A Lonely Death

21

T he dog refused to leave the shoreline. He struggled against his lead, and even growled as Rutledge lifted him into his arms.

It took half an hour to make any progress with the animal, and even then he thought it was more a reflection of the dog's growing despair than his own blandishments. The fact that Rutledge knew the animal's name seemed to weigh, because when Rutledge made to move back toward the road, the dog stood there whining, torn between waiting and going, and finally he came forward, head down, and let Rutledge pet him again.

Still, it was an uphill battle back to The Nancy Bell, and when Rutledge arrived on Sergeant Bell's doorstep, both he and the dog were out of breath.

Bell, staring at the two of them, said, "And what's this?"

Rutledge explained, and Bell got down on one knee, ruffling the dog's ears, then led it to the kitchen, where there was a little roast beef left from the night before.

But the dog was back at the door after wolfing down the beef, scratching the wood paneling and crying to be let out.

"That's pitiful," Bell said, watching it. "It's known only the one mistress, you can see, and wants none other."

"She may be dead," Rutledge answered. "I don't think he would have left her side otherwise. If she were alive, she'd have fought to keep him with her."

The sergeant scratched his chin. "If they took the boat over to France," he said thoughtfully, "your man could have told her that the dog had to stay below. And she wouldn't know, would she, until she landed and went for him that he was not there."

"Dear God, that's precisely what he did. I need to speak to the port authorities, and ask them to contact France."

He left the dog with Bell and could hear it barking frantically as he drove away.

After three hours at the port, being passed from office to office, he learned that Mr. and Mrs. Summers had indeed embarked for France on the channel crossing the preceding day. At first he was surprised that Summers had used their real names, and then it was clear why: there had to be a record of Mrs. Summers leaving England for France, for her solicitors to see later that all was aboveboard, the couple happy and still enjoying their wedding journey.

The harbormaster said, "It was a rough passage, right in the teeth of the storm." Grinning, he added, "There'd be decks to swab after that one made landfall."

"While you're at it, ask the French if there was a small dog with them. Long haired, black and gray, with some white," Rutledge added.

The harbormaster got in touch with the French authorities, and was told that Mr. and Mrs. Summers had landed safely, although both were the worse for wear from seasickness.

The message ended, "Madame was very ill. Monsieur had given her something to help the nausea, and it was not working. We recommended an hotel in Honfleur, and he told us he felt he could drive there. No dog accompanied them."

Rutledge left the office, still worried. The fact that Mrs. Summers had landed in France surprised him-a seasick woman leaning over the rail needed only a small push to send her into the sea as the boat tossed and twisted in the storm.

Something was wrong with the picture painted by the French authorities.

"They didna' see her," Hamish pointed out. "They saw a verra' distressed woman."

And that was true, Rutledge thought as he drove back to The Nancy Bell. She could have been drugged. Or she could have been anyone wearing Mrs. Summers's clothing.

But there was nothing he could do without authority from the Yard to have the couple taken into French custody. They had left the port by now, and were no longer under its jurisdiction. And they had broken no laws. There was not sufficient evidence to hold Summers at all.

Misdirection. Summers was a master at it.

Rutledge went back again to the Dover police and used their telephone to call the Yard. Explaining the situation to Sergeant Gibson, he added, "I want a watch on all ports for someone coming in under the name Summers or Pierce, or any other on this list." And from the sheet of paper he'd made out, he read the names of anyone who was associated with this case. "He may return as a single person or as a couple-it will depend on how safe he thinks he may be with an ill wife."

"That's a tall order," Gibson pointed out. "Something will be said about the number of men required for that."

"Clear it with the Chief Superintendent. This man hasn't finished. He'll kill again."

"I'll do my best," Gibson said, doubt heavy in his voice. He cleared his throat and asked, "Have you heard what Inspector Mickelson had to say? He regained his senses."

"There hasn't been an opportunity to ask anyone," Rutledge responded. "If he got into a motorcar with his killer, he ought to be able to provide a description."

