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you?”
    â€œI now have a feeling for this part of Essex that I didn’t have before. And I was grateful for your company. A man on his own would have drawn far more attention, and the last thing I wanted to suggest was Scotland Yard’s interest.”
    His reply satisfied her. But as he drove on, he wasn’t sure he’d satisfied himself.

Chapter 4
    T en days later, Rutledge was in his office finishing reports when Sergeant Gibson knocked at the open door and came in.
    Looking up, Rutledge said, “I’ll have these ready in another half an hour.”
    Gibson answered, “It’s not the reports, sir. There’s a dead man found in the Thames and brought into Gravesend. He didn’t drown, and no one’s claimed the body. They’ve sent along a photograph, in the hope that the Yard can help out. It’s likely he went into the Thames in London. He’s not known in Gravesend, at any rate.”
    He took a photograph from the folder he was carrying and set it down on Rutledge’s desk.
    Rutledge’s first glance was cursory; he didn’t expect to recognize the thin face staring back at him from the photograph. His gaze sharpened. Looking at it a second time, he said, “Is this the man who came to the Yard a fortnight ago? Surely not.” He hadn’t expected Russell to end his suffering quite so soon.
    â€œIt was twelve days, sir. As I remember. Sergeant Hampton spotted the likeness—he was the one brought the man up to see you—and in my view he’s usually right about such things. A good memory for faces, has the sergeant. That’s why I brought the photograph up to show you. I thought you might want to know. There’s a strong resemblance, Sergeant Hampton says, although the water hasn’t been kind to him.”
    â€œNo. What did the postmortem show?”
    â€œHe hadn’t long to live. An abdominal cancer, inoperable. It could well have been a suicide, given that. Except for the fact that someone shot him in the back of the head.”
    â€œDid they indeed?” He studied the photograph. “The man who came to the Yard was dying of cancer. Given this photograph, I should think the body must be his. Who is handling the inquiry in Gravesend?”
    â€œInspector Adams, sir.”
    â€œI’ve heard of him. A good man. Very thorough.” He shuffled the papers in front of him into a folder and set it aside. “These can wait. And it’s as well to see the body for myself. To be sure.”
    Gibson said, “Will you be asking the Chief Superintendent? He’s having lunch with the Lord Mayor.”
    â€œI’ll leave a message. It will be late afternoon before he’s back at the Yard.” Rutledge took out a sheet of paper, and after a moment’s thought, wrote a few lines on it. Capping his pen, he passed the sheet to Sergeant Gibson. Glancing at his watch, he said, “I should be back before they’ve reached the last course.”
    As the sergeant left, Rutledge collected his hat and notebook and walked out of his office. Five minutes later he was in his motorcar and threading his way through the busy London traffic as he headed east.
    Gravesend was an old town on the south bank of the Thames, settled where a break in a long stretch of marshes provided the only landing stage. For centuries, ferrymen here held the charter to transport passengers to and from London. If anyone knew the river it was the people of Gravesend. On the outskirts of the town, Rutledge stopped for directions at a coaching inn that had been refurbished, then followed the omnipresent Windmill Hill into town, where he found the police station.
    Inspector Adams, a slender man with horn-rimmed glasses perched on the top of his head, looked up as Rutledge was ushered into his office.
    â€œScotland Yard?” he said as Rutledge gave his name. “You’re here about our corpse, I think. It was an educated guess,