Jenny Teller was well out of it, he told himself. And then he found himself thinking that she would have managed, as she had done in London, whatever she had discovered about her husband’s past. She could have been married again to regularize her union, and she would have said nothing that would endanger her son’s future. Whether she could bear to live with Walter Teller again was another matter. He might have had to accept the Alcock Society’s next posting to the field until he and his wife could come to terms with the ghost of Florence Teller and her son, Timmy.

Hamish said, “Perhaps that’s why she had to die?”

“Don’t be a fool,” Rutledge told him harshly.

“Ye’re looking at black and white. It’s a man’s way of thinking, no’ a woman’s.”

In the distance, he could hear someone calling his name. Looking up, he realized that Leticia Teller was trying to attract his attention.

He turned back toward the house, and she waited by the French doors for him. When he was within hearing, she said, “There have been two telephone calls for you. One appears to be urgent. Scotland Yard.”

He thanked her and took the message she was holding out to him.

Inside, he looked at the first. From Inspector Jessup in Waddington, it read, “Mrs. Susannah Teller wishes to know when her husband’s body can be released for burial.”

He called the police station and left a message for Jessup: At your earliest convenience.

Murder, accident, or suicide—it didn’t matter. The police had no reason to hold Peter Teller’s remains any longer.

Next he put in a call to the Yard. When Sergeant Gibson came to the telephone, Rutledge could hear the tension in his voice.

“Sir? There have been developments. In the inquiry concerning Billy.”

Bowles was growing restive.

“Go on.”

“Inspector Cummins took your place last night.”

“I thought you told me that the constables had tried again, with no luck.”

“That’s true, yes, sir. But Inspector Cummins decided he’d try his chances. Without notifying the Yard. He gave as good as he got, the Inspector did, but he’s in hospital, and they’re stitching him up.”

“And Billy?”

“Got away, sir. There was no one posted on either end of the bridge to stop him.”

Rutledge swore under his breath. “All right. What does the Chief Superintendent want?”

“You on the bridge tonight. He said to tell you that unless what you’re doing is a matter of life and death, you’re to be here. No later than nine this evening.”

“I’ll be there. I’m coming from Essex.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rutledge put up the receiver, then stood there for a moment thinking.