One of the newspapers had written a sensational account of the scene as imagined by one of their journalists: “He came boldly to the bed, speaking kindly, offering to plump the flat and lumpy pillows for them, as he must have done a hundred-nay, a thousand times!-and as they smiled gratefully, he slipped the pillow over their faces before that smile could be replaced by horror, and held it there firmly against their weak-futile-attempts to prevent him. And when the pale, flaccid arms fell back to his victims’ sides, he had lifted each graying head, slipped the pillow gently back beneath it, and closed the bulging eyes before walking back down the stairs and shutting the door behind him, leaving the pathetic corpse for a cleaning woman to discover in the morning…”

Inflammatory as it was, it had drawn a reprimand from the judge as he charged the jury and bade them ignore the overwrought misconceptions of a writer paid to stir up the public sentiment.

Rutledge, pushing the recollection aside, wondered what had brought her here, to the Yard. It was as unexpected as a resurrection. “You wished to see me, Mrs. Shaw? What can I do to help you?”

“Turn back the clock,” she answered tremulously. “But there’s no one can do that, is there?” She began to cry in earnest.

As a young policeman, he’d dreaded having to speak to friends and relatives of victims, dreaded the tears that seemed to fall without conscious will, a flood that made him feel exceedingly helpless. How do you offer comfort, where there is none? Experience had not taught him an answer.

Rutledge was silent, allowing Mrs. Shaw a space in which to recover, and then said with compassion, “No one knows a way to do that.”

It was, he thought, a prelude to a piteous account of life as the widow of a hanged man, followed by an entreaty for money to pay her rent. She must be in dire straits, to come to the police for help. He tried to recall the name of the clergyman he’d met while investigating the case. It would be in the files. Surely the parish must offer some provisions for the Mrs. Shaws of this world-she needn’t be reduced to begging!