"You'd best ask Inspector Norman," Gibson answered cryptically, and Rutledge had to be satisfied with that.

The problem of the dog was more easily dealt with. Sergeant Bell agreed to keep it until it could be used to identify Summers or reunited with its proper owner. That done, Rutledge turned back toward Hastings.

He had had no sleep to speak of, and he was feeling it. But he drove through Kent back to the Sussex coast. By the time he had reached Eastfield, he knew it was too late to find Inspector Norman in his office. He went to his room at The Fishermen's Arms and slept for seven hours. I nspector Norman met Rutledge at his office door and said, "Let's walk."

With foreboding, Rutledge turned to follow him. They left the station and had nearly reached The Stade when Norman said, "I was there when Inspector Mickelson was questioned. He could remember most of what happened before he was struck on the head. He said you had sent a message that he should look at the net shops before dawn, that you had a feeling that he'd find the garrote there. And so he went with the man you'd sent to find him, and when he reached the sheds, something hit him."

"That marches with what Mrs. Farrell-Smith claimed. She saw two men talking near the church, and they drove away together."

"Exactly."

"His first mistake," Rutledge said crisply. "I can show I was far away from Sussex at the time. I could have arranged to have him lured to Hastings, but I wasn't there to deliver the blow. It was a trick. And it worked."

"Inspector Mickelson had Carl in custody but hadn't been able to lay hands on the murder weapon. Yes, it worked a treat."

"Was he able to give you a description of the man in the motorcar?"

"A hazy one at best. The reflection from the headlamps cast shadows. Besides, Mickelson was busy trying to decide how you'd worked it out about the garrote when he hadn't."

The question had to be asked. "Does Mickelson believe I lured him into a trap?"

"My impression was, he is still of two minds about that. His accident, after all, brought you back into the case."

"Yes, it did." Rutledge gave it some thought as they walked along the road above the net shops.

Norman hesitated. "The man in the motorcar told Mickelson his name was Daniel Pierce and that you'd asked him to handle this because his own brother was among the dead. Mickelson had no reason to doubt what he was told. The elder Pierce is an upstanding member of the community, after all."

"And Mickelson wasn't intended to live long enough to tell us that. Have you spoken to Tyrell Pierce about this?"

"Not yet. I wanted to hear what you had to say before going to him. You still maintain that this man you're chasing is not Pierce's son. I went to The White Swans. Whoever had stayed there registered as Pierce. And the description could fit him, with a little stretch of the imagination. He was never the man his brother was, to look at. It was as if Anthony's features had been passed on to his brother, only a little blurred, a little less distinctive."

And Summers had known that. He'd also known that Daniel Pierce hadn't returned to Sussex for two years. It was a safe enough gamble.

Rutledge related what had transpired in Dover, and Inspector Norman whistled.

"Any chance of bringing him back from France?"

"On what evidence?" Rutledge asked. "Whatever I can prove, it isn't strong enough to convince the French police."

"Damn." Norman glanced up at the headland where Theo Hartle had been found and said, "You make a good case for Summers. The question remains, what do we do about the inquests into these deaths? Now that we know Inspector Mickelson will survive, do we wait until he's well enough to present his case, or do we look to you?"

"Adjourn them again if you have to. But keep your eye on Eastfield. That's where our killer will turn up, as soon as he returns to England. Mark my words." They turned back toward the police station.

Rutledge stood there on the street for a moment, after Inspector Norman had gone inside, debating what to do. Waiting in Eastfield would accomplish nothing. The best course open to him was to return to the Yard and make certain that the watch on the ports was kept in place as long as need be. W hen he arrived in London, Rutledge found another letter from Chief Inspector Cummins waiting for him.

