rolled, making a tinkling noise across the walk and into the gutter.
His first reaction was surprise. It was a sound he knew.
Moving to the curb, he bent down to search intently.
Light spilling from the windows behind him picked out a metal cylinder a little distance away. He retrieved it and recognized it even as his fingers reached for it. A .303 cartridge casing from a Maxim machine gun, its shape cool and familiar in his hand. There had been thousands of them on the battlefield, as common as the mud underfoot.
But what was it doing here, on a quiet street in London?
He stood up quickly, his gaze sweeping the fenced garden in the square, then scanning the street in both directions.
There was no one in sight.
Hamish said, "It's no' here by chance."
A sense of unease made Rutledge turn to look up at the housefront. He could see the drawing room, the curtains drawn, only a faint glow behind them from lamps shaded by shawls. The quiet, spellbinding voice of the woman conducting the séance seemed to echo in his head.
The cartridge casing hadn't been there when he arrived at the Brownings'. It would have been dislodged then, as he or Frances mounted the steps. And no one else had arrived after they were admitted to the house.
Turning the casing in his gloved fingers, he could tell that it wasn't smooth. The lines were irregular, as if something had been cut into the metal surface. Loops and swirls, not initials.
Soldiers by the hundreds had done this sort of thing in the long watches of the night or the deadly boredom of waiting for the next attack. In hospitals and convalescent homes, passing the time as they healed, men had been encouraged to make such things as boutonnieres, vases, cigarette lighters, and even canes out of empty cases of every size. Even copper driving bands from artillery shells and lumps of shrapnel had been turned into souvenirs. An exercise in patience.
In the light from the nearest streetlamp, Rutledge tried to judge what the design was. It was useless, he couldn't see anything but the glinting surface where the metal had been polished.
Not that the design mattered. He was more interested in how such a thing came to be here, in front of the house where he'd been a guest.
Hamish was saying, "It doesna' signify. It fell from the pocket of someone passing by."
"I heard it fall. So would whoever was carrying it. Why not look for it?"
"It wasna' of great value."
"Who could have known that I'd leave early . . ." It could as well have been Dr. Gavin, he told himself. Called to a deathbed. Or Mrs. Channing, séance over, leaving Maryanne's guests to talk behind her back about the evening's entertainment.
Neither of them had been in the trenches.
"I wouldna' make sae much of it."
"It's out of place."
"Aye. That doesna' make it sinister."
Yet in a way it did. It was as if in an unexpected fashion the war had reached out to touch him again.
"Yon woman has unsettled you."
Perhaps that was all it was. But the casing in his fingers was real. He hadn't imagined it. Where had it come from? Hamish was silent, offering no answers.
After a moment, Rutledge slipped the casing into his pocket. Then he turned away from the Browning house and began the long walk home.
Rather than settling his mind, the walk had given Rutledge too much time to dwell on other matters. The letters on his desk. One of them from his godfather, David Trevor. And that reminder of Scotland, of what had happened there months before, had stirred Hamish into grumbling activity. David had written in haste . . .
Young Ian has measles and I've left him to Morag and Fiona. I'm banished to my club in Edinburgh, and thoroughly miserable at missing his first Christmas with us. Much as we've looked forward to your visit, the doctor advises no excitement. I've promised the lad a pony if he stays in his darkened room without fuss. That's all I'm allowed to do. You might search out a saddle, and have it shipped north for Boxing Day, if
His first reaction was surprise. It was a sound he knew.
Moving to the curb, he bent down to search intently.
Light spilling from the windows behind him picked out a metal cylinder a little distance away. He retrieved it and recognized it even as his fingers reached for it. A .303 cartridge casing from a Maxim machine gun, its shape cool and familiar in his hand. There had been thousands of them on the battlefield, as common as the mud underfoot.
But what was it doing here, on a quiet street in London?
He stood up quickly, his gaze sweeping the fenced garden in the square, then scanning the street in both directions.
There was no one in sight.
Hamish said, "It's no' here by chance."
A sense of unease made Rutledge turn to look up at the housefront. He could see the drawing room, the curtains drawn, only a faint glow behind them from lamps shaded by shawls. The quiet, spellbinding voice of the woman conducting the séance seemed to echo in his head.
The cartridge casing hadn't been there when he arrived at the Brownings'. It would have been dislodged then, as he or Frances mounted the steps. And no one else had arrived after they were admitted to the house.
Turning the casing in his gloved fingers, he could tell that it wasn't smooth. The lines were irregular, as if something had been cut into the metal surface. Loops and swirls, not initials.
Soldiers by the hundreds had done this sort of thing in the long watches of the night or the deadly boredom of waiting for the next attack. In hospitals and convalescent homes, passing the time as they healed, men had been encouraged to make such things as boutonnieres, vases, cigarette lighters, and even canes out of empty cases of every size. Even copper driving bands from artillery shells and lumps of shrapnel had been turned into souvenirs. An exercise in patience.
In the light from the nearest streetlamp, Rutledge tried to judge what the design was. It was useless, he couldn't see anything but the glinting surface where the metal had been polished.
Not that the design mattered. He was more interested in how such a thing came to be here, in front of the house where he'd been a guest.
Hamish was saying, "It doesna' signify. It fell from the pocket of someone passing by."
"I heard it fall. So would whoever was carrying it. Why not look for it?"
"It wasna' of great value."
"Who could have known that I'd leave early . . ." It could as well have been Dr. Gavin, he told himself. Called to a deathbed. Or Mrs. Channing, séance over, leaving Maryanne's guests to talk behind her back about the evening's entertainment.
Neither of them had been in the trenches.
"I wouldna' make sae much of it."
"It's out of place."
"Aye. That doesna' make it sinister."
Yet in a way it did. It was as if in an unexpected fashion the war had reached out to touch him again.
"Yon woman has unsettled you."
Perhaps that was all it was. But the casing in his fingers was real. He hadn't imagined it. Where had it come from? Hamish was silent, offering no answers.
After a moment, Rutledge slipped the casing into his pocket. Then he turned away from the Browning house and began the long walk home.
Rather than settling his mind, the walk had given Rutledge too much time to dwell on other matters. The letters on his desk. One of them from his godfather, David Trevor. And that reminder of Scotland, of what had happened there months before, had stirred Hamish into grumbling activity. David had written in haste . . .
Young Ian has measles and I've left him to Morag and Fiona. I'm banished to my club in Edinburgh, and thoroughly miserable at missing his first Christmas with us. Much as we've looked forward to your visit, the doctor advises no excitement. I've promised the lad a pony if he stays in his darkened room without fuss. That's all I'm allowed to do. You might search out a saddle, and have it shipped north for Boxing Day, if
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