Leaving a brief message on Constable Walker’s desk with a schedule for the nightly patrols, he packed his valise, left The Fishermen’s Arms, and set out for Shropshire.

He had fewer than three days to find an answer.

Rutledge stopped in London for clean clothing, and found a letter waiting for him from Reginald Hume.

I’m still with Rosemary. The thought of this empty house filled with Max’s ghost was too much for her, I think, and caring for me has given her something to do. I’m no trouble, and I stay out of her way as much as possible. The doctors here are trying to persuade me to go to America and a place called Arizona. They believe the dry air there may help, but I don’t believe I could survive the journey at this stage. And I have something to do before I die. Just wanted you to know that Rosemary is beginning to accept. But there’s a long road ahead.

And then he was on the road north and west, to find Minton, Shropshire.

Chapter 19

19

It was late when he neared his destination. Rutledge had had to stop and ask for Minton half a dozen times before he finally learned that it was the next village over but one.

He stayed in a small inn that boasted no more than five rooms, and the next morning drove on to Minton.

He’d always liked Shropshire, sitting on the Welsh Borders. The River Severn divided the rolling land to the north from the southern plains, and just below Buildwas was the tiny village of Minton. It looked down on the tree-lined river and huddled together, as if half afraid of disappearing if it spread out.

Iris Lane was just that, a short track edged its entire length with beds of iris, the broad green swords of their leaves unmistakable, although there were no blooms now. Old Well House was a pretty cottage, windows open wide to the morning air and a line of wash already hung out at the side of the kitchen garden.

Rutledge tapped lightly at the door, and a young woman came to open it. Her face was flushed, as if she’d hurried down the stairs.

“Oh,” she said, encountering a stranger on her step. Looking over his shoulder she saw the motorcar. “I thought you might be—well, never mind, you aren’t. Have you got yourself lost?”

She was of middle height, with soft fair hair done up in a knot, and she wore a damp apron. He wondered if he’d caught her at the washtub.

“I’m Inspector Rutledge, from London. Scotland Yard,” he began.

“Dear heaven, they’ve found Tommy!”

“Was he missing?” Rutledge asked, surprised by her shock.