wish her a speedy recovery. And time would see to that. He could still remember the shock of recognition as she lay there injured in the broken and twisted wreckage of her carriage. He’d been too busy then to deal with the image that was burned into his memory. Seeing her whole again would change that.

“Aye,” Hamish said. “But she isna’ coming back to London straightaway. She was already leaving it, ye ken.”

Analyzing his own feelings, he realized that the uppermost emotion that day had been fear. Fear that she was terribly injured. Not pity or compassion or anger at the waste of a life.

He had been in love once. And it hadn’t worked out. Just as Lawrence Cobb had said. He’d seen the look on Jean’s face when she finally visited him in hospital and realized what he’d become. He had done the only thing he could do in that single appalling moment: he’d released her from her promise to marry him, so that he wouldn’t have to face her rejection. The relief on her face as he spoke the words had stayed with him long after her first horrified view of him sitting there, a broken man, had begun to fade.

Once was enough. He said as much to Hamish, his voice sounding overly loud in the cacophony of traffic as he turned toward the Yard.

Gibson greeted him with the news that Billy had killed again.

“There’s been another murder. Of the same ilk. And this time Billy has cut his throat. The victim was on the bridge, walking, minding his own business. And he was robbed.”

“How can you be sure it’s our friend Billy?”

“The past week, we’ve had constables in street clothes walking over the bridge and along the river late at night, and we’ve been watching them with field glasses. But nothing happened.” He paused. “None of them looked like you from a distance. They were a different shape. Different height. And nothing happened to them. And then this poor sod was attacked.”

“Billy was elsewhere. Or recognized them for policemen.”

Gibson said, “We don’t think so. His victims are usually near the bridge. And out late at night. They could have passed for you, walking off a mood. You do that, you know.”

Rutledge hadn’t realized that he was so predictable. “All right. Go on.”

“You nearly caught him. He’s afraid of you. And he wants you dead, for luck.”

It wasn’t unheard of.

“He won’t come back tonight. Not with the police everywhere, looking for evidence.”

“No, sir. I suggest you get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow night you’ll be on that bridge, and we’ll be watching you.”

“Whose idea was this?” Rutledge asked, curious.

“Inspector Mickelson, sir,” Gibson replied, his voice neutral. “But we have to catch him, sir. There’s no other way.”

“Yes, I understand. All right. But only tomorrow night, Gibson. I must drive to Essex on Monday morning, unless Captain Teller returns to London sooner.”

“I hope you’ll be taking someone into custody soon. Old Bowels is getting impatient.”

“Bowles isn’t going to like it when we do. Peter Teller, Walter Teller’s elder brother, seems to be our man.”

“My dear lord.” Gibson whistled softly. “I hope your evidence is rock solid. Or none of us will have any peace.”

Rutledge left, intending to visit his sister. If Jake hadn’t said anything of importance—and he was not anticipating hearing that he had—then he would carry the bird back to Lancashire and give it to Lawrence Cobb.

He caught Frances just returning from dinner with friends and hailed her as she was going inside. She turned and smiled at him.

“Ian. Come in. I’ve had a lovely evening. What brings you here? Don’t tell me it’s Jake. I’ll be jealous.”

He laughed. “I expected to find the lights on, Jake on the loose, and myself in bad odor for bringing him to you.”

“He’s been a dear. I’ve tried to write down everything he says, but it’s mostly wishing her husband Peter a good night, or something ordinary. He says ‘My dearest wife’ in her voice, but I know it’s a letter he must have heard a hundred times. And ‘Shall we have tea, my dear?’ He always answers that with ‘What will Jake have?’ Hardly useful in a courtroom, I’m afraid.”

“I didn’t expect an enlightening conversation with a murderer,” he said as Frances turned on the light in the small breakfast room and then lifted the covering from Jake’s cage.

He was asleep, head tucked beneath his wing, but he looked at them, blinking the second lid on his eye, and