It was tall, brick built, with peaked roofs, long windows facing him, and an array of chimneys. He could just pick out the swing of the drive before the main door.

The windows were blank gray spaces against a gray, sunless day, giving the house an abandoned look. By the time they reached the broad steps up to the black painted door, it was clear that the house hadn’t been lived in for some time.

Looking up at the date incised into a plain scroll set into stone above the door, Frances read, “1809. It’s really a rather handsome house, isn’t it? What a pity that it’s been left to wrack and ruin. I wonder what happened to the family that lived here?”

“The heir probably died in the war.”

“Sadly, yes. Very likely.”

A pair of unclipped bushy evergreens grew to either side of the steps, and he pushed his way through the scraggly branches of the one to his left in order to peer through the nearest window. “Dust sheets,” he reported. “But there’s a wide entry, with doors to either side, and a staircase rising just beyond. Elegant ceiling, what I can see of it.”

From the condition of the drive and the closed look to the house, it was clear that Wyatt Russell was not living here now. And it was obvious the house hadn’t been reopened after the war. Why had he given Essex as his address, if he was currently living in The Marlborough Hotel, not just staying a few days there?

Rejoining Frances, Rutledge added, “Shall we walk round to the water? There may be a bench or two where we can sit and admire the view.”

“I’m withholding all expectations,” she said dubiously, “but lead on.”

A broad terrace faced the river, with long windows looking out to it and large urns marking either side of the steps.