Rutledge said, “It’s late. There’s nothing more I can do tonight.”

“Are ye forgetting The White Swans?”

He stopped in his tracks, halfway up the stairs. He had forgot.

Without a second thought, he went pelting down the steps and out to the motorcar. The drive to Hastings in the heavy rain was not pleasant, and he felt his tires slip several times as he ran down the twisting road into the Old Town.

The White Swans was quiet, most of the guests in their beds. He walked into the lounge and beckoned to the sleepy attendant at the far end.

“Whisky,” he said and chose a table that was secluded enough that his presence wasn’t obvious. As he sat down, he remembered another hotel, the Marlborough in London, and Meredith Channing’s last remark.

He took a deep breath, trying to put it out of his mind. But he couldn’t. He’d tried for days, but it was there, underlying everything he did during the day and his last thought as he fell asleep at night.

He couldn’t imagine a future with her. He couldn’t imagine a future without her. That was the dilemma. There was something about her, the poise that was so unusual in one so young, the quiet understanding that had seen him through a rough afternoon, the willingness to help even when she didn’t particularly care for the fact that he dealt with murder and violence. Her voice, low and soothing. He’d fallen in love with Jean because she was pretty, she was of his own social class, and she was amusing. He had slowly fallen in love with Meredith Channing because she was herself.

What sort of man had her husband been? The war was over. Had been for two years. If Channing had been missing for four—five—years, it was more than likely he was dead. But she refused to accept it. Had she loved him so much? And was her guilt the growing realization that she must admit he was dead?

Rutledge didn’t know. But he was a policeman, and solving riddles was bread and butter to him.

A good many men had gone missing. Blown up, their bodies mutilated beyond recognition by shells and gunfire, rotting in No Man’s Land under the summer sun until the black, bloated body held no resemblance to the living.

Had she loved him so much?

The attendant brought his whisky and Rutledge paid for it on the spot. The harsh swirl of his first taste seemed to burn down his throat, and he set the glass aside.

This had been a wild goose chase. If the man from St. Mary’s churchyard had come to Hastings, he wasn’t here, or if he was, he was in bed and asleep, where he himself ought to be now.

But he waited all the same.