Half an hour later, cross-examined and finally dismissed, Rutledge left the courtroom and went in search of Constable Gregg.

But he was told the man had been sent for and was on his way to take down a witness’s statement in another case.

The trial dragged on into the second day, as the Crown rested its case and the defense presented its view of events. At long last the jury was sequestered and Rutledge was free to go.

He could spare the time, the days were long, and so he drove on to Salisbury, in search of Charles Henry, solicitor, but it was as he’d expected. If the solicitor had been there in 1905, he was not there now. Rutledge asked at chambers he passed as he went up and down several streets, and even stopped in the main police station. The answer was the same. No one recalled the name or the man himself. It had been fifteen years, and Henry had played only a minor role in the case.

Hamish said, “Did he sell yon knife in Hastings?”

“How did he come to have it?” Rutledge countered. “No, there’s something else at work here, I think.”

He should have been on his way to London an hour or more ago, but it had been important to track down Charles Henry, if he could. He walked back to where he’d left his motorcar, feeling unsatisfied. But it hadn’t been his case, it had been someone else’s.

Still, Charles Henry rankled.

He arrived in London later than anticipated, held up by an overturned lorry blocking the trunk road, and stopped by the Yard to leave his notes on the case in which he’d given evidence. There was a message on the blotter, waiting for him.

Chief Inspector Hubbard wished to see him. The note had been amended at the bottom, indicating he’d come looking for Rutledge a second time.

My office, please, eight o’clock in the morning.

Rutledge knew Hubbard, had spoken to him from time to time, but had never worked with him on an inquiry. He had a reputation for strict adherence to rules, a strong sense of fairness, and a razor-sharp mind.

It would be a refreshing change from Chief Superintendent Bowles.

The next morning he arrived at the Yard fifteen minutes before time, and as it happened, met Chief Inspector Hubbard on the stairs. He was a man in his late forties, what he called the sunny side of fifty, still very fit, his manner brisk.

“You’re prompt,” Hubbard said. “Come with me, we’ll get started. How was the case in Winchester?”

“The jury was still out when I left. But at a guess, the Crown expects them to see matters its way. The evidence was clear, solid.”