Gibson said, “We don’t think so. His victims are usually near the bridge. And out late at night. They could have passed for you, walking off a mood. You do that, you know.”

Rutledge hadn’t realized that he was so predictable. “All right. Go on.”

“You nearly caught him. He’s afraid of you. And he wants you dead, for luck.”

It wasn’t unheard of.

“He won’t come back tonight. Not with the police everywhere, looking for evidence.”

“No, sir. I suggest you get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow night you’ll be on that bridge, and we’ll be watching you.”

“Whose idea was this?” Rutledge asked, curious.

“Inspector Mickelson, sir,” Gibson replied, his voice neutral. “But we have to catch him, sir. There’s no other way.”

“Yes, I understand. All right. But only tomorrow night, Gibson. I must drive to Essex on Monday morning, unless Captain Teller returns to London sooner.”

“I hope you’ll be taking someone into custody soon. Old Bowels is getting impatient.”

“Bowles isn’t going to like it when we do. Peter Teller, Walter Teller’s elder brother, seems to be our man.”

“My dear lord.” Gibson whistled softly. “I hope your evidence is rock solid. Or none of us will have any peace.”

Rutledge left, intending to visit his sister. If Jake hadn’t said anything of importance—and he was not anticipating hearing that he had—then he would carry the bird back to Lancashire and give it to Lawrence Cobb.

He caught Frances just returning from dinner with friends and hailed her as she was going inside. She turned and smiled at him.

“Ian. Come in. I’ve had a lovely evening. What brings you here? Don’t tell me it’s Jake. I’ll be jealous.”

He laughed. “I expected to find the lights on, Jake on the loose, and myself in bad odor for bringing him to you.”

“He’s been a dear. I’ve tried to write down everything he says, but it’s mostly wishing her husband Peter a good night, or something ordinary. He says ‘My dearest wife’ in her voice, but I know it’s a letter he must have heard a hundred times. And ‘Shall we have tea, my dear?’ He always answers that with ‘What will Jake have?’ Hardly useful in a courtroom, I’m afraid.”

“I didn’t expect an enlightening conversation with a murderer,” he said as Frances turned on the light in the small breakfast room and then lifted the covering from Jake’s cage.

He was asleep, head tucked beneath his wing, but he looked at them, blinking the second lid on his eye, and said, “Shall we have tea, my dear?”

“It’s not teatime, Jake. In the morning.”