a report. He had no idea why Walter Teller had been ill or left the clinic without a word. He rather thought, but had no intention of telling Bowles, that Teller’s brothers had suspected something. Yet they hadn’t confronted him. And that was decidedly odd, given their anger when he returned. Was it Jenny’s presence that had stopped them?

Bowles nodded. “I should think it might be very difficult to go back to those godforsaken posts after all these years away. I wouldn’t fancy it myself. But he may have felt honor bound to fulfill his commitment to the Society.”

Rutledge said nothing.

“If it were anyone but Walter Teller, I’d have a word with him. Wasting police time and putting us all through the hoops. I must say, I expected better of the man.”

“I already have made it clear—”

“At least you managed to keep this business out of the newspapers. With the number of police involved in the search, it’s a wonder word didn’t get out.”

“If it had gone on much longer—or had had a different ending—we might not have escaped their attention.”

“There’s that. All right. Let me have your report before the day is out.”

But instead of returning to his own office, Rutledge went out of the Yard and walked to Trafalgar Square and then past St. Martin-in-the-Fields, taking the streets at random while his mind was busy.

It had reached a very unsatisfactory conclusion, this inquiry, he thought, ignoring the people coming and going around him, the busy traffic of a London day.

Why had Teller returned on his own? And where was he? What had he really been doing with his time?

Hamish said, “He willna’ tell anyone.”

And Rutledge thought that that was probably true. He wondered if Teller had decided to return to the field. Perhaps his soul-searching had found his answer.

Suddenly he recalled what Mary Brittingham had said, that Walter Teller wasn’t a saint. He was bitter. About what? It would be enlightening to know.

And that, Rutledge decided, was the best explanation of the man he’d heard.

But of course that was not something that could be expressed in a report.

Chapter 17

Peter Teller sat in his garden in Bolingbroke Street and poured himself another glass of whisky. His hand was shaking, but he was far from as drunk as he wanted to be.

His brother Walter was back, greeted like the prodigal son. It was a travesty. All that was needed was the fatted calf, he told himself sourly.

What did he know? He had stared into his brother’s eyes and seen nothing. And not even Walter was that cold-blooded.

Draining the glass, he sat back in his chair, moved his bad leg a little in the hope of finding a more comfortable position, and stared through the silhouetted leaves above his head at the night sky, black as he was sure his soul was.

What in God’s name had he done? To make matters worse, he couldn’t have said under oath what had become of his cane. It wasn’t in the motorcar. In his haste he must have dropped it. In the grass? Along the road? When he got out two hours later to stretch and massage his leg?

He hadn’t intended to frighten her. He had only wanted to say what he’d come to say and walk away.

He wasn’t even sure now just what he had said—the words had spilled out, a reflection of fear and anger. He’d charged German positions under fire, he’d killed men, he’d fought for King and Country, and yet in those few seconds he’d lost his courage, and with it lost his head.

What sort of man was he? To run as he had, to leave her there, an act of such sheer cowardice that he couldn’t blot it out of his mind, no matter how much he drank.

And he could tell no one. Not Edwin, not Susannah. Certainly not Leticia.

For a time he considered going inside, finding his service revolver, and putting an end to his shame and revulsion. But he couldn’t do it. The same tenacity that had made him fight over and over again to keep his damaged leg when the surgeons were intent on removing it forced him to face the man he was. Perhaps, he told himself bitterly, after the shock wore off, he might even learn to stand himself again.

He was becoming a maudlin drunk, and that he despised.

Susannah came out into the garden, wrapping her dressing gown closer against the late night chill.

“Won’t you come to bed? A night’s rest will do you