for Clark’s connection to the rest of the crimes or trying to eliminate him as a suspect. Instead, Wargrove, in concert with Darrow, had rushed to arrest Clark just so they could claim the case had been solved.
Eversham prized the truth above all else. And scapegoating a man for the simple reason that the government wanted the case solved went against everything he stood for.
Thinking back to that farce of a day when Wargrove had announced Clark’s arrest, Eversham was livid all over again. It had been nothing more than a performance put on for the benefit of the Home Office.
The only good thing to come about as a result was that Eversham had the opportunity to give a piece of his mind to one of the authors of the interview that had brought all of this about. Perhaps Katherine Bascomb hadn’t known what would happen as a result of her interference, but that didn’t excuse her.
Yes, it was his fault that Lizzie hadn’t been interviewed in the first place. He took full responsibility for not making sure Wargrove had done his job. However, Mrs. Bascomb and her cohort should have come to the police as soon as they discovered Lizzie had seen something.
Lizzie’s account of what she’d witnessed, and her description of the man who must have been the actual killer, was just the sort of detail he’d needed while the case was still his to investigate. As it was, he’d been kept so busy with mundane work, he’d not been able to go out and pursue new leads.
He was so lost in his own thoughts that he almost didn’t hear the young constable call to him from the doorway to the file room.
“Super wants to see you, Eversham. He said don’t dawdle.”
Andrew straightened. For a split second, he considered that Darrow had come to his senses and had decided to reinstate him as a detective and allow him to finish his investigation. But his more realistic side suspected he was only in for an interrogation as to whether he was ready to acknowledge Wargrove had apprehended the right man.
As he neared the level where the upper echelons of the department kept offices, the floors were cleaner, the air was sweeter, the light was somehow brighter. The leadership at the Met were the haute ton of the police force and they lived like it.
When he reached the polished mahogany door with a shiny brass nameplate reading Chief Superintendent Max Darrow, Eversham knocked briskly, and at the muffled sound of a voice on the other side, he opened the door and strode in.
The office was nearly as large as some houses Eversham had visited in the course of his work. The walls were papered in a finely drawn pattern of fruit trees intertwined with vines. Like his door, the super’s desk was polished to a high sheen, and every fixture in the room was clean enough to show a reflection.
The man himself was much less polished. Eversham knew from gossip that Darrow had married into a prominent London family, and that had been his entree into his current position. But the fellow had spent years in the army in India, and his sun-weathered complexion bore witness to that. He was a strategic thinker, and far better at the politics of this job than Eversham could ever be. He’d thought they were friends of a kind, but that illusion had dissolved when his boss had knowingly allowed the arrest of the wrong man for the sake of those politics.
If turning one’s back on one’s principles was what it took to be effective, then Eversham was glad he’d never aspired to gain a higher rank.
“Ah, Eversham.” Darrow removed the spectacles from his hawk-like nose and gestured for his guest to step in. “Have a seat. Have a seat.”
The super had a habit of saying things twice in a row.
Inclining his head in acknowledgment, Eversham lowered himself into the leather-covered armchair across the desk from his superior.
Darrow leaned back in his chair and scanned him for a moment. “Well, I won’t beat about the bush, man.” He slapped the desk top with his open palm. “There’s been a murder up in the Lake District that bears all the hallmarks of the Commandments Killer.”
Eversham sat up straighter. “What does this mean, sir?”
Darrow steepled his fingers. “I know you’d like to think it means Wargrove was wrong, but it’s too soon to determine such a thing. For all we know, it’s someone up there who