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searched. Apparently Clayton hadn’t gone up to bed. It hadn’t been slept in.”
    â€œDid the neighbors hear anything useful?”
    â€œNothing at all.”
    â€œWhat sort of man was Clayton?” Rutledge asked.
    â€œNot tall. He’d put on a stone or two in the last few years. I don’t think his daughter could have strung him up like that. I can’t see why Peter would. Besides, he was at home with his wife and sister. They played a board game or two, then went to bed.”
    â€œAnd the younger son? Where was he?”
    â€œMichael and three friends had traveled down to York to visit a fourth friend who’d just become engaged. I’ve spoken to the Yorkpolice, they were there, in a pub, celebrating the occasion. Nor could any of them come up to Moresby, do the deed, and return to York without being missed.”
    â€œMichael’s friends wouldn’t cover for him if he asked them to lie?”
    Inspector Farraday took a deep breath. “It’s possible, of course, but I doubt it. The groom’s parents put them up. Responsible people, they’d have kept an eye on their son and his friends.”
    â€œMistaken identity, then? Did someone kill the wrong man?”
    â€œAs to that, I can’t say. See for yourself.”
    Farraday handed over the statements he’d been reviewing. Rutledge scanned them. The Moresby police had been thorough, speaking to each of the suspects several times, and the interviews had been carefully documented.
    â€œWho were the other strangers that you mentioned?” Rutledge asked, still reading through the statements. Someone had taken the time to type them out neatly, but the original handwritten copies were there as well.
    â€œOne came here to write an article about the abbey ruins for a London magazine doing a series on monastic sites. So he says. I’ve telegraphed the magazine, but there’s been no reply. Two came in with the Lillian, a sailing yacht up from Sandwich in Kent. Cousins on holiday. They took rooms at The Anchor Inn. The landlord vouched for them. Four others have come up from London on a holiday. To go fishing. They hired Danny Craven’s boat to take them out each morning. The other four were women, on their way to York, stopping off to visit a sister who lives just outside Moresby. The one we haven’t tracked down is an artist, I’m told. He does paintings of local beauty spots. Apparently they sell well in Harrogate, to those who come to take the waters. I’ve spoken to the Swan Hotel, where he sometimes displays his work. They call him harmless. But I haven’t clapped eyes on him yet. He’s staying at your hotel.”
    Turning to another interview, Rutledge looked up. “Four women, working together, could hang a man.”
    Inspector Farraday stared. “Could, possibly. Yes. But did they? I think not. I’ve seen them.”
    Rutledge studied Farraday to see if he were serious. And it appeared that he was. “I’ll begin with the neighbor.” He shuffled through the statements again. “Mrs. Calder.”
    â€œGood luck to you,” Farraday said, leaning back in his chair.
    Rutledge made a note of the address and set out on foot. The house was back in the direction he’d come into Moresby, on a side street that ran a little way up the western headland before ending in a cul-de-sac. A turn-of-the-century bungalow with a door painted a dark green. He studied the Calder residence for a moment, then looked at number 17, where the murder must have occurred. That door was painted black. He realized that along this street the range of colors included a dark blue, an egg yolk yellow, and even a brick red. There might have been difficulty deciding which color was which in the dark . . .
    The houses weren’t cheek by jowl, but they were close enough for a struggle in one to be heard in another. The house on the far side of number 17 had a TO LET