LONDON End of February, 1920

Chief Superintendent Bowles sat at his cluttered desk, chewing on the end of his mustache, staring at his subordinate.

“Time off?” he said. “What on earth for?”

“A-personal matter,” Inspector Rutledge answered, unforthcoming.

“Indeed!” Bowles continued to stare. The nurse who’d sent him a copy of this man’s medical file before Rutledge returned to duty last June must have lied.

Rutledge was still thin for his height, and his face was drawn as if from lack of sleep. But the eyes, dark and haunted, were intelligent and alert. So much for cowardice. And he hadn’t shown a yellow streak in the north, over that nasty business about the child. The local man had complained of him, of course, and Mickelson had been angry over the outcome of the case. But the Chief Magistrate had told Bowles in no uncertain terms that the investigation had been brilliantly handled.

And the Chief Magistrate had Connections. It wouldn’t do to ignore that.

Rutledge had also done well in Northamptonshire, though it had been a grave risk sending this man to see to Hensley. But then he’d trusted Hensley to keep his mouth shut, and it had turned out all right. There was no proof to be found that he’d known what Hensley was up to. Or none that he knew of.

His thoughts returned to the letter from the clinic.

Bowles had half a mind to bring that fool nurse up on charges of incompetence. For the past six months, Rutledge had somehow managed to turn every test into a small success. What was he to do about this man who refused to destroy himself? The nurse had sworn she’d overheard him threatening suicide time and again, she had sworn he wouldn’t survive the rigors of the Yard for more than a month, two at best.