Opening it, he lit the lamp and sat down in the chair by the window, although the day had faded into dusk. Rutledge,

You're a marvel. I've considered everything you'd uncovered, and I decided (having the free time to do so) to drive to East Anglia and visit my grandfather's house. It was sold shortly after his death, but I remember it quite clearly. The present owners have kept it up amazingly well, even to the gardens that were his pride, and I sat for some minutes in my motorcar, remembering a very happy childhood. The man who lives there now happened to see me as he came back from marketing and he asked if I were looking for someone. I explained about my grandfather, and to my surprise, this stranger invited me inside. I must have an honest face!

He allowed me to walk about and reminisce, then to my even greater surprise told me he had something he thought belonged to me. He was gone several minutes while I strolled in the back garden, and then he reappeared with an envelope. He handed it to me, and I was stunned to see my name on the outside. I asked where in hell he'd got this, and he said that in 1908, a young man came to the door. His mother was living at the time, and said he was quite polite, asking if my grandfather still lived here. She told him that he had died. The man explained that he was looking for me, the grandson of the previous owner, and he asked if he might leave a letter here for me, in the event I came back to the house one day. She told the young man that she'd be glad to take the letter, but considered it was unlikely that I would ever return. But he claimed he might miss me in London, and it would be a kindness to know that one day I'd find the letter and know that he cared. And so, being the trusting soul that she was, she took the letter and kept it. Before she died, she mentioned it to her son-this was nearly ten years later, and the letter was still in her possession-and asked what to do about it. The son wondered if I'd been abroad, and felt that someday if I retired from whatever post it was that had taken me away, I might come here looking for it. And so he took on that charge in his mother's stead, and she died a few months later. He and his wife then moved into the house, and the letter waited. I could hardly believe anyone would have been that considerate of a stranger's request, but apparently the mother had been quite taken with him.

At any rate, I left soon afterward, letter in hand, and the man's last comment to me was, he hoped that I would be in England to stay now. I didn't open the letter until I reached London. It was a confession, Ian, a confession to that murder at Stonehenge. But the man wasn't fool enough to give me his name. He wrote that the man who was killed had deserved to die, but in fact, his death had been an accident. Now, Ian, I'd seen the body and that wound. It couldn't have been more accurate, that knife slipping in. How, pray, could it have happened by chance?

But the writer went on to say that the man had done terrible things, and his death had protected others from further cruelty. I found that self-serving. He did explain that the body had never been identified properly because the victim had been on the point of leaving the country, and everyone just assumed he had, without fanfare. He was not liked well enough for people to wonder why he had moved up his departure, and the feeling was he had not expected a send-off, a farewell dinner, that sort of thing. And so he had decided not to put himself in a position where people might assume he wanted a show of regret at his leaving. There was no one in England he cared for, and there had been some quiet speculation that his continued employment might soon be in doubt. Those who could have spoken out about his private life and assured his dismissal were too frightened to do so. "I was one of them" he wrote at the end of his confession. "I killed rather than endure silently as so many did. I took the knife he used as a desk ornament-someone had fashioned a handle for it, to please him, he said-and struck out blindly. I was astonished to see him fall, and thought it a trick. I left him there and went directly to a trusted friend. For my sake, he and one other person helped me dispose of my victim. I write this to ease my own conscience and to leave a legacy for you, since the crime has not been solved. But the clues I have left were obscure, and I wonder if-even to ease my conscience-I really am ready to face the horror of what I did."

Well, then, Ian, my friend, I wonder what you will make of this!

Rutledge put down the letter. What indeed to make of it? He agreed with Cummins that the author of the letter had purposely made the clues difficult to follow. Still, if Cummins had happened on that flint knife in the course of another case, would he have followed the same steps toward finding an answer? Was that the point, that the killer had felt he had done his duty, secure in the knowledge that his role would never come to light?

What's more, were there clues in that letter that might lead to the name of the victim, if not the murderer?

Without the original, he wasn't able to make an educated guess about that. But surely Cummins would examine all the possibilities?

Hamish said, "Ye canna see ye're ain way. You canna' worry oe'r much about the ins and outs of anither man's inquiry."

