He had a fairly decent idea of why Satterthwaite had summoned him in such haste. A simpler solution, that. The head of the cane had been in the gardens after all. He hadn’t looked long enough. Or Cobb had stumbled on it.

Satterthwaite was waiting in the station for him, late as it was. He could just see the glow of lamplight through the window. He walked in, pulling off his driving gloves. The single lamp on the constable’s desk guided Rutledge through the outer office and down the dark passage.

A Thermos of tea stood on the desk in front of Satterthwaite, and in the lamp’s flickering glow, he appeared to be bone tired, as if he hadn’t slept, the deep hollows and bony ridges of his face stark as he looked up to greet Rutledge.

His own fatigue forgotten, Rutledge studied the man. He was under great strain.

“I’m sorry, sir, for the abrupt summons,” Satterthwaite began. “But I didn’t know what else to do, given the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“I thought it best you didn’t take Peter Teller into custody tomorrow. And I wasn’t ready to tell the world and his uncle what I believed you ought to hear first.” He gestured to the Thermos. “There’s a clean cup just behind you on that shelf. It’s likely to be a long night.”

Rutledge found the cup and filled it with the steaming liquid. He drank half of it to clear the rest of the cobwebs out of his head, and then set it aside.

“All right. Where’s the cane’s head?”

Satterthwaite smiled. “You do take all the wind out of a man’s sails,” he said grimly. But he reached into his drawer and pulled out a round object wrapped in a clean handkerchief. He passed it to Rutledge with distaste, handkerchief and all, as if he couldn’t bear to touch it.

Rutledge glanced at him, then looked down, unwrapping the linen to reveal a gold knob that caught the light and flashed dully in his hand.

It was indeed the head of a cane, broken off the Malaccan stick.

With one finger he rolled the knob toward the light, and sat there for a moment, absorbing what it represented. Satterthwaite said nothing, watching him.

Damning was the best word for it. Small wonder Walter Teller had lied, telling Rutledge the cane was of ivory.

Embedded in the heavy gold head was an enameled button or plaque. A black scum obscured part of the design, but even so, Rutledge knew what it was.

He glanced at Satterthwaite.