Ian. This was very kind of you.”

And she strode up the walk, opening her door, disappearing inside.

He stood there, Hamish hammering at him, and then turned and got in his motorcar.

Afterward, he wasn’t sure how he got as far as Windsor without knowing it. He had to turn around and drive back to London.

Chief Superintendent Bowles had given some thought to the trap he intended to lay for the murderer they knew only as Billy.

He said, as Rutledge reported to him, “Good, you’re early.”

“How is Cummins?”

“Out of the woods, but not thanks to Billy. He came damned close to severing an artery. We’ve got to stop this maniac, and you’re to be the bait. At least that’s the current thinking—that it’s you he’s after.”

“I don’t think he’s a maniac.”

“Stands to reason that he is. Hunting people like an animal. Then taking his knife to them.”

Rutledge let it go. Instead, he asked Bowles, “Was there any information on that man Hood, who is our witness for Bynum’s killing?”

“The address he gave us was false, a stationer’s shop. Like many of his kind, he doesn’t want to be found.”

So, Rutledge thought, little more than he’d known already. “Have you spoken to Gibson or one of the older sergeants? The man may have a past. I’ve seen him before or dealt with him somewhere.”

“It doesn’t matter. We shan’t need him until the trial. Here’s the plan. You’ll drive over to the police station in Lambeth, and speak to the sergeant on duty. It’s a routine question, about one of the men Billy robbed earlier on. I want you to be seen, and then return here. At nine o’clock, I want you to dine with Mickelson, walking with him to that pub on the far side of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Then you’ll return alone on foot as darkness falls, and walk along the Embankment. Failing any sighting of our friend Billy, you’ll walk to the bridge and stand where you did before.”

“He’s not going to fall easily into a trap,” Rutledge warned. “He’s seen your men, he knows he sent Cummins to hospital. Here’s a better choice.” And he outlined what he had in mind.

Bowles was willing to compromise, and at eight o’clock Mickelson and Rutledge left the Yard on foot for their meal. It was a stilted dinner, neither man feeling much like opening a conversation, the animosity between them making even a request for a saltcellar sound like a declaration of war.

Their dislike of each other went back to an inquiry in Westmor-land, where Mickelson misjudged a volatile situation and nearly got an innocent bystander killed. Rather than acknowledge his mistake, he’d rushed to London and laid full blame at Rutledge’s door. Circumstances had cleared Rutledge, but Bowles had not been swift to act on the information and still favored Mickelson.

Rutledge finished first, and went on foot back to the Yard. He felt like dozens of eyes watched his progress, but from street level he could see no one.

He went into the Yard. A quarter of an hour later, Constable Miller, dressed as a sweep, was drunkenly making a nuisance of himself in front of the House of Commons. A single constable was dispatched to deal with him, but the noise level didn’t abate. Rutledge, with another constable in tow, strode down to Commons and reasoned with the drunken man. Miller, young and excited, nearly overplayed his role, but in the end, the two constables marched him back to the Yard, protesting every step of the way at the top of his considerable lungs. A small crowd gathered to watch, laughing at the spectacle, and Miller played to his audience, offering to kiss the pretty girls and bring them a sweep’s luck. He dropped one of his brushes, bent over to retrieve it, and fell on his face. The two constables, one on either side, brought him to his feet and kept the bundle. By this time, Miller appeared to be turning a little green, and the onlookers moved away as he knelt and was sick in the gutter. The constables, waiting impatiently, urged the last two or three people who were lingering to see how the situation turned out, to be about their business. A decidedly uncomfortable Miller, holding his stomach, and complaining that he’d meant no harm, shambled between his captors and was soon hauled through the door at the Yard.

Rutledge, inside Commons, walked out talking to a well-dressed man who could have been as important as he looked. They stood