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sending that photograph to London. He’s not one of ours, we’re fairly certain of that. And the most likely place he came from was somewhere south of the Tower.”
    Rutledge asked, “Any idea how long he’d been in the water?”
    â€œAt a guess, a good four and twenty hours.”
    â€œAnd there was nothing in his pockets to help with identification? A hotel key, medicine bottle, even a handkerchief?” There should at least have been a key from The Marlborough Hotel.
    â€œNothing.” Adams pulled his glasses down and searched for a paper in the clutter on his desk. “Here we are. White male, approximately thirty years of age, fair, five feet eleven inches tall,” he said, reading from the sheet he finally located under a stack of books. “No distinguishing marks, suffering from terminal stomach tumor that has metastasized. Pockets empty, shot at close range, most likely with a service revolver, judging from the caliber. Clothes those of a gentleman. In the water for a day, day and a half.” He looked up over the rims of his glasses. “If his killer had waited a few months more, Nature would have dispatched our victim for him. Hasty, I should say.”
    â€œHe admitted that he didn’t have long to live.”
    â€œYou know him then. Does he have a name?”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, he does. Wyatt Russell, Furnham Road, Essex. It’s the name he gave when he came to the Yard recently to report a crime. At this stage we haven’t found any evidence to indicate that his information is true. But we also can’t prove that it isn’t. The question is, does his murder nearly a fortnight later have any bearing on what he told us? What did he intentionally—or unintentionally—stir up? Who else is involved in this?”
    Hamish spoke, his voice jarring in the small office. “Ye ken, ye asked yoursel’ that same question, when the man wouldna’ gie ye any details about the murder.”
    Rutledge nearly lost track of Adams’s reply. He had to repeat himself.
    â€œWhat sort of crime was he reporting?”
    â€œA murder.”
    â€œWell, there you are. Someone will have taken exception to that.”
    â€œExcept that my visitor claimed he was the killer.”
    â€œDid he, by God!” Adams pushed his glasses back to the top of his head. He sat there for a moment, then asked, “Have you considered the extent of his cancer? He must have been in almost intolerable pain and taking a fair amount of drugs. You have to wonder if he was in his right mind. He could have felt responsible for a man’s death and finally convinced himself that he’d actually killed him. Guilt can take many forms.”
    Rutledge was all too aware of that.
    â€œWe’d have to ask a medical man. Russell himself had made some remark about the morphine speaking.”
    â€œI’m glad it’s your case and not mine. Will you want the body? No one so far has claimed it. Potter’s field seems an ignominious end. He must have a family somewhere.” He opened his desk drawer and fished out a small packet. “This was around his neck. Whoever killed him missed it when going through his pockets.”
    He tossed the packet to Rutledge, who caught it deftly and unwrapped the brown paper.
    Inside was an oval gold locket on a gold chain. An ornately scrolled E graced the front. The locket itself was either old or worn, possibly both. Rutledge found the clasp and opened it. Inside were two small spaces for photographs. The right-hand oval was empty, but on the left there was a woman’s face. Despite the water stains, he could see that she was pretty, young, the just visible collar of her dress fashionable, her hair drawn softly back into a knot behind her head. It was impossible to judge her coloring, but he rather thought her hair was a light brown.
    â€œI wondered if this was hers, and she was dead. That would explain why