“A rare gift,” she agreed, setting her cup aside. “Tell me more about Sussex.”

There wasn’t much to tell without bringing up the murders that had taken him there. But he scoured his memory. “There’s a shop that sells all things military. From lead soldiers to a noon gun. Including a flint knife.”

She was interested. “You mean worked from flint? How unusual. Is it very old?”

“Very. Or so I was assured. I bought it and sent it to a friend who was—intrigued by it. He has just retired from the Yard.”

What had promised to be a pleasant hour had devolved into stilted conversation. Her coffee was half finished now. She took a deep breath. “Ian. You know I served as a nurse in France?”

He froze, certain he could guess where this subject was heading. That he would find out, finally, what she had seen when he was brought in to the aid station after nearly being buried alive. He had been shell-shocked, barely aware of where he was or what he was saying. He hadn’t been aware of her, hadn’t even known she was there until he’d met her last year at a New Year’s Eve dinner they’d both attended. “Yes.” It was all he could manage.

He was wrong. There was something else on her mind.

“I went into nursing for a very selfish reason. My husband was reported missing early on, in the fighting near Mons. I thought, if I could get to France myself—if I could be there—I could find him. Or hear something useful. Anything was better than sitting at home, with no news. But I was in France for nearly three years, and no one could tell me if he was alive and a prisoner—or dead.”

She had never mentioned her husband before this.

“I’m sorry,” Rutledge said, and meant it.

Meredith Channing looked at him, smiled briefly. “Thank you.” And then her gaze moved on to the window, watching the passing traffic on the street.

“I call myself a widow,” she went on. “It’s more—convenient—in society. But am I?”

Rutledge asked, “Do you want to be a widow?”

She pushed her cup away. “It’s late. I really must go. Thank you so much, Ian.”

He stayed where he was. “Do you want to be a widow? Meredith?”

She turned to face him. “I go to concerts held every year on the anniversary of his birthday. I honor his memory in every way I can. I’m close to his family and visit them often.” Her eyes filled with tears and she looked away. “But it’s you I dream about, Ian. And I can’t go on living with that guilt.”