But the incident—whatever it was—at the Abbey had brought back her loss, and even Gerald’s body was better than the uncertainty she had lived with since 1917.
Rutledge came to the hotel and went inside.
For a mercy it was quiet now. The guests and the engaged couple and their families had left. He drew a breath in sheer relief.
A woman came out of the kitchen and said, “Was it you ordered dinner in your room, sir?” she asked in the voice of someone hopeful that he would say yes and she could finally go home.
“I left my order with Reception earlier.” He gave her the room number.
“Thank you, sir. There was no one in when we went up just now. I’ll see that a tray is brought up straightaway.”
He turned and went up to his room. It had been a long day, and he had much to add to his notebook. But he stood at the window, looking down at the dark circles of the tables, empty now as a sunset chill set in. Postponing the inevitable, the voice waiting for him to turn out his lamp.
Hamish had been present more often of late.
Rutledge knew why.
He’d come back to London after a difficult inquiry in Shropshire, tired and more than a little unsettled, not satisfied as he sometimes was that justice had been done.
And the first person he’d met as he walked out of Scotland Yard after writing a report that had met official requirements but left out much of the distress that lay between the lines of words on a page, was Kate.
She had been to a service in Westminster Abbey and was walking toward Trafalgar Square when he’d encountered her on the corner by Big Ben.
“Hallo,” he said in surprise as he recognized her.
“Ian,” she’d exclaimed. And as she looked up at him, he could see a telltale redness around her eyes.
“Are you going somewhere?” he asked. “My motorcar is just there, I’ll be glad to take you.”
She bit her lip. “I quarreled with my parents, and told them I’d rather walk home. Rather silly of me, considering how far it is. But I don’t think I’m quite ready to go directly there.”
“It’s too late for tea, and too early to dine,” he said lightly. “But we could walk down to the bridge and watch the tide come up the river.”
She smiled in spite of herself. “That sounds wretchedly boring. And somehow comforting.”
“This way, then.” Westminster Bridge was just below them, and together they turned. The streets were crowded at this time of day, but she didn’t seem to mind, keeping pace with him as they walked in a companionable silence. When they reached the middle of the bridge, they stood by the parapet and looked down at the busy river, little boats moving up and down. It did seem comforting to her, monotonous as it was, and he waited, giving her time. He’d rather have comforted her himself, but that was out of the question.
Finally she said, “I do love my parents, I really and truly do. But sometimes they are so dense.”
“I expect most children come to feel that way at some time or another.”
“Did you?” she asked, looking up at him.
“When I told my parents that I’d rather be a policeman with the Met than follow my father into his firm, there was stunned silence. It took me several weeks to convince them that I wasn’t trying to break family tradition, I just preferred police work to reading law and then spending my days in a courtroom. Even then, I think they expected me to see the light, finally, and give up this madness.”
He hadn’t talked about that before. It had been a difficult time, and he had regretted after their deaths that he had given them so much pain.
“Yet, here you are, an Inspector at the Yard. They would have been proud of that, wouldn’t they?”
“I expect so,” he said, not adding that he would never know just how they might have felt.
She sighed. “I spoke to my parents about working with refugees. They were horrified. They would much rather have me close by, settled and happy, grandchildren at their knee on Sunday afternoons.”
Hiding his alarm, he’d said, “Are you still thinking about such work?”
“The truth is, I don’t know that I’m up to it. I’ve talked to several people, and the stories they tell about simply surviving, all the while trying to do their work, dealing with government officials who want them just to go away—the language barrier—one can only do so much good. The rest is simply coping.”
He said nothing. He agreed with her, but it was not politic to say that.
“But I think—I think too that I’m looking for an escape. To be perfectly truthful. And that’s not what makes a successful worker.”
There was an echo of Meredith Channing’s voice in Kate’s words. He heard it and felt a wave of sadness. Meredith had become a nurse to look for the officer she had married on his last leave—and realized too late that it had not been love, it had been compassion. Searching for him out of loyalty when he went missing. Driven by a guilt she couldn’t accept.
“I must admit, there’s some truth there,” he agreed carefully. “It must require a great sense of dedication.”
“Yes, I see that clearly. Sadly. I’m too stubborn to admit that to my parents, not just now.” She turned to stare out at the river. “It truly was escaping, Ian. I wanted to live my own life, not live the life they believed is best for me. I thought in Romania or Armenia, I’d be out of reach.”
He was relieved to hear that she was not leaving England. He was afraid it might be there in his voice, when he said, “I expect you made the right choice. They’ll come around in time.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think they will.”
He could hear an undercurrent in her words, but she didn’t say anything more. Instead she squared her shoulders, smiled, and said, “You seem to come to my rescue when I’m unhappy. Could I persuade you to take me out to dine as well?”
“It would be my pleasure,” he said. “Where would you like to go?”
“Somewhere my parents won’t think to look,” she replied.
And so he’d taken her to a small restaurant he’d found and liked for its excellent food and its quiet atmosphere.
It was both painful and at the same time a pleasure to sit across the table from her, listening to her conversation and watching the play of emotions across her face, the light in her eyes as she talked about things she enjoyed or felt strongly about.
Afterward he’d taken her home. She’d said, “Don’t come to the door. Do you mind? I don’t want my father to know I’d found safe harbor with a friend. I want him to worry about where I’d been all this time.”
He’d said, “Are you sure that’s best?”
She took a deep breath. “It is. For now. Thank you, Ian. I’m so grateful.”
He didn’t want her gratitude. He didn’t want to be a safe harbor. He wanted to be more. But he said nothing, holding the door as she got down, and watched her cross the road, go up the steps to the Gordon house, and let herself in the door.
That’s all there can be, he’d told himself. And drove home, to drink a stiff whisky and try not to think at all.
As he watched, someone came out the hotel’s garden door and began to put candles out in little dishes. They flickered and danced in the shadows cast by the upper stories, but the flames were invisible where the last of the sun touched those closest to the back gate. He counted the tables. Nine of them.