“So I wasn’t the first victim.” He had hoped that he was.

“In fact, there have been a number of robberies at knifepoint south of the river, but most victims hand over their money without any fuss. You and the doctor argued. What were you doing on the bridge at that hour, anyway?”

“A good question,” Rutledge answered him shortly. And then seeing that Bowles was intent on having an answer, he went on. “Making plans of a sort.”

“A mad place to go woolgathering,” Bowles commented. “How’s the arm?”

“It will do.”

Bowles grunted. “Dr. Lonsdale tells me otherwise. You’ll be on light duty for several days.” He handed Rutledge the stack of folders he was carrying. “Inspector Mickelson is behind in his paperwork. You can deal with these.”

He walked away without looking back.

Rutledge stood there for all of ten seconds, then strode in the direction of his office, his expression grim.

Lonsdale had said nothing about light duties. This was Rutledge’s punishment for not taking his assailant into custody. And having him do Mickelson’s paperwork was intended to drive the point home.

Chapter 6

Jenny Teller woke from a deep sleep, disoriented. Sitting up in bed, she stared at the room. This wasn’t the clinic—what was she doing here? And what was that strident sound in the distance?

A telephone.

This was Edwin’s house, she realized, brushing back a tendril of hair that had come loose as she slept. And this was the bedchamber she and Walter always used when they were in London.

The telephone was still ringing. Should she answer it?

Rubbing her face with her hands, she tried to collect her wits. She’d had no idea how tired she was. Everyone had been kind at the clinic, but she hadn’t been able to shut her eyes, her worry driving her, and only an occasional nap snatched when Walter was with the doctors or asleep himself had kept her going. Why was there no change in his condition? Why was he refusing to talk, to look at her, to eat? Why couldn’t the doctors do something?

She remembered now: Amy and Edwin had begged her to come away for a few hours of rest. Walter was sleeping, it would do her good. And they would bring her back in time to have dinner with him.

Oh God, had they let her oversleep? But no, sunlight was still pouring through the curtains, making bright squares on the mauve carpet. It couldn’t be more than five o’clock—perhaps half past.

The telephone had stopped ringing.

She lay back against the pillows, one part of her begging to sleep a little longer, the other lashing her with guilt for leaving the clinic even for such a short time.

There was a tap at her door, and she called, “Come in, Amy. I’m awake.”

But it was Rose, the housekeeper. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Teller, but there’s someone on the telephone asking for you.”

“Who is it?” She swung her feet out of the bed and stuffed them into her shoes. “My sister?”