He went into the Yard. A quarter of an hour later, Constable Miller, dressed as a sweep, was drunkenly making a nuisance of himself in front of the House of Commons. A single constable was dispatched to deal with him, but the noise level didn’t abate. Rutledge, with another constable in tow, strode down to Commons and reasoned with the drunken man. Miller, young and excited, nearly overplayed his role, but in the end, the two constables marched him back to the Yard, protesting every step of the way at the top of his considerable lungs. A small crowd gathered to watch, laughing at the spectacle, and Miller played to his audience, offering to kiss the pretty girls and bring them a sweep’s luck. He dropped one of his brushes, bent over to retrieve it, and fell on his face. The two constables, one on either side, brought him to his feet and kept the bundle. By this time, Miller appeared to be turning a little green, and the onlookers moved away as he knelt and was sick in the gutter. The constables, waiting impatiently, urged the last two or three people who were lingering to see how the situation turned out, to be about their business. A decidedly uncomfortable Miller, holding his stomach, and complaining that he’d meant no harm, shambled between his captors and was soon hauled through the door at the Yard.

Rutledge, inside Commons, walked out talking to a well-dressed man who could have been as important as he looked. They stood together for a good five minutes, as the last of the light was fading from the sky, sped on by a heavy bank of clouds in the west.

The man with Rutledge finally took his leave and walked back to the Commons and disappeared through the door. Rutledge stood there looking after him for a moment, then walked back toward the Yard. Halfway there, one of the constables came out to meet him, passed on a message, and went back the way he’d come. Rutledge went down toward the water, studying the clouds that were already blotting out the western stars and moving downriver. A flash of lightning in the darkest part of the clouds lit them from within, and a cool breeze picked up to herald the storm. A roll of thunder followed.

“There’s no’ much time before the rain comes,” Hamish said. In the distance, somewhere near Trafalgar Square, a motorcar’s horn blew sharply. Rutledge started back toward the bridge and paused to watch a river skiff expertly run the gantlet of the stone arches, and voices carried to him across the water, three men as far as he could tell, and young enough to like the excitement of danger.