She hit the wall with a force that knocked the wind out of her, and for an instant she stared at him with such venom he took a step backward. Before she could recover, he’d emptied the chamber and pocketed the bullets.

Taking her arm, he led her out of the house and to his motorcar. The seats were wet after the rain, but she let him put her into the passenger door. He turned the crank, got behind the wheel, and happened to see a long shaft of sunlight touch the roofline of the house where Mrs. Blaine had lived.

There would be another woman for the hangman now.

Hamish said as Rutledge backed into the road, “There’s her motorcar. Down the road. ’Ware.”

Rutledge saw it, and pressed hard on the accelerator. It didn’t deter her. Just in time, he caught Mary Brittingham’s arm as she tried to open the passenger’s door and throw herself out of his vehicle as it gained speed.

“Not this time,” he said.

Pulling her back, he kept a firm grip on her arm.

“I will succeed,” she told him through clenched teeth. “In the end, I will cheat the hangman.”

And he had a feeling that she would.

But not on his watch.

Chapter 33

Chapter 33

It was a miracle that Teller lived. Dr. Blake, who was brought out to attend him, said as much. “Lost blood, the internal damage. He’ll not be up and about for weeks.”

“His family is in Essex.”

“They could be on the moon for all I care,” the doctor snapped. “The hospital here in Thielwald will do very well.”

But who, Rutledge thought, would come to sit by his side? Not Susannah. Nor would Amy leave Edwin. Leticia? Perhaps.

He sent telegrams to the Yard and to Inspector Jessup. And five days later he left Lancashire and pointed the bonnet of the motorcar south at last.

There had been a great deal of time on his hands during those five days. He had sat by Walter Teller’s bed or walked the streets of Thielwald, and spent an hour or two with Lawrence Cobb one afternoon.

But when he was free to leave at last, he knew what he was going to do.

And despite the fury that was Hamish in his mind, he grimly kept his eyes on the road.

There were times when he thought about Florence Teller.

Driving all night, he came into London in a light rain, mist hanging heavy over the Thames as he turned toward his destination.

Hamish said, “Ye’re no’ fit to do this.”

It was true. He was unshaven, his clothing wrinkled and stained with Walter Teller’s blood. Mrs. Greeley had done her best with a damp cloth and an iron, but it was still there. Even if he couldn’t see it, he could feel the stiffness along the edges of his cuffs.