“A little while ago—no, it must have been this afternoon,” she went on, frowning. “There was a telephone call. A group that works to find the missing has kept in touch from time to time. They told me they believe they’ve found Mark. He’s in a Belgian hospital, very badly damaged. In fact, for some reason they’d believed he was a Belgian, a Fleming from Bruges. There were a few who fought with the British, you see. But when he improved a little last week, they realized he doesn’t seem to understand Flemish. He responded a little to English, and so the hospital called in someone who could speak to him in English. It was necessary, you see, so that his answers could be taken down accurately.”

Her voice broke as she added, “I must go to Belgium, Ian. I need to see this man. And I can’t go alone. Will you come with me? As a friend?”

He could hear only Hamish in his head, Meredith’s words a distant hum, and yet he knew what she was asking. He didn’t think he could do it. Not with this inquiry ongoing, he told himself. Not when I care too much, he added, facing the truth.

Someone was saying, “Yes, of course I’ll do what I can. If the Yard will allow me to take leave.”

A thought flitted through his head: the last time he’d asked for leave of his own accord, it was to attend Max Hume’s funeral.

He expected her to cry again, then. Instead, she looked down at her hands and replied quietly, “Thank you, Ian. From the bottom of my heart.”

“I’ll speak to them tomorrow.”

He took her home soon after, touching her only to help her into the motorcar, seeing her to her door, and saying good night when her maid had opened it.

She smiled a little, and went inside.

The next morning he was as good as his word. He went to the Yard, ignoring the stares and the whispers as he passed along the corridors. Chief Superintendent Bowles was in his office and was caught quite by surprise by his inspector’s sudden appearance.

Rutledge faced him grimly, knowing Bowles for what he was, giving no ground as the man behind the desk seemed rattled for a moment, then collected himself.

“I thought you were in Sussex,” Bowles said gruffly. “Or failing that, in Dover.”

“There’s nothing I can do in Dover. And as long as Summers is in France, then Sussex is safe. I’ve come to ask for a few days of leave.”

Bowles’s face brightened. But he said, “I thought I’d just given you leave.”

“It’s been some time since then. This is a personal matter.”