As it happened, Bevins’s dog was a great, heavy-coated black monster with more than a little mastiff in him. He slavered heavily as he greeted Rutledge and then trotted sedately at his side as the two of them left the Yard and headed for Green Park.

In the back of Rutledge’s mind, Hamish was unsettled this morning. The voice was just behind his shoulder, clear in spite of the traffic that moved through the streets even at this early hour or the jostling of people as they hurried past or stepped aside with a murmured comment about the dog on its leather lead.

“Ugly brute,” one man said, and as if the dog understood, he raised his massive head and stared back. The man turned into the nearest shop, out of reach of the strong white teeth grinning malevolently almost on a level with his throat.

Hamish was saying, “Ye’ve been reduced to this, then. A distraction any green constable on probation could ha’ provided.”

“Not by choice,” Rutledge answered curtly, under his breath.

“Aye, he’s a bad enemy, yon chief superintendent. M’ Granny would ha’ found him in the bowl of water, and put a curse on him.”

“I wonder what my godfather would have to say to that.”

“He’s no’ a Scot. He wouldna’ be told what went on below the stairs.”

The voice was not really there-although Rutledge had never dared to turn his head to see. It was in his own mind, deep-seated since July 1916, when both he and Corporal MacLeod had cracked under the stress of the ferocious Somme Offensive. But it was Hamish MacLeod, the good soldier, the caring young Scot putting his men ahead of himself, who had faced the hastily collected firing squad intended to keep order in the midst of the bedlam of battle. The charge was refusing an order, but the order had been to lead his men back into heavy fire for one more hopeless attempt to reach the German machine gunners-one more suicidal command sent up from the rear.