And there he knew she was telling the truth. But how much of it?

“Thank you, Mrs. Teller. I’ll look into this matter. May I drive you home?”

“No, thank you. I’ll just walk up to Trafalgar and find a cab.”

But he accompanied her that far anyway and hailed the cab for her. As he was about to shut the door, she put her hand out to stop him and said, “You won’t tell Peter where you heard this? He’ll be very angry with me.”

“Not,” he said, “unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Thank you.” She spoke to the driver, and the cab pulled away. The last sight he had of her was a handkerchief in her hand, pressed against her eyes when she thought he could no longer see her.

Rutledge had asked the Yard for information on any other Peter Teller, and Gibson had answers for him, though from the sergeant’s terse manner, Rutledge knew that Jake had been troublesome.

Gibson said, “As to that infernal bird, sir. We’ve a list of things he’s likely to eat. I’ve put that on your desk. Along with a box of samples to see you through until you can decide what to do with the creature.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. Is there anything else?”

“We’ve come up empty-handed in our search for one Peter Teller.”

“You haven’t found one? In all of England?”

“Oh, we’ve found them right enough. One lives in Gloucester, and he’s just on the point of celebrating his seventy-sixth birthday. The other is one of a pair of twins, Peter and Helen Mowbray Teller, who are seven. There was another Peter Teller in Ely, who died in 1910 of pneumonia. The constable there believes he was about thirteen at the time. The man outside New Castle on Tyne, lost both his legs in a mining accident in 1908. He was a supervisor, went down with his men to look at a troublesome face, and there was an explosion. The last one was the son of Peter and Susannah Teller, died age two of bleeding internally. The list is also on your desk.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll relieve you of the infernal bird. Meanwhile, if you will, I need to know more about one Lieutenant Thomas Burrows who didn’t survive the war.” Rutledge gave the particulars of his regiment and added, “Uncle is an MP. Or was. I believe his mother still lives somewhere outside Worcester.”

“I’ll see to it, sir. And if I may make a suggestion, I’d take the bird out covered before the Chief Super learns he was here. We were able to blame one squawk on a baby whose mother had come in to complain of her neighbors.”

Rutledge laughed, and went to recover Jake.