“Would you have been happier if I’d clapped you in irons and taken you to trial? Would hanging make a difference?”

“I had rather not hang, although it would shorten a lingering death. And perhaps I felt, after a fashion, that my crime was not as horrific as it had seemed at the time. That’s the war speaking, of course. When one has killed thousands-well, hundreds, although it sometimes seemed like thousands-what’s one more life taken? But do you know, it does make a difference. I think it matters because I had a choice, you see. I could have not killed him. And yet I did. And so I have come to you to confess and set the record straight. Only,” he added, frowning at the remnants of his pudding, “it hasn’t been set straight, has it? Are you quite certain that you must know more about why I killed him?”

“It will have to come out. If there is an inquiry. You’ll be questioned. And if you fail to answer those questions satisfactorily, then we will go in search of the answers ourselves. It will not be pleasant.”

“I hadn’t expected it to be pleasant,” Russell told him. “I had just not anticipated that it would be so very personal. Or public. Least of all, that anyone else would have to be involved. With any luck, I shall be dead before it reaches that stage. Tell the policeman to mind his own business until then. I’ve no doubt you’ll not let this matter drop, but once I’m not there to answer your questions, you won’t be able to do any harm.” He signaled the waiter, and then said to Rutledge, “I’m very tired. It’s one of the curses of my condition. I shan’t be able to see you out.”

“Is there anything that I can do? Help you to your room?”

“Thank you, no. I can still manage that.”

Rutledge rose and held out his hand. “If you change your mind at any point, you know where to find me.”