At one point under cover of the laughter surrounding them, she had said quietly, "I hope you are well." It was a statement, not a question, as if she already knew the answer.

"Well enough. It was a long day." He couldn't for the life of him understand why he had added that, and swore silently.

She nodded, as if she could see he was speaking the truth, then joined in the general conversation. He began to relax a little, unaware until the meal was nearly over that somewhere in the course of the evening his fatigue had dropped away, the shocks of the day no longer weighing heavily on his mind. Mrs. Channing had not singled him out for attention, indeed he could hardly recall a word spoken directly to him save for her brief "I hope you are well." And yet the warmth of her voice, something in her manner that was inexplicably soothing, and the stillness that was her nature seemed to touch him in some fashion.

He told himself that that was nonsense, it was the wine and the good conversation and the laughter that had 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 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. d.a.m.n Barrington, if he broke Frances's heart! d.a.m.n 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 sh.e.l.l-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 rea.s.sure 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. 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. 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 pa.s.sage, 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 Uffington. 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 of him. Or required of him?

"What excuse do I have for being there?"

"There's that d.a.m.ned great white horse on the hillside." Bowles turned back to the room. "Done in chalk. People come to stare at it, and strangers are taken for granted. Not liked, mind you, but for the most part ignored."

The d.a.m.ned great white horse was a chalk figure from the prehistoric past, and of all the chalk figures, possibly Rutledge's favorite. He'd been taken to see it as a child and allowed to walk the bounds.

"Who is the man I'm to watch? How will I know him?"

"It's Partridge, of all the b.l.o.o.d.y names. g.a.y.l.o.r.d Partridge. The cottage with the white gate. He matters to the War Office, and that's what you're to keep in mind at all times." He pa.s.sed a sheet of paper to Rutledge.

Not even on official stationery, he thought, scanning it. A name, a direction. Nothing more. Spoken rather than written instructions. Sydney Riley, the infamous spy, could have done no better in the cloak-and-dagger world.

Rutledge left soon afterward, not happy about the long drive that lay ahead, but in other ways glad to be out of London. The daffodils would be rioting among the hedgerows, and the air was sweet in the countryside.

Hamish reminded him, "There's yon Simon Barrington," as Rutledge put the kettle on and then went to pack his valise.

"He'll still be in London when I return. It can wait." But Frances's face when she'd come to ask him to take her to dinner with Maryanne Browning was before him, even as he answered Hamish aloud.

He could hardly pound Barrington into admitting he'd lied to Frances, or arrest him for cruelty to his sister. And there was always the possibility that perhaps it was Frances who lied about Scotland, to keep herself from blurting out the truth-that something had gone wrong between the two of them.

"It can wait," he said again to Hamish as much as to himself. "It might work out better without my meddling."

Hamish said derisively, "Aye, that's a comfort."

Rutledge filled his Thermos with tea, then turned out the lamps. He paused there in the darkness, wondering again if he should leave a message for his sister, then thought better of it. A letter was no way to deliver bad news, if she truly didn't know where Simon was. And it was always possible that he had dined with the Douglases and then traveled north with them.

Cutting across London, Rutledge set out in the direction of Uffington, and drove through the darkness, stopping only to stretch his legs when he felt himself drowsing at the wheel and to drink from the Thermos.

It was a remarkably soft night, one of those April evenings when the world seemed pleased with itself. When he'd left the busy towns ringing London behind, he could sometimes smell plowed earth and, once or twice, the wafting fragrance of fruit trees in bloom. The road emptied as the night moved on toward the early hours of morning, a handful of lorries making their way to the east and the occasional motorcar pa.s.sing him. At one point he smelled wood smoke, and wondered if gypsies were camping in a copse of trees in the middle of nowhere. The policeman's instinct was to stop and investigate, but he drove on, ignoring it.

Around two in the morning, he pulled into a small clearing and slept, awaking to the dampness of an early dew. For several seconds he was disoriented, not sure where he was, in France or in England, but then his mind cleared and he got out to walk again and to finish his tea.

It was just getting light when he drove past his destination, a cl.u.s.ter of nine cottages that seemed to stand in the middle of nowhere, much of a sameness in design as if they were built to match. Stone and thatch, they seemed out of place here. He saw that one a little to itself boasted a white gate in a low stone wall.

On the hillside above him was the White Horse, pale in the morning light, an early mist hiding its feet, giving it the appearance of floating across the ground, silent and mysterious.

