“Your eyes are angry. Well, you’ll tell me when you’re ready. I’m just grateful you are here, and I’ll make the most of it. Go on, your room is ready for you—it always is—and then come back and tell me about London.”

Rutledge did as he was commanded, and brought down with him a book he’d been keeping to give her. She thanked him and set it aside. “I’ll read it when you’ve gone. I’ve missed your company. Tell me all the news and gossip.”

The next two days flew by. Rutledge soon realized that Melinda was making it her business to keep him entertained in an effort to counteract the seething anger that he’d brought to her door.

She knew something about men, and so she asked him no questions. Although she never spoke of it, he thought she’d guessed that he had turned from France with a wound that couldn’t be seen or touched or healed. What he didn’t know was how much she knew. Certainly not about Hamish, thank God, but possibly about his shell shock. For she had worried about him for the past year or more, and when he had survived and then found a way to live rather than die, she had quietly applauded his courage.

He found himself telling her about the murder that had taken place in 1905, and she had listened attentively, saying only, “On what was his last day at the Yard, why did this man Cummins tell you about such a long-ago crime?”

“I think, to get it off his chest. He isn’t the sort of man who accepts failure lightly.”

“No, I expect there was another reason. You’ve told him of your own discoveries? What has he had to say about them?”

“In fact, there was a letter from him in the post before I left London.” He patted his pockets, found it, and drew it out.

It was very brief. A matter of a few lines. He read them aloud.

My grandfather was Charles Henry Cummins. I visited his home as a child. In East Anglia. His garden was his pride and joy. What the hell is this all about?

“Well, well,” Melinda said after a moment. “I wonder why this man chose Hastings to sell his murder weapon?”

Rutledge said slowly, “I don’t know. I’ve asked myself that same question.”

“It was deliberate, you must see that.” Melinda frowned. “If he went to so much trouble to make sure the knife was carefully documented, then he had a reason. Perhaps it was his name—the murderer’s. Or the name of the victim.”

He thought, fleetingly, of the Salisbury solicitor who was nowhere to be found. Was it that connection—or Cummins’s?