done the trick. But Hamish was there, warning him to mind he didn't betray himself, to keep a tight grip on his self- control.
To Rutledge fell the task of holding Mrs. Channing's coat for her when they were leaving, and a faint fragrance like jasmine on a warm summer night's breeze wafted toward him as she settled her scarf around her throat. He was used to the perfumes of England-lily of the valley, attar of roses, forget-me-nots-floral scents that most women wore, sometimes with the spicy touch of carnations or the richness of heliotrope. He found himself remembering the scent that Olivia Marlowe had used, even after her death still surrounding the desk where she had worked.
A line of Olivia's poetry from the volume Wings of Fire-O. A. Manning's poetry-filled his mind, unbidden.
I have not forgotten you,
The pleasure of your touch,
The depth of your voice.
It's as if you never left me,
And my heart is full.
He nearly dropped the coat, but Meredith Channing appeared not to notice. Hamish had.
Rutledge had envied Nicholas Cheney, Olivia's half brother. He still did. And Hamish knew that all too well.
There were general farewells, giving Rutledge time to collect his wits and shake hands, say the right thing, and turn away as the next cab drew to the curb. Frances was adding, 'Mrs. Channing is going my way, Ian. You needn't worry about seeing me home. Did you enjoy the evening? I hope you did.'
'Very much so,' he answered, kissing her cheek.
And then he was alone, traveling toward his flat. Damn Barrington, if he broke Frances's heart!
Three nights later Rutledge met friends for dinner, this one masculine and taken in a club off St. James's Street. Their conversation avoided the war, but even so, the toast, 'To absent friends…' had brought it back like a specter at the feast. One man had just returned from a tour of duty in South Africa, his face burnt brick red by the sun, and they spoke of his journey home, then moved on to where the government was heading with its policies, the state of the economy, and most depressing of all, a rise in the crime rate as ordinary people struggled to make ends meet. As the dinner broke up, Freddy Masters informed them that he was thinking of immigrating to Canada.
'My uncle has business interests there, and he lost his son-my cousin Jack-in the war. I'm what's left of the family, and while I'm not particularly enthralled with providing electricity to millions, there you are. I don't have much choice.'
There was general agreement, and Mark Hadley said, 'My neighbor has much the same idea. He'd considered Argentina and even Australia, but Canada seems less of a change.'
Talk of Canada reminded Rutledge of Jean, married and living there now with her diplomat. If it hadn't been for the war he'd have married her himself. When he came home from France shell-shocked, a broken man, she had been horrified, unable even to look at him. He'd released her from the engagement there and then, but it had taken him a very long time to come to terms with the anguish of her desertion. It had seemed to underline the bleakness of his future.
He was wondering if she missed England, just as Freddy continued. 'My wife's not best pleased, leaving schools and friends behind. I'll let you know what we decide.'
'I can tell you my wife wasn't best pleased with Cape Town,' Edward Throckmorton commented. 'But we managed. You find a way.'
Mark smiled at Rutledge. 'Lucky man, you have no wife to make your decisions for you.' And then he too remembered Jean and looked away.
Rutledge said only, 'I don't know if it's luck or a curse. My sister keeps me in line.'
Freddy said, thoughtfully, 'I saw Frances some ten days back, walking along Bond Street with Simon Barrington. Good man, Simon.' As if to say he'd seen which way the wind blew there. And as if to reassure Rutledge that she might make a worse choice.
'He's in Scotland at the moment,' Rutledge answered.
'Scotland?' Mark was surprised. 'He dined with the Douglases last night. I'm sure of it.'
Rutledge heard him, but managed to say, 'I must be wrong, then. I may not have a wife, but I know how to listen with half an ear.'
That brought a round of laughter, and they said their good nights.
Driving to his flat, Rutledge tried to recall some of the evening's conversation, but it was a blur, already fading. All he could hear was Hadley's voice: He dined with the Douglases last night. I'm sure of it.
Tomorrow he would make it his business to find out what had happened between Frances and Simon Barrington. It had been a long day, and a good night's sleep would show him how best to go about it.
A night's sleep he was not to have. There was a constable on his doorstep, standing there with the stoic air of a man prepared to remain at his post until Doomsday, if that was required of him.
When he saw Rutledge step out of his motorcar, he waited until his quarry turned toward him to say, 'Evening, sir. Chief Superintendent Bowles's compliments, sir, and will you come to the Yard at once.'
Rutledge doubted that the chief superintendent had said anything about compliments. But he nodded and replied, 'Come in, while I change.'
'I'm to bring you as soon as I find you, begging your pardon, sir.'
'Constable Burns, isn't it? Well, Constable, I am not appearing at the Yard in evening dress, and there's an end of it. Another five minutes won't matter.' He unlocked the door to his flat and added with more humor than he felt, 'I won't tell him if you don't.'
'No, sir. Yes, sir,' Burns replied woodenly, and followed him into the flat as if expecting him to escape through a back window.
It was, in fact, seven minutes before Rutledge was ready to leave. He felt as if he were moving in treacle, every task seeming to require more effort than he could muster.
Rutledge drove, and Burns sat silently beside him like a waxwork figure. Rutledge found himself thinking that he would be asleep before he reached the Yard. In an effort to keep himself alert, he said, 'How long have you been waiting, Constable?'
'Two hours, sir. A little over.'
'At least it was a pleasant night.'
'Yes, sir.'
Was I ever that green? Rutledge found himself wondering. It seemed a long time ago that he'd been a constable. Centuries. Eons. But it hadn't been ten years.
They arrived at the Yard, and Burns waited while Rutledge saw to the motorcar, then accompanied him inside and to the door of the Chief Superintendent's office, as if half afraid his quarry would bolt if left alone.
Rutledge knocked, and then entered at Bowles's curt command.
Burns disappeared down the shadowy passage, duty done.
Rutledge shut the door and faced his superior.
Bowles was in a subdued mood. Instead of what Rutledge expected to hear from him-'It took you long enough to get here!'-the Chief Superintendent said, 'I want you to leave tonight for Berkshire, if you will. Your destination is half a dozen houses not far from Uffing- ton. They're called the Tomlin Cottages. Hardly enough of them to dignify the name hamlet, but there you are. You've a watching brief, nothing more.'
'Why not use a local man?' Rutledge asked.
'It's not something for the local people to worry themselves about. The War Office has misplaced one of its own, and they don't want him to get the wind up, thinking they're watching him. But the fact is, they are. Rather an odd sort, I'm told, tends to do things his way, disappears sometimes, and for all I know gets roaring drunk and alarms the neighbors. A routine look-in was unsatisfactory, and in the event he's got himself into trouble, they want it dealt with quickly and efficiently, to avoid gossip.'
'But the Yard-'
'Isn't in the business of minding fools. My view as well. But when you've been asked nicely, you do as you're told.' He turned to look out the window. 'They were impressed, they said, with the way you handled matters in Warwickshire last June. See that you don't disappoint them now.' It was grudging, as if the words were forced out