But Rutledge said, "It's a puzzle. Like this one of Summers's doing. God knows how long he has planned his revenge, but so far he's carried it out without so much a qualm. The men he killed, the woman he took to France, the dog he'd abandoned."

"If ye had never gone to yon hotel room at The White Swans, you wouldna' ha' known about yon dog."

It was true. And the Dover police had been particularly interested in how he had known about the dog and how he had come to learn what it was called.

He'd replied simply that he had been several times to the hotel where the Pierces were staying. True, as far as it went.

Rutledge took a deep breath. "He's coming back. I can feel it," he said aloud into the silence of the room. "And sooner than we expect. And I don't know how to stop him."

Hamish said, "With any luck ata', he'll drown on his way back across yon Channel. I was never sea sick mysel', but ithers were, and dying was a cheering thought."

"But that's the problem. He could come back through a dozen different ports."

And hovering in the back of his mind was the inescapable knowledge that if he hadn't believed the false lead to Brighton, he could have reached Dover in time.

Rutledge let it go. There was nothing he could do this night, and sometimes an answer came more readily if he ignored the problem.

He went out to find his dinner, choosing a restaurant where he wasn't likely to encounter anyone from the Yard. The food there was edible, the clientele older and quiet, and he didn't linger over his meal.

When he came home again, there was someone huddled in the doorway of the flat, only a thicker shadow among shadows.

His first thought was Summers. Or-his wife?

Bracing himself, he called, "Who is it? Who is there?"

The shapeless figure turned, taking on the outline of a woman, and then a voice he knew said, "Ian? Please, I need your help."

It was Meredith Channing, and he went forward quickly, taking her arm with one hand, opening the door of his flat with the other. Thank God, he thought, he'd left a lamp burning. He put her into a chair, closed the door, and went to find a handkerchief, for he could see that she was crying. He gave it to her, and as she pressed it against her eyes, he said, "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I didn't know where to turn," she answered him after a moment, her eyes still hidden behind his handkerchief. And then as if she had found the courage to say what she had come to say, she set the rumpled white square of cloth aside. He could read the anguish in her face. "My friends-I could ask any of them, and they would help me. But then they would know, you see-once the words are spoken, I can never take them back. And when they look at me, I'll know that they remember, and I couldn't bear that."

He took the chair across from hers. "I've never judged you," he said quietly. And waited.

"Shall I tell you a story, Ian?" she said when she was calmer. It seemed like hours later but perhaps no more than ten minutes had passed. She had stopped crying now, resigned. "Much of it may be familiar. It's about a young man marching off to war. He was deeply in love, he said, he wanted to marry because even if the war only lasted until Christmas, he had a feeling he wouldn't come home again. I asked him how he could say such a thing, and he smiled and said, 'I just know.' I begged him not to go. I even promised I would marry him, if he'd refuse to join the Army. But he had to, you see, all his friends had already enlisted, they were excited and buying uniforms and talking about glory, and he was a man, he couldn't bear to be left behind. And I married him, because I thought if I do, he'll have a reason to keep himself safe, a reason to defy that silly superstition, and he'll come back. I didn't love him, Ian. I liked him. Immensely. And so I was willing to do this for his sake, even if it meant spending the rest of my life with him. I thought, it will be worth it. We can be happy. I was young-I thought, if he's killed, I'll never forgive myself."

She leaned her dark head against the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling. "He went missing shortly after the first gas attack at Ypres. I was suddenly neither wife nor widow. And I blamed myself for not caring, for not loving him in the way he loved me. I kept telling myself that he knew, that somehow he'd realized why I had married him, and he'd lost his talisman, so to speak. I couldn't bear the guilt, and so I thought, I'll find him and save him. And so I trained as a nurse, and I worked very hard, I did my best, from mopping ward floors to keeping my nerve in the operating theater, and soon I was shipped to France. But I went for selfish reasons, I see that now. I never found Mark among the unidentified wounded. I could find no one who had seen him die. It was as if he were in a limbo of some sort, and no one had the key."

