“We thought she might have been the person you left on watch under the lilacs. That clump of bushes is out of sight of the neighbors’ windows. A clever place to stand and watch, in my opinion.”

“She never stood there! Because I wasn’t there. And if she told you she was, it’s out of malice. She’s a bitch! She’s got it in for me because I didn’t keep her on, that’s what it is! I could wring her neck!”

Rutledge waited to a count of ten, watching the man’s face. It was a thinking face, but not a cunning one. The Strong Man wasn’t just muscle and brawn; he was capable of working out the ramifications of his position and dealing with the reality it represented. But he didn’t appear to have that extra measure of slyness that sometimes cropped up in people of his ilk.

As if in agreement, Hamish observed, “He’s no’ one to lurk about in the shadows. He’s been larger than most men, all his life.” And it was true. Walsh had probably never feared anyone or anything. Unlike a small man, whose wits were all that stood between him and a bullying, Walsh had never needed to bluster or bargain. His arrogance grew out of his certainty about himself in the scheme of things.

Rutledge let his silence draw attention to itself. When something changed in Walsh’s manner, less belligerent and more wary, he finally said, “Iris Kenneth is dead. Did you kill her, too?”

The shock was real. Walsh sucked in his breath, and there was a sudden tightness around his mouth, an incredulity that left him shaken with a realization that he might have fallen into a trap.

“You’re lying to me!” he said, the deep bass voice rolling around the walls of the small cell like thunder overhead.

“Why should I lie? I can take you to London tonight and show you her corpse. If it hasn’t already been turned into a pauper’s grave.”

“She’s not dead! Iris had a way about her, a lively way. But she kept her wits about her, and she never—I don’t believe you!”

With a shrug, Rutledge turned to leave. “I don’t really care whether you believe me or not. I’m not lying to you. She’s dead.”

“How? By what means!” Walsh asked quickly, taking a step forward as if to stop Rutledge from leaving.

“Drowning,” Rutledge said coldly. “Not a pleasant way to go, surely?”

And he walked out of the cell, shutting the door behind him.

Walsh was there as he turned the key in the lock. His fists pounded furiously against the door. “Damn you! Come back here—!”

But Rutledge walked away down the passage to Blevins’s office, to the drumbeat of Walsh’s fists battering on the door.