“Not at all well.”

“Yes, it seldom does, I expect. I found that killing people wasn’t to my liking after all. But I did my duty to my men and to my country. I was damned glad when it was over, all the same.”

“Did being a soldier make it any easier, killing your cousin?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “The policeman again. Do you never leave him at home? It must be a bloody nuisance at dinner parties, wondering what subtle undercurrent of meaning there might be when someone asks you to pass the salt.”

Rutledge laughed.

“What made you decide to join the police? Why not become a lawyer, instead, if you were hell-bent on punishing evildoers?”

“My father was a solicitor. I considered his profession, and then decided against it.”

The waiter brought their lamb, and Russell inspected it. “I’m hungry enough to chew the table. But swallowing is another matter.” He sopped up a little of the sauce with a corner of bread and tasted it. “Ah yes. I remember why I always liked this so much.”

They spoke of other things during the meal, and Rutledge waited until they had finished their pudding before asking, “Why did you decide to come to the Yard in person, rather than to write a letter that would be opened after your death?” He had once known a murderer who did just that.

“The policeman is back, is he? We could have been great friends, save for him. All right, I suppose you deserve the answer to one question. It seemed rather cowardly to tell someone after the fact. I suppose I had a religious upbringing of sorts and realized that to confess was not enough. To admit wrongdoing and to show contrition while I was alive had more meaning somehow.”

“And do you feel better, for having unburdened your soul?”

Russell frowned. “Do you know, I thought I would. I’ve kept my secret for a very long time, or so it seemed to me. Screwing up the courage to come to the Yard while I could still manage the effort was a test of my intent. My strength of character, as it were. But it wasn’t quite-as I’d expected.”