had been put to bed, the two men sat in the garden, talking as they had once done before the war and the loss it had brought in its wake.
Trevor had been a very fine architect before the death of his son had sent him into early retirement. He said one night, “I remember when your parents lived here in this house, and the parties they gave. Nothing elaborate, you understand, but we always enjoyed those evenings. Sometimes your mother would sit in the drawing room and play the piano while your father and I took our brandy out here after dinner. She was such a fine pianist. Your father was very proud of that.”
Rutledge said, “I remember her playing. I wish Frances would use the piano from time to time. But it sits closed from one year to the next.”
“Yes.” Trevor sighed. “Tell me about Frances. She hasn’t married. Was there someone in particular?”
“I always thought she might marry Ross. But there was someone else she loved for a time. Nothing came of it. Nothing could. Lately there was another man who seemed to take her fancy. I thought she was in love with him. But she hasn’t mentioned him for some weeks.”
“And what about you?”
Rutledge moved uneasily in his chair. “I don’t think I’ve healed sufficiently from the war to think about marrying anyone.”
“You aren’t still grieving for Jean, are you?”
Rutledge looked away, watching the twilight fade to night. “No. I grieve for her, but not out of love. Out of sadness that her life wasn’t filled with the happiness she was searching for so hard.”
“Yes, the war to end all war hasn’t turned out to be the blessing they promised us it would be. I look back at King Edward’s reign, and I think to myself, we were blissfully unaware of what was to come. Although there had been some talk about the Kaiser’s ambitions, no one took it seriously. I remember those days as sunlit and untrammeled by shadows.”
Rutledge replied, “At a guess, half of Britain feels the same.”
They laughed quietly in the darkness, and Frances said, as she stepped out into the garden, “Have I missed something?”
Trevor held out a hand. “We were longing for the past. A sign we’re growing old. Come and sit here, next to me. What time do we leave tomorrow to drive down to Kent?”
And she told him as she came to join them.
In the back of Rutledge’s mind, Hamish said softly, the Scots accent pronounced, “And the day after, they leave. Are ye no’ glad of that?”
Rutledge found that he wasn’t.
Chapter 12
The next morning Constable Evans ran Rutledge to ground at his sister’s house just as he was seeing his godfather and Frances off on their excursion to Kent to call on Melinda Crawford. They were trying to persuade Rutledge to join them after all, when Evans appeared.
Rutledge was not loathe to miss the journey, and the reminder of pressing business at the Yard was timely. While he was very fond of Melinda, Rutledge wasn’t comfortable spending so many hours in the company of three people who knew him entirely too well. Melinda, who had survived the Lucknow massacre during the Great Mutiny in India, knew more than most about the scars war could leave behind, and for far too long now, he’d been hard-pressed to avoid her sharp questions about the shadows under his eyes and the thinness that came from tension and long sleepless nights.
Expecting to be told that there was fresh information about Walter Teller, he went to his office, summoned Sergeant Gibson, and said, “Evans told me it was urgent. What do you have for me?”
“The Chief Superintendent sent Evans along to fetch you. You’d best hear it from him.”
Rutledge went along the passage to find Bowles fuming in his office. He looked up as Rutledge appeared in the open doorway and said, “What kept you?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I came as quickly as I could.”
“There’s been another stabbing. Are you quite sure there’s nothing more you can tell us about this man you call Billy?”
“I saw him only briefly. Who is the victim this time?”
“That’s the trouble. This time it was the secretary to an MP, just leaving the House and walking along the Embankment to clear his head. Bynum, his name is. There’s going to be one hell of an uproar over this. If you’d held on to the young bastard while you had him, we’d not be facing the wrath of Parliament. And