Rutledge recognized Chief Superintendent Markham’s voice, bidding good night to someone out of sight behind him. And then he was stepping out into the cold air. The door was still half open as Markham frowned uncertainly. “Is that you, Rutledge?” The door swung shut behind him, cutting off the light. “You’re to have that report on my desk tomorrow,” he called. “The earlier the better.”
“Go back inside,” Rutledge shouted, but Markham kept on walking in his direction.
“Get out of here, damn it. Go back inside!”
Markham froze, unaccustomed to be shouted at by one of his men. A shapeless figure darted forward, arm raised. The knife flashed as it swept downward across Markham’s shoulders and back. The force of the blow threw him forward, and he fought to keep his feet.
Blood had filled Rutledge’s glove, was spilling down his overcoat. But he ignored it, dashing forward just as Markham began to collapse with an odd cry.
Rutledge reached out, caught the attacker’s sleeve, and pulled hard. The coat came away as the man wheeled, spinning out of it, leaving it in Rutledge’s hands as he leaped over Markham’s body and began to run. Rutledge tossed the coat aside and went after him.
He was gaining ground as a pair of men, talking quietly, came around the corner. His quarry slowed a fraction, uncertain how to avoid them, and Rutledge, paying no heed to them, saw his chance and launched himself. He brought his attacker down in a flurry of arms and legs, both of them falling hard. His prisoner, gasping for breath, cried out gruffly for help.
Shouting, the men were racing forward, catching Rutledge by the shoulders and roughly pulling him up and off what appeared to be his victim.
“Hold him—Scotland Yard,” he managed to say before the tight grip on his wounded arm sent waves of dizziness over him. “Find the knife,” he added thickly. “Markham—”
One of the men reached down and pulled the winded man to his feet. “I don’t see a knife.”
In the same moment, someone else had just come out of the Yard’s door, stumbling across Markham as the light swept across his body. “Good God,” the newcomer exclaimed. He looked up, saw Rutledge and a stranger in the grip of two men, and yelled, “What the hell—”
Another man came out on his heels, kept his head and called over his shoulder, “We need help here. You, there—bring those two inside. We’ll sort this out.”
Twisting his head to see who it was, Rutledge recognized Chief Inspector Murray.
Two men pushed Murray aside and were already kneeling by Markham, then trying to lift him to carry him into the lighted entry. Murray gestured angrily at Rutledge’s captors. “You men—you heard me. Inside, damn it.”
As they started forward, Rutledge’s prisoner almost broke free, but one of the men holding Rutledge caught an arm, and all four moved toward the door. Others were coming out now, and they hurried forward to usher them inside. Everyone seemed to be talking at once.
Rutledge was shoved through the door, his prisoner just behind him. Gibson was there now, swearing at what he was seeing.
Afterward, when it was all over, Rutledge realized that the attack had taken no more than three minutes, start to finish. Now, he sat down on the stairs, his right hand clasped over his left arm, trying to stem the flow of blood. The cut was long, and part of it, where the knife first penetrated, was deep and hurting like the very devil.
Against the far wall, Inspector Harris was working with Markham, trying to remove his coat, and another man came to help him, exclaiming at the amount of blood pooling on the floor beneath him. “Get an ambulance. Now,” Harris called over his shoulder, hands already wet and red.
Gibson noticed the blood on Rutledge’s coat, and came forward, but Rutledge shook him off as his prisoner, ignored for one brief second, tried to slip out the door.
“Stop him!” he ordered Gibson, and in the struggle that followed, the attacker lost his cap. In the bright light of the entry, Rutledge could see he was wearing corduroy trousers and a heavy shirt. And then he watched in shock as the fair hair that had been pinned up under the assailant’s cap slowly tumbled down around her shoulders.
There was stunned silence, even Inspector Harris turning to see what had happened. The fair hair, half obscuring the face, seemed to draw attention to clothes two or three sizes too large.
“Gentle God,” Rutledge said softly.
Just then Chief Inspector Murray came in the door, a bloody knife with a broken blade lying across the palm of his hand. “I found this,” he said unnecessarily. “Outside.”
It was a kitchen knife, with a fine bone handle that boasted a silver tip with initials engraved in it.
Inspector Mitchell, now working on Markham with Harris, looked up from trying to stanch the blood and said, “The other half is still in his back. Where’s that damned ambulance?”
But Rutledge barely heard them. He was staring into the flushed, angry face of Sara Leslie.
He said, “Why?”
Someone else had recognized her now, moving away, as if she’d suddenly come down with the plague. Others followed suit. No one seemed to know what to do or why she was there. Chief Inspector Murray moved to stand with his back to the door.
She looked harried, cornered.
“Gibson?” Rutledge said, still watching Mrs. Leslie. And the man stepped forward. “Was there a package for me today? It came through the post, I think.”
Gibson nodded. “It can wait.”
“Bring it to me, please?”
Murray was staring at Rutledge. “Is that the Chief Superintendent’s blood? On your coat?”
“No. That package.” It was the voice of command. “Bring it to me now.”
Gibson took the stairs two at a time, fast for a man of his bulk. He was coming back down again just as they heard the clang of the ambulance pulling up. In Gibson’s hands was a longish package wrapped in brown paper.
“What do we do about her?” Murray was asking now, preparing to let the ambulance attendants in. “I don’t understand—”
Rutledge reached for the package, but his left hand was useless. “Open it,” he commanded, and Gibson began to tear off the outer wrappings. He fumbled with the inner bit of paper, nearly dropping what lay inside, but then he had the contents clear.
Two St. John attendants came through the door, a stretcher with them. Murray guarded the entrance as Mrs. Leslie tried again to slip out. Harris was saying to the first attendant, “Careful. Back wound. There’s a blade still in there.”
The attendant was kneeling by Markham. His shirt was open, hanging about his waist, and the attendant’s face was grave as he looked at the wound across Markham’s shoulders.
Gibson was staring at what he held in his hands. It was another knife. It too had a fine bone handle with a silver tip. His lips were moving as he read the initials.
Mrs. Leslie’s face went white as she saw what he held, and she slipped to the ground in what appeared to be a dead faint.
“It’s the knife used in the Avebury murder,” Rutledge said to Gibson as the other attendant knelt to hold smelling salts in front of Mrs. Leslie’s nose, then got up to come across the foyer to Rutledge.
The two men who had pulled Rutledge off his prisoner had been standing to one side, trying to take in what was happening around them. They were frowning at Rutledge now, as if he had stabbed Markham.