tie him to the tree for a sound thrashing. One man was