“A message from the Chief Superintendent, sir,” the sergeant said without preamble. “You're to stay where you are until he telephones you. There's been a good bit of trouble in the North. Place called Urskdale. And it appears you're the closest man we've got.”

“I know the area.” Rutledge's voice down the line was wary. He was beginning to take the measure of his senior officer: There was often a whitewash of facts when Bowles sent Rutledge to handle an inquiry. And scant praise when Rutledge succeeded on his own in spite of unforeseen obstacles expected to defeat him. Bowles's cardinal interest was in fiercely protecting his own advancement and making certain his men reflected well on him. More than one ambitious inspector had learned to his cost that credit often found its way to the Chief Superintendent, deserved or not. And Rutledge had discovered in Kent to what lengths Bowles would go to destroy a threat. “What kind of trouble?”

“Five dead. Shot, all of them. One missing. All in a single family, sir.”

“Gentle God! Any other details?”

“No, sir, not that I've been told. They'd just been discovered. The bodies. Late yesterday, as I understand it. The snow is hampering the local people, but Inspector Greeley has got parties out searching for miles in every direction. The Chief Constable agrees with him that the Yard should be brought in as quickly as feasible.”

“Very well, I'll wait for the Chief Superintendent's instructions.” As Rutledge was about to put up the telephone, Gibson's voice came down the line in a last word.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“It's likely the Chief Superintendent will have other things on his mind, sir, and forget to tell you. But we've had a call, just last night, from Chief Inspector Blakemore in Preston. He was pleased with your discretion. That's how he put it, sir. Your discretion.”

It was rare praise from Gibson, a man not given to unnecessary speech. But then Sergeant Gibson would do whatever lay in his power to irk Old Bowels, as the Chief Superintendent was known among the rank and file. And he always chose his methods with an unerring eye for what would succeed without bringing a reprimand down on his own head. If Bowles disliked Rutledge enough to withold praise, Gibson took spiteful pleasure in passing it on.