This time he couldn’t ignore his surroundings. He had no idea how long it would be before Hubbard arrived, and he was faced with the possibility that he would remain in this place for several days, at least until it was certain whether the charge was going to be attempted murder or murder. He wasn’t sure he could manage it.

The cell contained a narrow cot, a bucket, and a basin on a shelf with a pitcher standing in it. Near the flat, ugly pillow, a tin cup lay on the blanket that covered the cot. What little light there was came through the barred square in the door. The walls were painted a dreary dun color that had faded into a shade like cream gone off. Although the cell was clean enough, and the water in the pitcher fresh, there was a lingering odor of urine that rose from the floor, and the smell of fear that seemed to cling to the walls. He hadn’t noticed it before. He’d been too intent on matters being set straight in a hurry. Now—now, his fate lay in the hands of Inspector Mickelson.

Hamish said derisively, “Ye’ve been inside a cell before this.”

But always knowing that he wasn’t the occupant, that when he was ready to leave, the door would open and there would be a reprieve from the panic. Now Rutledge was battling his claustrophobia, fighting the urge to promise anything if they would leave that door unlocked. He thought about the night to come and shuddered, then began to pace. In the dark, the walls would begin to close in.

Hamish cautioned, “There’s no help for it, ye ken. Sit doon and close your eyes. Ye willna’ see the door, then.”

I’m going to make a fool of myself, he thought, when I start screaming. And then they’ll know. But after a time, he sat down and shut his eyes, as Hamish had counseled, imagining the room to be as long as the drawing room in Melinda Crawford’s house, counting first one and then another of the furnishings and treasured objects that filled the space. It helped, but only a little against the rising tide of dread.

A constable brought him a meal later, as well as fresh water, and he realized it must be noon, or possibly one o’clock. The food was hot, plentiful—fried fish, roasted potatoes, fresh bread and peas. He wondered if Inspector Norman was hedging his bets by treating his thorny prisoner with some care in the event the Yard had to eat its words.

The afternoon dragged by, and Rutledge set himself the puzzle of why there was murder being done in Eastfield.

If Inspector Mickelson had taken the wrong man into custody, the murderer had only to bide his time, and then kill again. It would have made Mickelson look a fool. Why then had he targeted Mickelson?