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street.”
    He thanked her, and walked on.
    The shop was a woman’s domain. In the large window was a collection of handmade tea cozies, apparently for sale, and behind them were displayed a half dozen teapots of various sizes and shapes. He turned to look up at the eastern headland, where the ruins of the abbey stood out against the sky. What, he wondered, must it have looked like before it had been destroyed? A dark, elegant church soaring above its outbuildings, and strong enough to withstand the winds and storms that blew in from the sea.
    Beyond the tea shop he could see the lighthouse, shorter thanmany but marking whatever rocks guarded the harbor. The tide was turning, and the boats at anchor bobbed and swayed, as if eager to escape their moorings and move out to sea on their own.
    He opened the door of the shop and stepped inside. A counter to his left held trays that must have been laden with pastries and cakes earlier in the day. Even now there seemed to be a wide sampling. French-style tarts, traditional buns, a variety of biscuits, and even a few scones. Three cakes, slices missing, sat on tall, stemmed glass plates, and there were three small pies inside a glass box, wedges already cut.
    Rutledge nodded to the fair-haired woman behind the counter and took one of the empty tables. There were only a few people in the shop now, an older couple sitting to one side, finishing their morning tea, and a younger woman with a baby in a pram awaiting her order.
    A second woman came out from the back, bearing a tray with teapot, cup, and saucer, a small round bowl of sugar and a smaller jug of milk. Setting it down in front of the younger woman, she said, “There you go, Maggie, love.” On a floral plate there was a fruit tart, strawberry, he thought, or possibly rhubarb. The younger woman thanked her and with a glance at the sleeping baby, turned eagerly to the treat before her.
    The woman crossed to Rutledge’s table and said, “And what would you like, love?” She looked to be in her early thirties, pretty and all-business, despite the warmth of her greeting.
    Rutledge ordered tea and a lemon tart, then said, “I wonder if I’ve missed Mrs. Calder. I was told by a neighbor that I could find her here?”
    â€œAnd who shall I say is wanting her?” the woman asked, her face changing from friendly to cold.
    â€œMy name is Rutledge, I’m from London. Inspector Farraday can vouch for me, if you like.”
    She glanced over her shoulder to where Maggie was pouring her tea, then pulled out the chair from the far side of his table and said in a lowvoice, “I’m Mrs. Calder. Is this about poor Mr. Clayton? We’d heard someone was coming up from London and might wish to speak to us.”
    He took out his identification and held it out to her. She studied it before handing it back to him.
    â€œLet me fetch your tea, then.”
    She disappeared for several minutes and returned with another tray, setting it before him and then sitting down again.
    â€œIt was the most terrible thing,” she said, keeping her voice low. “I never went into that house, you understand. Constable Blaine did what needed to be done. Annie Clayton was in such a state, and I didn’t want to see for myself . . .” Her voice trailed off. “She told me she feared he was dead,” she went on after a moment. “And I didn’t doubt her. Later, I called myself a coward for not being sure.”
    He poured his tea and added sugar, then the milk. “The doctor’s report says the victim had been dead for some time. That he’d been—er—killed around two or three in the morning. There was nothing you could have done. But your house is next to the Claytons. You must have heard something in the night? Raised voices, a struggle?”
    â€œBut I didn’t,” she said earnestly. “Not a peep. Our bedroom is on the far side of the house, of course.