There was a train to Calais tonight. Another from Dover to London. But he was in no hurry.
A good dinner first, if he could find one, a bottle of wine, and then a sound night's sleep.
As the taxi turned and drove back the way it had come, he leaned his head against the cracked leather of the seat and closed his eyes.
2
London, July 1920
Chief Inspector Cummins walked into Scotland Yard at half past nine, went directly to his office, and set about finishing packing his books. It was his last day, and he wanted no fanfare. An injury sustained in the line of duty had put an end to his career.
"And not a day too soon," he said to Inspector Ian Rutledge who had stepped in to wish him well. "I should have left at the end of the war. But I found one excuse after another to stay on. This case pending, that case passing through the courts. And here I still am, well past my time." He looked up, another stack of books in his hand. "No regrets."
"I feel responsible-" Rutledge began, but Cummins cut him short.
"Nonsense. I knew what I was doing. I hadn't reckoned on the toll the years had taken, that's all. I wasn't quite fast enough. At fifty-five, one still believes one is thirty until he looks in his mirror as he shaves."
"Will you be content in Scotland, after the bustle of London?"
"My God, yes. And if I'm not, my wife will tell me that I am." Cummins reached for the roll of tape to seal that box and then turned to fill another. "When do you intend to marry? Don't leave it too long. I'll be a grandfather, next month."
Rutledge laughed, as he was meant to do. "You've left behind a splendid record. We'll be living up to it for decades to come."
Cummins set the books down on a corner of his cluttered desk and looked around the office. The shelves were nearly empty, the desk as well, and the photographs had been removed from the walls.