One fact was certain. Walter Teller was no longer in the Belvedere Clinic.

“Aye,” Hamish said. “But for his grieving wife, it’s as if he never existed at all.”

Chapter 8

As Rutledge was leaving Teller’s room, he found Sergeant Biggin looking for him.

Biggin said, “I didn’t want to disturb the wife. But there’s a body. You’ll have to come and see.”

“I can’t recognize Teller. And I won’t put Mrs. Teller through this until I know whether or not you’ve found her husband.”

“Fair enough.”

“Wait here.”

Rutledge went back into the sitting room where Mrs. Teller was just joining Matron in a morning cup of tea. It was painful to see hope flaring in her eyes at the sight of him, then watch it dashed again.

“Mrs. Teller, would there be a photograph of your husband at your brother-in-law’s house that the police could use to help them search for witnesses, anyone who might have seen him? I’ll be glad to send someone around for it.”

“A photograph?” She opened her purse and brought out a small velvet case. “I have this. But it’s very precious—”

“I’ll see no harm comes to it,” he promised, and took out the silver frame inside the case.

“He was younger, then,” she warned him. “He gave me this before we were married.”

Looking down at the likeness of Walter Teller, Rutledge saw a strong face, marked by something he couldn’t define. The years in the field? Possibly. It was there in the eyes, a shadow that belied the smile for the camera.

He thanked Mrs. Teller, and went back to where Biggin was waiting.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“He’s not wearing the clothing Mrs. Teller described for us when he first went missing,” Biggin told him as they walked out to the motorcar. “But the physical description fits. Height, weight, coloring.”

“What happened to him?” Rutledge asked.

“He was stabbed. On Westminster Bridge. He was found shortly after dawn.”

Rutledge’s heart sank. Had Billy killed him? Bowles would have an apoplexy if the boy’s first victim was Walter Teller.

They drove in silence to the morgue, where the body had been undressed and the man’s clothing had been put in a cardboard box.

“Do you care to examine his belongings first?” the attendant asked.

“Was he robbed?”

“I expect he was. No watch or rings. No money.”

“Then I’ll see the body now.”

He was accustomed to looking at the dead. Sometimes he was surprised at how much he could read in the dead face. At other times there was nothing but a blankness. As if the substance of the living being had been wiped away with his death.

Biggin was right. The victim was of the same general height and build as Walter Teller, his fair hair parted on the left side. But one look told Rutledge that this was not Teller. Even given the changes over the years, it was not. In fact, the dead man resembled Rutledge in size and weight, as well.