Not knowing what else to do at this time of day—it was well past his dinnertime and possibly Jake’s as well—Rutledge took the bird home with him.

It was silent as the tomb on the journey in the motorcar, but Jake took an instant dislike to a jackdaw outside the flat window where Rutledge set him at first, and the loud denunciation of Rutledge’s choice of accommodation was nearly deafening.

Moving Jake’s cage to another window, he took note of that beak and the condition of the papers inside the cage, and wondered how to manage cleaning them without losing a finger or two in the process.

As a last resort, Rutledge put a little food on the table across from the cage and left the door open while he went to change his clothes and find something cool to drink. When he came back, Jake didn’t appear to have budged. But the food Rutledge had left out for him was gone.

He was tired and said to Jake, “We’ll deal with you tomorrow, my lad.” Shutting the cage door, he sat down across from the bird and considered the day’s events. But he found himself on the edge of sleep instead.

Hamish said, “It wasna’ a verra’ profitable day.”

“But a beginning,” Rutledge answered him drowsily. “The question now is how to put the pieces together. And what we’ll have, when we’ve done it.”

And then he had a horrible thought.

What if Jake could hear Hamish, and began to speak in his voice?

That brought him wide awake. A solution eluded him, but he got up and flung a cloth over the birdcage and listened silently as Jake began his nightly ritual of saying good night to Peter.

Chapter 21

Chapter 21

The parrot had finished its seeds and taken a bath in the water Rutledge had left in the cage.

In the gray light of a misty morning Rutledge showed the fatigue of a long drive and a short night’s sleep. He looked down at the stained newspapers in the bottom of the cage. He’d just watched Jake crack a nut with ease, and he had no intention of testing that beak against bone. But something had to be done.

He was collecting fresh newspaper when there was a knock at the door of his flat, and Frances came in, calling, “Ian? Are you here? I saw your motorcar. Shouldn’t you be at the Yard?”

“I’m in here,” he told her, and she walked through to his bedroom, where the bird was ensconced on a table by the double windows.

“What possessed you to buy a parrot?” she asked, stopping in astonishment. “But what a pretty creature. Does it have a name? Surely you don’t have the time to care for it properly.”

Rutledge straightened and gazed fondly at his sister.