It was hard to listen to her confession. Rutledge had wondered, time and again, but never asked. He realized now that he hadn't really wanted to know. Her marriage was in the past, let it rest there. But he said nothing.

"I paid for my folly. For not having the courage to tell Mark the truth. For thinking that I could save him. For thinking that I could find him." Her gaze came back to him. "One day in France, I saw someone who had been brought in for superficial wounds. He was dazed, and I was told he'd been buried alive when a shell fell short and exploded in his sector. He was the only survivor. All of his men were killed. But he kept asking for them, he didn't want to be treated until he was sure they were seen to. An orderly took him away to rest for a little while, and I asked someone the officer's name. I looked in on him later, and he was sleeping. I could see the shadows under his eyes, I could see that he'd been in the line through some of the worst fighting. And I knew I could love this man. I wanted to hold him and keep him safe. All I could do was ask that he be given a little longer to recover, but every man was needed. I was told to wake him up and send him back. I couldn't. I asked someone else to do it." She took a deep breath. "I never saw him again after that, though I'd hear some snippets of news from time to time and knew he was safe. I never asked. But I listened for his name. It wasn't until this past New Year's Eve that I found him again. I thought, we could be friends, it would be all right." She added wryly, "I was still lying to myself, you see."

He didn't reply. He knew she didn't want his sympathy or his compassion.

"I kept telling myself that I could always go away, if there were problems. After all, I was still married. And I couldn't-wouldn't-let myself deny that."

This time when she fell silent, he said, "Meredith. Would tea help? Sherry?"

She shook her head.

That poise he'd found so attractive had deserted her now. He could see her hands shaking, even though she clasped them tightly in her lap.

"A little while ago-no, it must have been this afternoon," she went on, frowning. "There was a telephone call. A group that works to find the missing has kept in touch from time to time. They told me they believe they've found Mark. He's in a Belgian hospital, very badly damaged. In fact, for some reason they'd believed he was a Belgian, a Fleming from Bruges. There were a few who fought with the British, you see. But when he improved a little last week, they realized he doesn't seem to understand Flemish. He responded a little to English, and so the hospital called in someone who could speak to him in English. It was necessary, you see, so that his answers could be taken down accurately."

Her voice broke as she added, "I must go to Belgium, Ian. I need to see this man. And I can't go alone. Will you come with me? As a friend?"

He could hear only Hamish in his head, Meredith's words a distant hum, and yet he knew what she was asking. He didn't think he could do it. Not with this inquiry ongoing, he told himself. Not when I care too much, he added, facing the truth.

Someone was saying, "Yes, of course I'll do what I can. If the Yard will allow me to take leave."

A thought flitted through his head: the last time he'd asked for leave of his own accord, it was to attend Max Hume's funeral.

He expected her to cry again, then. Instead, she looked down at her hands and replied quietly, "Thank you, Ian. From the bottom of my heart."

"I'll speak to them tomorrow."

He took her home soon after, touching her only to help her into the motorcar, seeing her to her door, and saying good night when her maid had opened it.

She smiled a little, and went inside.

The next morning he was as good as his word. He went to the Yard, ignoring the stares and the whispers as he passed along the corridors. Chief Superintendent Bowles was in his office and was caught quite by surprise by his inspector's sudden appearance.

Rutledge faced him grimly, knowing Bowles for what he was, giving no ground as the man behind the desk seemed rattled for a moment, then collected himself.

"I thought you were in Sussex," Bowles said gruffly. "Or failing that, in Dover."

"There's nothing I can do in Dover. And as long as Summers is in France, then Sussex is safe. I've come to ask for a few days of leave."

Bowles's face brightened. But he said, "I thought I'd just given you leave."

"It's been some time since then. This is a personal matter."

