London, Early June, 1920

After several days of giving evidence in the case in Sheffield, Ian Rutledge had returned to the Yard to find Superintendent Bowles suffering from dyspepsia and a headache.

Glowering at Rutledge, Bowles had snapped, "You're late."

"There was a heavy storm in the north. Trees down, in fact, and part of the road washed away."

"If you took the train like the rest of us, you'd have been on time."

"As it happens, the train was late as well."

"And how would you know that?"

"When I came in just now, I overheard Sergeant Gibson telling someone there had been problems with tracks in the north as well as the road."

"What was the outcome in Sheffield? Well? Don't keep me waiting," Bowles snapped.

"The jury was not long in convicting. Tuttle will spend the rest of his life in prison."

"I thought the Crown hoped he'd hang."

"The jury was not for it."

"Damned county jurors. It was a hanging case if ever there was one. It would have been, in London."

Rutledge made no answer. He'd agreed with the jury. It had been, as the French would say, a crime of passion, an overwhelming grief that had ended in the death of Tuttle's ill wife. Whether by design or by accident, only God knew. For Tuttle, hanging would have in many ways been a travesty.

Bowles took out his watch and opened the case, looking at the time. "Just as well you're back. I'm informed there's trouble in Brixton, and we're shorthanded at the moment. Clarke is in Wales, and I've just sent Mickelson to Hampshire." He waited for Rutledge to raise any objection. Satisfied that none was forthcoming, he went on. "Four barrow boys in a brawl with a handful of Irishmen. But it has to be sorted out. Two are in hospital, and one could be dead by morning. And he's the brother-in-law of the constable who broke it up. There'll be hard feelings, and no end of trouble if the man dies."