“I was. I seem to remember it in the same way. Were you in the war?”

“Oh, yes, rushing to sign up before it was over, chafing at the bit, afraid the Kaiser would fold before I’d learned how to fight him properly. Writing letters home from training filled with patriotism and an eagerness to kill a people I’d never met. Well, I did know a few Germans at Cambridge. Nice enough chaps, I didn’t picture them when I was hot to shoot the Hun. They weren’t the sort to bayonet Belgian babies and rape Belgian women. My cousin was fond of one of them, in fact, but the man was called home shortly before hostilities were declared, and we don’t know if he survived the fighting or not.”

“If you were in the war, how is it that you were in Essex to commit murder?”

“Yes, that’s a bit confusing, isn’t it? I was sent to London with dispatches. The house had been closed up, but I went down to have a look at it. Fowler was there, we quarreled. Opportunity presented itself, and temptation did the rest. There was a temporary airfield nearby. Zeppelin watch and night flights. The only risk was that if the body was discovered, one of the new chaps would be blamed for what happened. But apparently I was lucky. No one stumbled over him.”

“Were you married when you went to war?”

“Ah, too many questions.”

Rutledge’s whisky came. Still probing, he said, “I decided not to marry the girl I thought I was in love with. And a good thing-I think she loved the uniform more than she loved the man. The marriage wouldn’t have lasted.” And he was reminded again of Meredith Channing, whose marriage had lasted, on the cold ashes of duty.

Russell studied Rutledge for a moment over the rim of his glass. “Did it turn out well, your war?”