He began to swing, and Frances said, “I can see that he must have been wonderful company for a woman alone, but my maid is terrified of him and won’t come near him. He squawks at her, as if she’s an interloper. It’s either Jake or Nell. And I must choose Nell.”

“There’s someone who wants him. If it works out, it will be the right choice for him.”

“You look tired.”

“Much on my mind.”

“I’m sure. Well, go home, Ian, and let me go to bed.”

He wished her a good night, and left.

Sunday morning was misty and gray as Rutledge returned to the Yard early. There was a report to write and then preparations to be made for the night’s promenade along the river. He had debated asking for a weapon, to even the odds, and then thought better of it. Sitting in his office, staring out the window and listening to Big Ben chime the hour, Mickelson’s plan seemed workable. But Billy was becoming an accomplished killer now. And in the dark, many things could happen. What had driven the boy to this point in his life? Not that it mattered. He had crossed the boundary; he was going to hang when caught.

Rutledge was just turning around to begin his report when Sergeant Gibson burst into the small office with only a cursory knock.

“I think you’d better know, sir. We’ve just had a telephone call from Essex, sir. There’s been a death at Witch Hazel Farm. The Teller house.”

“What happened?” Rutledge asked, getting to his feet. “When?”

“Someone fell down the stairs. Just before breakfast. Chief Superintendent Bowles isn’t in, nor is Inspector Mickelson. I think, if you hurry, you can be on your way before they arrive. It’s still your inquiry, after all.”

Rutledge reached for his hat. “It will take no more than fifteen minutes to pack a valise.”

He was down the passage and in the stairwell when he remembered the rendezvous with Billy. Mickelson could deal with it.

Sunday morning traffic was light, and he made good time, going directly to the house at Witch Hazel Farm.

The drive was crowded with vehicles, and he could see that the police from Waddington were there, already taking over from the constable in Repton. Dr. Fielding, the Tellers’ Essex physician, was standing by the door in the watery sunlight, an unlit pipe in his hands.

He saw Rutledge pull up and hailed him. “Inspector. Good, you’ve come.”

“I’ve had no briefing,” he told Fielding. “There wasn’t time.”

“It’s Captain Teller. He tripped coming down the stairs this morning.”

“Gentle God,” Rutledge said blankly. And then, “What can you tell me?”