He stopped the motorcar in the middle of the road, swept by such an intense emotion that he could feel his heart thudding heavily in his chest.

The mist, moving gently, blotted out everything else until it was all he could see.

Gas. Floating across the battlefield, and the shout going up, Masks! Masks!

He was back in France, the tension and fear spreading around him as he and his men watched the slow-moving cloud, fumbling to put on their gas masks, hastily making sure not an inch of skin showed. He thrust his hands in his pockets, unable to find his gloves, digging them deep until he could feel his knuckles hard against the fabric. And Hamish saying in his ear- "Are you lost, then?"

He came back to the present with a jolt, staring at what appeared to be a giant of a man standing at his elbow.

For the life of him, he couldn't have told how long the man had been there or what he'd been saying.

"I-Admiring the horse," he managed, trying to bring it into focus against the backdrop of his slip into the past.

The young man turned to look at it. "Impressive, right enough. I like it best at moonrise. But you're blocking the road."

Rutledge glanced in his mirror and saw a large wagon behind him and a patient horse between the shafts. On the wagon was a harrow.

"Sorry."

He let in the clutch and drove on, still lost in that nightmare world that all too often shared his real one.

The cottages were behind him, and ahead lay Wayland's Smithy in a copse of beech trees. He could make it out clearly, an arrangement of great stones that encompa.s.sed a small s.p.a.ce with a narrow opening. It had probably been a Stone Age tomb, not a blacksmith's shop. Still, legend maintained that if a man left his horse there overnight to be shod, and a coin to pay for the work, the animal would be waiting for him in the morning. More likely, local smiths had discovered a way to expand their trade. For centuries fire and those who used it to work metal were held in high regard, and sometimes feared as well.

A few miles along, he found a small inn by the road, lorries in the yard and a motorcar or two as well.

He stopped to ask if they were serving at this hour, and inside saw a pot of tea standing on a small table near the door, a stack of mugs beside it, sugar and a pitcher of lukewarm milk just behind it.

He poured himself a cup, wandered into the tiny reception area, and sat down by the window overlooking the road.

It was two hours later that he opened his eyes again.

A woman was clearing away the tea things, and she smiled as he stirred and then straightened up in his chair.

"You're not the first to nod off in that chair," she said, her eyes merry, "nor the last. That your motorcar by the lilacs?"

"I'm afraid so. When do you begin serving breakfast?"

"Lord love you, we closed the kitchen more than an hour ago. Most of the lorry drivers have moved on. I'd have thought their racket would've wakened the dead."

"Not this dead," he said, standing and stretching his shoulders. "Do you by any chance have rooms here?"

"We keep a half-dozen beds for travelers. Clean sheets and good food, as well as good cheer. That's what we offer. And all we offer." She considered him. "It's not very posh-"

Rutledge smiled. "Still, I'd like a room for tonight, if you have one. I'm here to see the horse."

"Oh, yes? It's early for the day-trippers, but I expect you aren't the usual visitor. What are you, then?"

Her face was red with the morning's rush, her hair pinned back out of her way, and her clothing sober, as if she worked hard and had no time to worry about how she looked.

He hadn't been prepared to deal with questions of this sort.

"I was tired of London, and I drove all night." Following her into the dining room, he added, "I needed to see something besides walls and pavement and people."

"Disappointed in love, are you?"

He was on the point of vigorously denying it when he realized that she was teasing him. And he must have looked the picture of the rejected lover, unshaven, his clothes unpressed, his face marked with fatigue.

"No. Foolish in the extreme."

She laughed. "Sit down over there in the corner-that cloth's clean-and I'll bring you whatever's left from breakfast. There's usually cold bacon, bread, and hard-boiled eggs in the cupboard. There's coffee as well as tea. Some of the lorry drivers prefer it to keep them awake."

"I'll stay with tea."

When she brought his plate it was large as a charger, and as promised there were rashers of bacon, eggs, toasted bread, and pots of b.u.t.ter and jam. Rutledge thanked her and added, "I've just come past those cottages not far from the spot where you can look up and see the White Horse. Odd place to put them, I should think, unless they're intended for viewers to stop in." He couldn't remember seeing them there when he'd come to Uffington as a boy, but then the horse had been all that mattered, firing his imagination.

"Well, I hope you're not thinking of wanting one. They're taken, the lot of them. They were put up near the beginning of the late Queen's reign, leper houses they were. But no lepers came, and then they were let to anyone who was willing to live there. The local people don't much care for them, but there's no dearth of people who do."