“Why did he think you might know this man?”

“When he was in hospital, there were days when Theo was barely conscious. He thought I might be able to put a name to the face. He said it was important to know.” He finished peeling the potatoes and set them aside.

Rutledge said, “He was hoping it was someone from the hospital? Or not?”

“He was hoping it was. He said he’d feel better if it was.”

“Did the man seem to recognize Hartle?”

“I don’t know. Theo didn’t say anything about that. He just didn’t want it to be the father.”

“Whose father?”

The cook’s hands were shaking. He put aside the carrot he was trying to scrape and clutched the edge of the table with taut fingers, his head down. “Just go away. Now. I can’t—you’re pushing too hard. Please.”

Rutledge could hear his own voice saying, “Lives depend on this. Whose father?” But he was watching the color drain from Mason’s face, and the way his eyes were blinking, as if he couldn’t focus them properly.

Hamish’s voice was loud between them, warning Rutledge to stop. And Rutledge could feel himself losing control, blackness sweeping through his mind, the sound of the guns so loud he wanted to press his hands over his ears and hide from it.

But he was here for a reason, and he gripped that the way most men would grip sanity, and said again, “Whose?”

He could hardly hear the reply. It was a whisper lost in the roar of guns that wouldn’t stop.

“He wouldn’t tell me. For God’s sake, he wouldn’t tell me. And I let him go hunting for that man alone, because I’m a coward.”

Rutledge reached out and clapped Mason on the shoulder, a comradely gesture, but the man shrunk from him, cringing until he was lying on the floor in a tight knot, protecting his body.

“He wouldn’t tell me. For God’s sake, he wouldn’t tell me. And I let him go looking for the man alone.”

Ashamed, Rutledge stumbled out of the kitchen, somehow found his way to the door and into the street. He leaned against the wing of the motorcar, sick. The sounds slowly receded, and after a time, the darkness also withdrew. He straightened up, ignoring Hamish still raving in his mind.

9

Leaving the motorcar where it was, Rutledge began walking, heading nowhere, one street after another, left and then right and then left again.

After a while, he found he was standing in front of a small shop, its black-and-white-striped awning affording a little shade from the now warm sun. Gradually he noticed that he was staring at a display of porcelain figures, jeweled fans, small dolls in colorful costumes, enameled silver snuffboxes, and ornate black lacquerware with scenes from fairy tales fancifully painted across the tops.

He had no idea where he was. Looking up at the scrolled letters on the shop window, he realized that this was where Russian émigrés had put their personal belongings up for sale.