A Pale Horse

2

LONDON

Late April 1920

Ian Rutledge walked into his flat and sat down in the darkness. He was too tired to deal with the lamps. It had been a long and trying day. The hours he’d spent searching for a murderer had ended in the man’s attempt to leap through the tenement window on the wild chance he could still elude capture. It had taken Rutledge and two constables to prevent it, and all three of them bore bruises to show for their efforts. Rutledge’s shoulder ached, and the top of his left thigh felt as if it had been kicked by a horse. But then desperation had lent strength to the man.

In the darkness the voice of Hamish MacLeod answered him. A dead man’s voice, but for nearly four years now it had seemed to Rutledge as real as his own. He had never grown used to hearing it, and yet with time he had come to terms of a sort with it. It was either that or madness. And he feared madness more.

“Ye nearly went out yon window with him.”

It was true, he’d been faster than the stunned constables, and got there first. He’d read the flare of intent in the man’s eyes, and reacted to that just as the man’s muscles had tightened to turn his back on them and race for the casement.

“A better death than hanging,” Rutledge said, “if he’d succeeded. But he’d have gone scot-free if he’d been lucky enough to land on that shop roof just below and to the left. I couldn’t chance it. He’d have killed again. It was in his nature.”

Rutledge let the silence wrap him, closing his eyes and resting his head on the back of his chair, waiting for jangled nerves to find solace if not peace.

He had nearly let himself drift into a shallow sleep when there was a knock at his door.

Shaking off the torpor of exhaustion, he got up reluctantly and crossed the room. When he opened the door, he found his sister Frances standing there.

“Ian? Are you all right?” Her gaze went beyond him to the dark flat, and that sixth sense of hers seemed to catch the atmosphere like a sleek cat scenting danger.

“Tired, that’s all. Come in. I’ve yet to turn up the lamps. I haven’t been home long.”

“Well, I’m here to dig you out of your cave. I’m meeting friends for dinner, and I need an escort.”

“Frances. There must be half a hundred men who would gladly take you anywhere, including Paris. What’s happened to them? They can’t all have decided to throw themselves off Westminster Bridge in despair.”

Laughing, she followed him into the flat and waited as he lit the lamps and made the shadows retreat. Those in the room, she found herself thinking, as well as those of the spirit. Her instincts to come here had been right.

“Yes, well, they’re none of them as handsome as you, Ian, and I might as well take the veil. It’s hopeless.”

Beneath the humor, her voice betrayed her. Either she was lying, or there was something wrong that she wasn’t ready to talk about.

“Is there truly a dinner party?” he asked quietly.

“As a matter of fact, there is. You remember the Farnums. They’re taking Maryanne Browning out to dinner, invited me, and included a friend of yours. At least I think you count her among your acquaintances if not your friends.”

Maryanne was a widow, her husband Peter a victim not of the war but of the Spanish flu. Rutledge had spent New Year’s Eve at her house, at a party that he didn’t care to remember.

“You aren’t matchmaking, are you?”

“Good God, no! I’m truly fond of Maryanne, but I’m harboring no hopes in that direction. We’ve been trying to keep her busy, Ian, rather than leaving her to mope. And so all of us in her circle take it in turns seeing to it that she’s not forgotten. Or left out of things.”

He believed her. It was a kindness Frances would think of—and do.

“I’m tired, I told you. Do you really need me to make up your numbers?”

He caught something in her expression as she said offhandedly, “Simon can’t come tonight. He’s in Scotland.”

And that was the nub, of course. She was growing quite fond of Simon Barrington. She hadn’t shown a preference for any of her suitors, not for years. Not since Richard, who never was her suitor, but possibly the only man she’d loved. She was clearly disappointed that Barrington was out of the city.

More than usually disappointed.

He made a mental note of it, then answered, “All right, I’ll come, if you give me a quarter of an hour to change. Help yourself to a drink, if you like.”

She gave him a swift embrace. “I knew I could count on you.”

As he walked into his bedroom he called, “Who is the other person? You mentioned that I knew him?”

“It isn’t a him—it’s a her. Meredith Channing. She and Maryanne have become friends.”

He stopped on the point of taking off his coat.

Meredith Channing…

An attractive woman who knew far too much for comfort. About him, about the war, about—

He’d almost said Hamish, but he was nearly certain she hadn’t read that nightmare in his mind. He’d blocked it for so many years now that it was habit to keep the Somme and Hamish and the firing squad shut firmly away where no one could find it.

Hamish said, “Don’t go.”

And Rutledge caught himself just in time, before he answered aloud. “I’ve already promised,” he said silently. “I can’t go back on it without explaining why. And that I shan’t do.”