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.”

“There’s something wrong with this inquiry,” Rutledge told him. “I sometimes feel I’m chasing a ghost.”

“Nevertheless, if you know what’s best, you’ll find him—or what’s become of him—as soon as may be. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you taken the time to read Teller’s book? It might be useful.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Rutledge moved on, pausing to speak briefly to Sergeant Gibson just as Constable Turner came up the stairs two at a time.

Gibson, frowning, said, “That one’s in a tearing rush.”

Turner reached Chief Superintendent Bowles and saluted smartly. “Sir. There’s a train off the tracks up the line. Word just came in.”

Rutledge called to him, “Which train?”

“The northbound to Edinburgh,” Turner answered over his shoulder.

Rutledge said quickly, “Where, man, where did it derail?”

“Just to the north of a village called Waddington. Not that far—”

But Rutledge was already racing for the stairs, his mind filled with his godfather’s last words: Time has a way of slipping through our fingers.

If he’d asked Trevor to stay, if he’d come out with the words in time, they wouldn’t have been on that train—

He ran to where he’d left his motorcar. Out of breath and damning himself for not speaking up when he’d had the chance, Rutledge drove out of London at the best speed he could make, cursing the motorcars and lorries and pedestrians that held him up.

As soon as the outskirts of the city lay behind him, he gunned the motor and prayed he would be in time.

Chapter 14

Chapter 14