“No, sir. I’d have known if she had.”

“And all she took from the house was clothing?”

“Yes, sir. I did ask her how Mr. Teller fared. She told me that Mrs. Teller would be staying on in London for the time being, while the doctors came to a conclusion about him. I could judge from her face that she was worried. Come to think of it, the clothing she took was mostly black. Now that’s distressing.”

And, Rutledge thought, two days ago Amy Teller had known that Walter Teller was missing.

Back in London, Rutledge went again to Marlborough Street and to Bolingbroke Street to call on Edwin Teller and his brother Peter. But neither of them had returned to the city.

He stopped by his own flat afterward for a change of clothing and found a telegram on his doorstep.

The early darkness of an approaching storm had settled over the streets, and a wind was picking up, lifting bits of papers from the gutter and tossing the flower heads in the garden next but one to his flat.

The war had taught so many people that telegrams brought bad news. Someone missing. A death. The end of hope. He reached down to pick it up and had the strongest premonition that he shouldn’t open it.

Hamish said, “The war is o’er. There’s no one left to kill.” Bitterness deepened the familiar voice.

Rutledge lifted the telegram from the doorstep and shoved it in his pocket as the storm broke overhead, lightning flaring through the darkness like the flashes of shells, followed by thunder so close it was like the guns of France pounding in his head.

He poured himself a drink, forcing the images that were crowding his mind back into the blackness whence they’d come, and this time succeeded in breaking the spell. Or was it only the storm’s fury moving on downriver and fading safely into the distance that erased the memories of the fighting? He couldn’t be sure. He found a clean shirt and put it on, then reached into his pocket for the telegram.

The skies were just clearing enough that he could read it without lighting the lamp. He recognized the name below the message and realized that his premonition had been right.

The telegram had been sent by David Trevor.

A surge of guilt swept through him. Too many letters from his godfather had gone unanswered. This was surely a summons to appear in Scotland and explain himself.

Trevor had written plaintively in his last letter, “The press of an inquiry? What, are you killing off the good citizens of London at such a rate that there’s not a minute to spare for us? I find that hard to believe.” And Rutledge could almost hear the amusement in his words, as well as the uncertainty and the sadness.

He scanned the brief message.

Arriving tomorrow. Stop. Meet us at station.

And the time of the train followed.

For an instant of panic, Rutledge considered that us.