A False Mirror - Charles Todd [3]
His already bleak mood was turning into a nasty headache—
Bowles suddenly became aware that he’d been glaring at Rutledge in silence. He cleared his throat, shifting in his chair to give the impression he’d been preoccupied with other issues instead of sitting there like a fool, daydreaming.
“There’s the Shepherd’s Market murder still to be solved. Not to mention that business about the men found dead in Green Park. I don’t see how I can spare you. Or anyone else for that matter.”
Rutledge said, “It’s rather important.”
“So is peace and order!” Bowles snapped. “Or do you think yourself above the rest of us? Jaunting about the countryside attending to personal affairs indeed, while there’s work to be done here.”
“Neither of these cases is mine,” Rutledge reminded him, his voice neutral. But something in his eyes warned Bowles that this leave he’d requested was a more serious business than Rutledge was willing to admit.
Bowles brought his attention back to his inspector’s face. Was Rutledge on the brink of breaking down? Was that what made him so anxious to get away for a bit?
The more Bowles considered that possibility, the more he began to believe in it. What else could it be but a recognition on Rutledge’s part that time was running out?
“You’re to stay in town and work with Phipps, do you hear me? You’ll help him find out what’s behind the Green Park murders. And there’s an end to it.”
He sat back in his chair and studied the fountain pen in his fingers. “An end to it!” he repeated forcefully. “Request denied.”
Chief Inspector Phipps was a nervous man whose efficiency was not in question, but whose personality left much to be desired. He seemed to feed on his own anxieties to the point of aggravating everyone around him. Inspector Mickelson had sworn the Chief Inspector could drive God himself mad.
What would close contact with him do to a man facing a breakdown?
Satisfied, Bowles picked up a file on his desk and opened it. Rutledge was dismissed.
Chief Inspector Phipps walked into Rutledge’s office without knocking, his fingers beating a ragged tattoo on the back of the file he was carrying.
Rutledge looked up, his gaze going to the file.
The Green Park murders, so close to Buckingham Palace, had drawn the attention of the press. Two men had been killed there, a week apart. So far nothing uncovered in the investigation indicated any connection between them. But each had been garroted and left in the bushes. An early riser found the first victim when his dog was drawn to the shrubbery and began barking. Children playing hide-and-seek with their nursemaid had discovered the second victim. Their father—titled and furious—had appeared at the Yard in person, demanding to know why his son and daughter had been subjected to such a gruesome experience. They were distraught, as was his wife, he’d told Phipps in no uncertain terms. And the Yard was to blame for allowing murderers to roam unhindered in decent parts of town. No mention was made of any anguish the nursemaid had suffered.
Phipps set the file on Rutledge’s desk and began to pace the narrow office as he spoke.
“Bowles has given you to me. Anything in particular on your desk at the moment?”
Rutledge said, “I’ve closed the file on George Ferrell. This morning.”
“Good, good!” Phipps wheeled and paced back the other way.
“Each of our victims,” Phipps went on, “was found on a Sunday morning. Tomorrow is Saturday. I want Green Park covered from first light to first light. You’ll be given a police matron dressed as a nanny. She’ll be pushing a pram, and you’re her suitor, a young clerk from a nearby shop, who urges her to sit and talk for an hour.” He paused to consider Rutledge.