He’d never wanted to go back to Scotland. Too many Scots had been killed in the trenches—he had given the orders that sent hundreds of them charging into No Man’s Land through gunfire that was pitiless, inhuman. He had watched them scream, he had seen them drop, he had stepped in the thick red blood where they had crawled in agony toward their own lines. He’d heard their last fumbling words as they died. It was a burden of guilt that still burned like live coals in his conscience. But the Yard had seen fit to send him north, whether he wanted to go or not. Barely a month ago, he’d done what he had sworn he would never do. And he didn’t want to think about it now.

There were letters from his godfather, David Trevor, who lived near Edinburgh, lying in his desk across the room. Unopened. He didn’t want to read them until he was well, until he was back at the Yard and his mind was filled with other problems. He didn’t want to hear how it had ended. He wished to God night after night that it had never begun—and knew that he lied even as he said the words. He had had to stay—

But Hamish reminded him of those letters day and night, and he’d ignored the voice until his head ached. When he was healed, fully healed, he’d read them. . . . Not until then. Hamish be damned!

Oh, God. Scotland be damned—!

Frances was watching his face, and he dragged his thoughts back to the present before she could read them.

Much as he disliked admitting it, she was right— one-armed, he was worse in the kitchen than he was with a razor. And his cooking would keep her happy, too. Less likely to chide him for looking like a scarecrow.

“Now let’s see about that tie. Then I must go, I’ve a party tonight and nothing to wear.” She smiled as she rose and crossed to the wardrobe. “This one, I think, with the gray suit.”

Chief Superintendent Bowles was not happy to see him. But then Bowles never was pleased to find Inspector Rutledge at his desk. The Chief Superintendent had hoped Rutledge might die of septicemia. Foolish of him to get himself shot in the first place! It went to prove that Rutledge was neither dependable nor competent to deal with police work. All the same, one could hope that the next time he was fired upon, the bullet would fly true.

There was already talk in certain quarters about the possibility of a promotion. Bowles had squelched it, saying, “Too soon, too soon. He’s not been back at the Yard half a year yet. Give the man time to find his feet!”