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shadows of exhaustion clouding his mind to the point that he was a danger to himself and traffic in the streets. On the afternoon of the fifth, he was able to breathe reasonably well, and stop to look about him. His legs, he thought wryly, belonged to him again. Their tendency to wobble in his weakness had angered him more than the arm strapped to his chest.
    There was work being done on a plaster War Memorial in the middle of Whitehall. The construction had snarled traffic for some time, and before returning to the Yard, Rutledge decided to have a look at it. Simplicity had been the goal, but the memorial seemed inadequate, he thought, to hold the memory of so much spilled blood and so many ruined lives. Depressed, he moved on toward St. Margaret’s Church, to stand on the corner of Bridge Street for a time, looking up at Big Ben and watching pigeons wheeling against the sky. Reluctant to return to his desk in his stuffy, ill-lit office, he listened to the traffic on the Thames, and considered crossing the busy bridge.
    Hamish, relishing the wind from the river and a sudden gust of rain that swept down on them, was lost in his own reflections.
    The sound of voices, like small birds twittering in a bush, brought Rutledge’s eyes back to St. Margaret’s, and his thoughts back to the present. A group of young women, stylish in black, stood waiting at the door for another, just descending from a motorcar in the street. She waved and hurried toward them, the wind catching the skirts of her coat, as if sweeping her out of his reach.
    He recognized her walk before he heard her voice calling to her friends. It was Jean—
    She caught up with the others, and laughter surrounded them, her face holding the pale light for an instant before they turned and went inside the church. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement and warmth.
    Her wedding was to be held at St. Margaret’s in a fortnight’s time.
    Jason Webley had told him that, coming to visit him in hospital at the end of September and after a time awkwardly turning the subject to the woman Rutledge had once been engaged to marry. “I say, old man, have you heard? Jean’s set a date, end of next month.” Webley paused, then added, “She asked Elizabeth to be in the wedding party. Elizabeth asked me what her answer ought to be, and I told her I thought you wouldn’t mind.”
    “No.” But he had minded. Not because he begrudged Jean her happiness, but because she’d taken away so much of his. He could still remember the day, nearly eight months before, when she’d told him, haltingly, in another hospital ward, that she wished to end their engagement. And he’d seen the fear in her eyes, the dread of being tied to a broken man. . . . He hadn’t yet begun to recover, a silent, empty man in the grip of nightmares she couldn’t understand, and she’d believed that he never would be more than that. An object of pity for the rest of his life.
    Hamish reminded him, “It was a near-run thing!”
    It had been. But Rutledge was as unprepared for her desertion as he would have been for a slap in the face. He’d needed comfort, a gentle reminder of that normal life he’d lost somewhere in the trenches. Jean couldn’t have chosen a worse time to break her engagement to the man she’d once sworn she loved above all others. A week or two more—a month— Would it have made a difference if she’d offered him the compassion of waiting a little longer? Held him in her arms and told him it didn’t matter, she loved him still— even if it was a kind lie?
    He would never know. Jean had scuttled out of the hospital room in undisguised relief, grateful that he’d been willing to set her free. By August she had become engaged to a diplomat and was looking forward to a new life in Canada, where the man was taking up his next posting.
    Blithe, unshadowed, she had brushed away the war years as if they were a bad dream. Shallow, Frances had called her—a woman who would never have