They reached the station in no time at all, and Rutledge had been silent most of the drive, fighting with himself and with Hamish over how to prolong the visit.

Then they were in the station, the train was coming in amidst clouds of white steam that set the boy dancing with glee, and it was time to board.

Rutledge said, hurriedly, before it was too late, “I’m glad you came.”

Trevor smiled. “I’m glad I came as well. And I’ll do it again, if you fail to come north to us.”

Rutledge said tightly, “I can’t—not yet.” Not ever. “The men you commanded and sent to their deaths have forgiven you long ago, Ian. When will you forgive yourself?”

Trevor’s words were too close to the mark.

Rutledge could only answer, “Time. . .” That was as far as he could trust his voice.

“Time has a way of slipping through our fingers.”

Then they were embracing, the carriage door was closing, and Rutledge could hear a whistle somewhere down the line as the engine gathered steam.

The train began to move. Trevor had dropped his window and called back to his godson, “Christmas, Ian. Come for Christmas!”

Rutledge stood there, knowing it was too late, far too late, and waved the train out of sight.

From the station, he drove to the Belvedere Clinic to inform Jenny Teller that there was no word still on her husband’s whereabouts.

But when he got there, he was told that Mrs. Teller had stepped out with her sister-in-law for a cup of tea.

Matron said, “Mrs. Teller is quickly losing heart. It took some persuasion to convince her that it was all right to leave for a little while.”

“Will you tell her for me that there has been no news?”

“You could probably catch them—they’ve only just left.”

He was restless, not in the mood to sit in a tea shop and tell a wife that her husband was still missing and that the Yard couldn’t find him despite all its trained personnel and experience.

“No. Let her have her brief respite. I’ll only remind her of what she’s trying to put out of her mind.”

Matron said, “That’s very generous of you. I’ll see that she gets your message.”

He went instead to Marlborough Street, to ask Edwin Teller if he possessed a later photograph of his brother, only to be told that Mr. Edwin Teller was resting and left orders not to be disturbed. Nor was Amy Teller available.

At the Yard, in the passage on the way to his own office, he encountered Chief Superintendent Bowles, who said in passing, “Still no trace of Teller. And that witness you wanted from Bynum’s knifing hasn’t been found either. Are you certain he’s not the man we’re after?”

“He’s a witness. Nothing more. I just wanted to ask him other questions. I saw Billy, remember. More clearly even than Hood, who called him dark.”

“Your priority is the Teller case. I’ll put Mickelson on to finding Bynum’s killer.” He cleared his throat. “Are you quite certain Teller is still alive? We can’t give more manpower to the search for him, with this murder case hanging over us. But I wouldn’t wish the family to feel we aren’t doing all we can. At least thank God there has been no plague.”