“That’s a fascinating idea. I’ll have to give it some thought. But why, three years later, would a man who had successfully eluded the police and had nothing to fear, leave clues that could lead to his arrest?”

“A guilty conscience?”

“Murderers seldom have guilty consciences,” he told her wryly.

“But if this was a sacrifice, perhaps he did?”

Rutledge smiled. “You should have become a policeman, Melinda. The Yard would have benefitted from your cleverness.”

“Oh, no, my dear, the Yard doesn’t want women underfoot. We could prove to be too much competition for men set in their ways.” Her dark eyes sparkled. “As my late husband could have told you, I have no ambitions.”

He left the next morning, reconciled to what lay ahead. Melinda Crawford had kept him too busy to dwell on the Yard—he had an uncomfortable suspicion that it was intentional—that she had seen the tension in him and even without understanding it, she had dealt with it by distracting him. He wished he could have said something to her about Meredith Channing, to hear her opinion there. But if he had, he’d have had to tell Melinda more about his time in France than he could bear to put into words.

Her house was in the most western edge of Kent, and he had just crossed into Surrey when a Kent police vehicle quickly overtook him and waved him to one side.

Rutledge pulled over, assuming that the Yard was searching for him. He waited for the constable sitting beside the driver to get out and come to speak to him.

“Inspector Rutledge?” the constable said, bending his frame a little so as to see Rutledge’s face more clearly. He was a tall, angular man with a scar across his chin.

“Yes, I’m Rutledge. What is it?”

Hamish, from the rear seat, said, “ ’Ware!”

“You’re wanted in Hastings, sir. Straightaway. I’ve been sent by London to find you and bring you to Sussex as quickly as possible.”

Surprised, Rutledge said, “I’m no longer involved with the inquiry there. Didn’t London tell you that?”

“Their instructions were to take you directly to Hastings. If you don’t object, sir, I’ll ride with you to your destination.”

Rutledge said, “You aren’t a Hastings man. No need to waste your time there.”

“No, sir, I’m from Rochester. And we have our instructions, sir.”

Rutledge was silent for a moment, weighing that, and then said to the constable, “Get in.”

The man nodded and walked around the bonnet to open the passenger door.

Rutledge had expected the other vehicle to turn back, but when he drove on, it followed him at a distance. It was still there when he headed south to Sussex at the next crossroads. The constable was staring straight ahead with nothing to say for himself.

“What’s this about? Do you know?”