He could see Bowles mulling it over, vacillating, emotions flitting across his face like shadows. The good fortune of being rid of Rutledge at this impossibly sticky time. The realization that if Summers reappeared in England while Rutledge was away, he could send another man to cope with it. The knowledge that Rutledge was the butt of gossip and speculation which Bowles himself could do without-they were all there. He had even heard one rumor that Rutledge had had his revenge for Mickelson's interference-embarrassing the Chief Superintendent.

"Yes, all right," Bowles declared finally. "Take your leave and report back in four days. By that time, something should have turned up at the ports."

He clearly expected Rutledge to be satisfied, for he picked up the paper he'd been reading when he was interrupted.

But Rutledge stood his ground, and said with something in his voice that made Bowles look up sharply, "About Inspector Mickelson's theory that I was involved in the attack on him. I would suggest that it's an aftereffect of that blow on the head. You know as well as I do that I was not involved. I couldn't have been. I had no reason to be. Whatever my personal feelings may be about Inspector Mickelson."

"A combination of misinformation and mistake," Bowles agreed hastily.

Rutledge left it at that. He would never have an apology from this man, and while he'd been angry enough to beard him in his den and tell him publicly what he thought about him, he had more to lose than Bowles: his position at the Yard, which was still his lifeline to sanity.

He didn't want to call on Meredith Channing. Last night was still too fresh in his mind. But he drove to her house anyway and knocked at the door.

And she had foreseen his difficulty. Her maid answered his knock, and he gave her the message for her mistress.

"Mrs. Channing would like to leave for Dover this afternoon, if that's possible," the maid replied. "Will that be convenient?"

The sooner it was over, the better, he thought, but said only, "I'll be here at one o'clock."

"Thank you, sir." She closed the door. He stood there for a moment, then turned and walked away.

Hamish was giving him no peace, a reflection of the strain he was under. As a precaution when he went home to pack a small valise, he added some things to his clothing and shaving gear.

One o'clock came all too soon, and he was outside the Channing house five minutes early.

And she was ready. The door opened almost at once, and he went to meet her, taking her case and adding it to his own in the boot. She said, "Ian-" and then shook her head, stepping into the motorcar when he opened her door.

They drove through London in silence, and were soon on the Dover Road.

They arrived in good time for their crossing, and Rutledge took a few minutes to call on Sergeant Bell.

"The laddie is still restless," he said. "I took him for a walk along the strand today, and he was searching for scents, wanting to run up to anyone he spotted. There's no word on Mrs. Summers?"

"None."

Bell said, "Well, then. We'll see that he's fed and kept safe."

The boat left on time. Meredith stayed below, while Rutledge stood by the rail, watching the water pass under the hull.

He had sworn, once, that he would never set foot in France again. And here he was, not on police business after all but to support a friend.

Friend.

He ignored that thought and instead considered the letter that had come into Chief Inspector Cummins's possession.

What sort of man would have a flint knife sitting on his desk, what kinds of interests would he have? Historian, schoolmaster, world traveler, expert in ancient weapons, geologist, even a collector of oddities.

It would take hundreds of man-hours to find likely men in those fields and interview them.

Schoolmaster… Hadn't it been a schoolmaster who had brought the latter-day Druids to Stonehenge for the summer solstice?

He was above suspicion, Cummins had said when Rutledge asked about him. But where had he taught? And were there other masters in that same school? Had Cummins interviewed any of them? But of course at the time Cummins hadn't had the benefit of Rutledge's find of the flint knife. He had been completely in the dark about the murder weapon.

Hindsight seldom caught murderers.

He walked along the deck, watching the white cliffs of England recede, the castle a gray mass on the top of the highest cliff. France was still a blue smudge on the horizon. The wind striking his face was warm, and sometimes laden with salt spray. Skirting the busy crew coiling ropes, stowing gear, and seeing to the general running of the ferry, he paced for a few minutes, deep in thought.

If the killer considered the victim's murder well deserved, what had the man done to earn it?

