Hopkins got up from the cot and crossed to where Rutledge was standing at the door. “It made me ill for a time. I hadn’t been able to serve, you see. I wasn’t there to help them. I’d try to sleep at night and I’d wonder what their last thoughts were, if they’d called to me and were hurt that I didn’t come. I didn’t even know when they died until weeks afterward. I’d been living my life, talking with friends or working—even sleeping—as they were struggling for their last breath. When I’d see a British soldier, I’d want to ask, were you there? Did you try to save them? Did you even care? Some would boast of the Germans they had killed. Callous bastards. I wanted to hit them, make them suffer too.” He shrugged. “It was stupid of me, but there was so much pain I couldn’t think straight. I even considered suicide. But when I spoke to Rector about what comes after, he didn’t know. All the words he preached, and he didn’t know what was on the other side. What use was it to kill myself, if I couldn’t be with them again? The happiest days of my life were spent with those two. My English brother and my German cousin. And when people called my cousin a butcher, a Hun, and hoped he’d gone to hell, I hated them with all my heart.”

He stood there, not crying, not cursing, his shoulders slumped.

Rutledge said after a moment, “Did you hate them enough to kill them?”

“I thought about it. If I’d known where to find a gun, I might have tried. But I didn’t. I could only curse them all.” He looked away. “That takes courage, acting on what you believe. I didn’t have it.”

Hamish said, “He wouldna’ creep up behind a man and garrote him.”

But Rutledge silently answered him, Not in the cold light of day. But after a sleepless night?

His intent on coming back here to the cells had been to hear Hopkins defend himself face-to-face. He’d almost believed the man earlier. Now, he was not so sure.

Hamish argued, “Ye were in yon cell yoursel’ and no’ thinking clearly.”

Rutledge considered the prisoner. He looked older than his years, a defeated, sallow figure with nothing to buoy him up and carry him through the loss that was eating him alive. It was possible that Carl had taken his own sense of worth from that brother and the cousin, and was unable to find his way alone. Would killing alleviate some of the pain? Or would it only add to the distressing burden of guilt that Hopkins already shouldered?

“Who do you think attacked Inspector Mickelson?” Rutledge asked.