“Hell and damnation!” he swore under his breath. And looked up at the constable with the fierce glare of a man who needs spectacles and is too vain to wear them.

“Sanders, is it? Any more than this, do you know?”

“That's all Sergeant Gibson gave me, sir. He said we've got a man close by, sir, who could be there in a matter of hours, if you like. Inspector Rutledge has just finished his testimony in Preston and is set to travel back to London in the morning.”

“Rutledge?” Bowles scowled. He disliked Rutledge with a fervor that time and various absences had not succeeded in reducing. Mickelson, on the other hand, was a man after his own heart. Careful, never stirring up the wrong people, deferential to his superiors, Mickelson was. Not always clever, but steady. It would take him twice as long to arrive on the scene, but he could be trusted.

On the other hand, the Chief Constable who had sent to the Yard for immediate assistance was a man of parts, with connections-a brother in Parliament, and a wife whose father had a title. It would not do to let him discover that Chief Superintendent Bowles had not been as expeditious as he might have been, under the circumstances. Five dead-bloody hell!

They were going to attract notice, these murders…

He couldn't afford to dally.

“Rutledge it will have to be, then,” Bowles agreed sourly. “Tell Gibson to get word to his hotel and stop him before he leaves Preston. I'll be in my office directly.” He read through the message a third time-and had second thoughts.

“Yes, send Rutledge by all means,” he repeated. If anything went wrong in the North, it might be just as well to have a scapegoat available. “I'll speak to him myself as soon as I've been put in the picture.”

T he telephone call that reached Rutledge shortly before dawn was from Sergeant Gibson, a gruff man with a good head on his shoulders.