Rutledge recalled studying the photograph of the dead face and thinking that the victim looked far more intelligent and of a better class than Harvey Wheeler was said to have been.

There was only a small window of time when the body could have been carried to Stonehenge-or the living man brought there to be dispatched. After all, this was the shortest night of the year. And the situation was complicated by the latter-day Druids celebrating the Summer Solstice.

He could have been there when the Druids arrived, depending on what route they had taken to cross Salisbury Plain to the site. In fact, he must have been put there as soon as it was completely dark. Too much activity by the heel stone after they'd reached the stone ruins, and the killer could have been discovered in the act of tying his victim there. But had the killer and his accomplices known about the celebrants? Or had they left the body there because it was an isolated place and it was unlikely to be discovered for several days?

The letter writer hadn't mentioned the Druids.

But the Druids had been drinking mead and chanting. To distract them from what was happening just out of sight?

He must write to Cummins again and open a new avenue to explore.

Pausing by the railing, he could just make out the coastline of France now.

Someone stepped to the rail beside him, and he turned to see that Meredith Channing had come on deck.

Staring at the landfall in the distance, she said, "I shouldn't have come. I should have listened to my better judgment. This won't be Mark. None of the others were. I shouldn't have brought you into this. But I was afraid this time. I don't know why. Very cowardly of me."

Her shoulder was touching his, her unconscious need for human comfort overcoming her reticence.

"I'm glad you did," he said, and wondered if it were true.

"When it seemed that you weren't at home, I didn't know what to do. I couldn't go to Frances, or to the Yard, and ask where you might be."

"How did you know where to find me?"

"I've known for a very long time where you lived. I'd just never had occasion to go there. Until last night."

They were silent for a time. He could feel her shivering, whether from the wind or from nerves, he didn't know. After a moment, he put his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him until the shivering stopped.

When the boat had docked, and they had cleared the formalities, they turned north, on the road to Ypres and Belgium. To make conversation, Rutledge said, "I lost a murderer to France this week." And he told her how the dog had been found, and what the French had had to say about Mr. and Mrs. Summers.

"Do you think she was just ill from the crossing? Or had he given her something to make certain she didn't say anything untoward?"

"She was probably given something. I can't see how she would have let her husband leave the boat without bringing her dog to her. Most certainly she'd have created a scene. And why get rid of the animal, unless he intended to do away with her as well?" He slowed to pass a procession of villagers carrying the small statue of a saint and bouquets of flowers. They appeared to be on their way to the church on a slight rise.

"He needn't, you know. Rid himself of her. There used to be these little convents scattered about, where the nuns took in the ill or the mad, and if there was money to pay for her board, she could stay indefinitely in their care."

It was an interesting thought.

They were driving now on what had been the road where the German Army and the small British Expeditionary Force sent to stop their progress had clashed. Roofless ruins, shattered walls, toppled church towers still marked where the fighting had been most intense, and some fields lay fallow and torn. Villages and towns were striving to rebuild, life was struggling to return to normal, but as Rutledge looked around him, he felt a surge of tension, of memory. This was what he'd lived with for four bloody years and had hoped never to see again. But night was falling, covering what they didn't want to see in blessed darkness.

Rutledge stopped just before the Belgian frontier for dinner and found a small pension that smelled of new mortar and paint, as if it had just been refurbished, where they could spend the night. The food was not up to French standards, but they had very little appetite. Rutledge saw Mrs. Channing to her room, and she wished him a good night. He waited until her door had been locked from the inside before going on down the passage to his to sit by the window instead of going to bed.

They reached Bruges the next day, and found their way to the old city inside its ring of canals. In the southern part, on a side street not far from the Begijnhof, a large house had been turned into a hospital that cared for the human detritus left behind by war.

It was a tall building, and broader than most. Rutledge thought it must have once been the town house of a wealthy merchant family. Even here were the scars of war-bullet holes in the facade, a niche statue of the Virgin by the door decapitated, the hasty repairs of damage from shrapnel still visible. Someone had repainted the door, to hide the nicks and scratches in the wood.

