“I saw the doctor this morning. Doctor Bones, I call him. He is forever telling me that I shan’t make old bones. But he’s right. It’s more and more of a struggle. And one day, it will be over. I could be at peace with that save for two things. Rosemary is one of them.”

“And the other?”

“I don’t want to be alone. But I don’t want Rosemary to have to face it with me.”

“I’ve already promised—”

“I know. But there’s the Yard. Your time isn’t your own. I’ve left instructions in a letter my solicitor keeps for me. And if you aren’t here, there’s another letter meant for you. For old time’s sake.”

“I’m glad you told me. I shall be here, if it’s at all possible.”

He rose and took Reginald’s hand. “Would you prefer to be at home?”

“No, no. I think the decision to stay on here was a good one. Whether she wants to admit it or not, sometimes when I rattle about the place, she can pretend that Max is just in the other room, or upstairs, or sitting out here in his favorite chair. He’d taken to smoking a pipe out here, every afternoon, did you know? Smelled like the very devil, but he thought it might steady his nerves.”

Rutledge said, “Then you’ve done the right thing.”

He left soon afterward, wondering if he was likely to see Reginald alive again. But he’d meant his promise, and he would try to keep it.

Hamish was his companion on the rest of the drive back to Sussex, and they debated the whereabouts of Tommy Summers and Daniel Pierce, before the discussion moved on to Reginald and the war. Rutledge could feel the tension mounting as the voice grew louder in his ears, and he could feel himself slipping back into the waking nightmare of the trenches. He couldn’t remember much about the last one hundred miles, but it was late when he rolled into Battle, passing the great gatehouse of the abbey ruins. Eastfield was not far away. He dreaded to hear that there had been another killing. Tuttle or one of the others.

Where the bloody hell was Tommy Summers? He knew where to lay hands on Pierce.

No one had died in his absence.

And Constable Walker was relieved to see him.

“There’s no better news of Inspector Mickelson,” he told Rutledge, “but Inspector Norman has asked to set up the inquest without him. Now that Carl Hopkins has been released. Waiting for the inspector to recover doesn’t serve any purpose now.”

“Yes, all right. And send word by Constable Petty that Hartle’s body can be released. Perhaps we can tempt our murderer to attend the funeral service.”

He had said it wryly, but Constable Walker asked, “Do you think that’s likely?”