Hamish said as Rutledge put up the telephone after the last conversation, “Ye ken, it was a trick. And a verra’ good one. But is the war a trick as well?”

“Early days,” Rutledge answered absently, thinking that someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to draw the police into a lie. If that was true, then what secret had the discs been used to conceal? Was it a member of the company itself who was behind these murders?

When he left the Yard, the shadows were long and the heat of the sun already dissipating. He started the motorcar and drove with only half of his mind on what he was doing, still considering the case that was no longer his to think about.

Hamish was silent, and it was several minutes before Rutledge realized that he knew the motorcar just in front of his. It belonged to Meredith Channing.

Chapter 13

13

At the next intersection, as Mrs. Channing was preparing to turn left, Rutledge pulled up beside her vehicle.

“It’s good to see you,” he called.

In truth. The last time he’d spoken to her, he’d asked her not to go away on the extended trip she was planning to take. She had hinted at a year or more abroad, in order to put her own life back together. She had even admitted that there was someone she cared for, and that that had been a factor in her decision. All he could think of, in the face of her sudden, unforeseen decision, was to say what he felt.

And then he’d walked away, refusing to look at what had motivated his words. Afterward, he had avoided her—her house, mutual friends, and any place in London where he had encountered her in the past.

Now, he searched her eyes for something to guide his next words, prepared to drive on.

And then on the spur of the moment, he added, “It’s late, but would you care for a coffee?”

She smiled. “Yes. Yes, I would, actually.”

He tried to think of a restaurant that was open. “The Marlborough Hotel?” he suggested. Neutral ground.

“I’ll follow you.” She pulled back into the line of traffic just behind him. He reached the hotel first, and she quickly found a space for her motorcar as she caught up with him. They entered the hotel Reception together, and she saw a small table in the lounge, set in an alcove with a long window. Several other couples were having tea or coffee in the room, and the atmosphere was quiet, pleasant.

“There?”

He nodded. They sat down, and he ordered two coffees.

Into the silence that followed, Rutledge said, “You’re out late.”

“I went to a lovely dinner party.” She smiled, reminiscing.