As he reached for the brass knob, Meredith Channing stopped him, putting out her hand. "Ian. I must do the rest myself. Will you wait?"

He agreed, and went to sit in the motorcar. After a moment, she resolutely turned the knob and disappeared inside.

An hour passed, and then the second. He walked for a time but never out of sight of the motorcar. Hamish was his constant companion, the voice dinning in his ear, the war seeming to crowd in on him.

And then she was coming through the door, her face so pale he went to her at once, and took her hands. She had left her pretty hat somewhere. "Was it very bad?" he asked.

"Worse than-oh, Ian, you should see him. He's lying there looking at nothing, his poor face so scarred I hardly knew him."

They were in a very public place, people passing on the street around them, faces turned to stare. He led her to the motorcar and put her inside.

She said as he got behind the wheel, "I was told there was a little church near the Gruuthuse Palace. Could we walk there, do you think?"

He found it for her after going astray near the Begijnhof, where the Benedictine Sisters lived in their little white cottages in a tree-lined courtyard. Two or three were sitting in the sun, warming themselves, a small cushion on their knees, weaving the fine webs of their lace, bobbins flying in nimble fingers. There Meredith bought a small handkerchief to cover her dark hair in the church.

The Church of Our Lady was known for its tall, striking tower. It soared above the surrounding buildings, and Rutledge found himself thinking it was an ideal mark for German artillery firing on the town.

Down a side aisle was a chapel with a small but perfect white marble statue standing on the altar. It was, he realized, Michelangelo's Madonna and Child. She was seated, the child at her knee, the smile on her face movingly sweet. Rutledge's godfather, the architect David Trevor, had traveled in Europe on a Grand Tour as a young man, and he had told Rutledge that this face, young, serene, without shadows, was the same as that of the Virgin in the Pieta in Rome's St. Peter's, only there it was marked by sorrow and loss. The comparison, he had said, was heart-wrenching.

Rutledge stood in the back of the chapel, staring up at that face while Meredith knelt near the altar, head bowed, but not, he thought, in prayer. If she was looking for anything here, it was strength. Or courage.

Hamish had been there in the back of his mind ever since the night Meredith Channing had come to his flat. A dull, unceasing monologue of despair, the words nearly indistinguishable, but he knew them by heart.

Fiona. He could hear that whisper as Hamish lay dying before the blessing of the coup de grace. You took my happiness from me. I'll take yours.

Rutledge had tried to shut out all feeling after Jean had walked out of his life in the spring of 1919. He hadn't wanted to feel again. He didn't want to feel anything now.

But he watched Meredith come to grips with what she had seen, and he wondered if she had wanted this man to be her husband. Or if he was. Either way, here was her chance for atonement.

After a time, she rose and walked toward him. There were no tears now, just the resolve he was dreading, and she said, "Will you take me back to the hospital now?"

It was too short a distance to say anything important, and so they walked in silence. When they reached the hospital with its frivolous roofline of chimneys, she asked that he carry her valise to the door. "They'll find somewhere for me to stay. Close by. I can visit every day."

He did as she asked, numbly, knowing he had already been shut out.

As he set the valise down with a click on the marble step, she said, "I'm so sorry. But this is something I have to do." Her voice was steady, but only just. A little deeper in note as well, from the tears she was holding back.

"Duty is bitter company," he said quietly.

"I don't know how long he will live. Months. Years. But I'll close the London house and live in Bruges for now."

"Meredith-"

"I wish I had met you then. I wouldn't have been so foolish as to marry without love." She rose on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "Good-bye, Ian."

Someone opened the door, as if he or she had been waiting to admit Mrs. Channing. She stepped inside, and it swung shut again behind her.

He stood there for a moment longer, as if hoping she would change her mind. And then he went to the motorcar.

France was just miles away, and he knew where Hamish had died. His service revolver was in his valise.

It was time to end it.