Standing in deep shadow, he waited. The motorcar was small and there was only a driver to be seen, silhouetted against the clouds out to sea. A woman’s profile, stiff beneath a cloche hat. He watched as she came to the intersection with the main road. Without hesitation she turned out into it, gunning the motor with angry force. The tires screeched in the grit of the road, and then the car was gone, speeding east—toward Cley.

Rutledge thought, If she finds him before Blevins does, she’ll kill him if she can. For taking away her vengeance.

Hamish answered, “Aye, she drives yon motorcar like a spear!”

But there was little chance of her overtaking Walsh. She’d exhaust herself first, and go home. Still, it was his duty to stop her, bring her back to Osterley, and ask Mrs. Barnett to keep an eye on her.

Time was running out, and time just now was very precious.

“It’s a gamble, either way,” Hamish agreed. “If she runs afoul of Walsh, there’s trouble. For her and for you. If Blevins canna’ stop the Strong Man, and Walsh kills again while you’re distracted by this woman, it’s on your head.”

It was a gamble.

Rutledge made his choice. The most certain outcome of a night of turmoil was losing Walsh. Once the man was safely out of East Anglia, he had every prospect of staying free. He must have laid plans—

Striding through the darkness back to his own car, Rutledge’s mind outpaced his feet. What would he himself do, in the Strong Man’s shoes? How would he use this one carefully crafted opportunity?

Hamish answered, “Aye, it was well done, his escape. I canna’ believe he’d leave the rest to chance.”

“No.”

Walsh had apparently been a friendly and popular showman, whatever darker shades of his nature lurked beneath the smiling surface. The success of his act had depended on pleasing the public. “Step up, ladies, and test the Strong Man for yourselves. . . . See, here’s a bench, and all you have to do is seat yourselves at either end. . . . Don’t be afraid, you’re as safe as a babe in arms, I won’t drop you. . . . Who’ll wager a bob to see if the Strong Man can pull this carriage as well as any horse. . . . All right, lads, who among you wants to lift the Strong Man’s Iron Hammer. . . .”

There must be colleagues he could turn to, someone who would offer him temporary shelter, money to move on—and silence. It was, by necessity, a closed fraternity, this showman’s world. People who traveled from place to place to earn their living put down no roots, and counted on the goodwill of their own in place of family. Many of them had had scrapes with the law, and they’d believe Walsh when he claimed he was innocent. The police were a common enemy.