R utledge went next to Hastings New Town. He arrived at The White Swans to find that the clerk at Reception was not the same man he'd spoken to the night before. He asked for Mr. Daniel Pierce, but he was told that Mr. and Mrs. Pierce had gone out. He waited for an hour, but they didn't return. Rutledge went back to Reception.
"Could you tell me, please, how long the Pierces intend to stay at The White Swans?"
The clerk consulted the register. "The rest of the week at least," he said. "Would you care to leave a message?"
"I think not. I'd like to surprise them."
The clerk smiled. "They should be dining in the hotel this evening."
Rutledge thanked him and then left.
He stopped next at the police station, to ask after Inspector Mickelson.
The latest report confirmed that he was holding his own, but only just. He had come to his senses very briefly during the night, but had had no idea where he was or why. That, Hamish pointed out, boded ill for clearing Rutledge's name.
Inspector Norman was in, and Rutledge asked to speak to him.
Norman received him with ill-concealed distaste. "If you've come for Carl Hopkins, you're wasting your time."
"I need your help," Rutledge told him. "I want the loan of Constable Petty. We need to patrol Eastfield at night, and Constable Walker can't do it alone. If you want Petty to spy for you, you can spare him for my purposes as well. I'll see that he's put up at The Fishermen's Arms."
After a moment, Inspector Norman said with evident reluctance, "He has a cousin there. Works in the brewery. He can stay with him. I don't want him beholden to you."
Which, Hamish was pointing out, went a long way toward explaining how Inspector Norman had been keeping an eye on Eastfield.
Rutledge answered, "That's fair enough. I'll expect him there tonight."
"It won't stop your murderer. If that's what's in your mind. Even with three of you, you can't be everywhere at once. It takes no time at all to garrote a man and then walk away."
"It's better than nothing," Rutledge answered shortly. "There was someone in St. Mary's churchyard last night. I followed him around the church itself, where I lost him, and then I heard a motorcar leaving without its headlamps turned on."
Norman's manner changed. "Is that the truth? Where was it heading? Which direction, did you see?"
"Toward Hastings. There were lights on in the rectory as well, but the house was empty. We searched for Mr. Ottley, and finally met him walking toward us as we came back into Eastfield from the Roper farm. He sometimes goes there to sit with the second victim's father. But for a time, we were afraid he might have been the next target."
"Ottley is a good man," he said, defending the rector, "but sometimes he puts duty before common sense. He nursed the Spanish flu victims in Eastfield, day and night, without thought for his own safety. Before that, one evening when he was in Old Town, we had a ship in trouble off the East Hill. He went to the lifeboat station and offered his services if they needed another man. He'd kept a sailboat here in his youth. He'd have gone out with them."
"He may be at risk, all the same. If Carl Hopkins is innocent. I'm not convinced that these murders are connected with the war. They may have to do with someone with a long memory for the past."
"That's the trouble with educating a policeman," Inspector Norman said. "You're easily distracted by ideas."
Rutledge laughed. "Carl Hopkins is your war connection. But you haven't found the garrote and you haven't found where or how he managed to create those identity discs. It shouldn't have been hard to do, mind you, but he'd need the same type of fiberboard and the same type of rope, as well as the names of men in other units. Show me those, and I'll go back to London."
Inspector Norman's mouth twisted sourly. "Early days," he said as Rutledge took his leave.
He went back to The White Swans to look for Daniel Pierce, but he still hadn't returned.
Using the telephone, Rutledge put in a call to London.
Sergeant Gibson was wary, and Rutledge could almost hear the man trying to work out whether the inspector was back in good odor or not.
Rutledge told him what he wanted.
"It's a needle in a haystack," Gibson complained.
"His father went north to work when he was nine or ten years of age. Start with the War Office. If he was in uniform, they should know where he lived in 1914. And unless he has married, Somerset House won't help us."
"I'll do what I can," Gibson told him and asked how to reach him.
"Leave a message at Reception here in The White Swans."
But he was not destined to be there when it came through. As he was driving to The Stade, a police constable spotted him and hailed him.
Rutledge drew to the verge. "Constable?"
"Inspector Rutledge? Inspector Norman asked us to be on the lookout for you. Someone telephoned Hastings Police from the Pierce Brothers Brewery office. They've found another body."
Rutledge swore. "All right, thank you, Constable. I'm on my way."
He drove out of Hastings and made good time to Eastfield. Constable Walker, his face marked by sleeplessness and strain, was waiting for him at the police station.
"It's Hector Marshall," he said as Rutledge walked through the door. "He was garroted, like the others, and a disc was found in his mouth. We've taken the body to Dr. Gooding's surgery. He says there's no doubt. The wounds are much the same. Very little struggle. Left where he was killed, as far as we can tell."
"Where was he found?"
"He raises pigs out on the road to Battle. He goes about Eastfield with his cart, collecting scraps people save for him, and he takes milk from the dairy herds that they can't sell. He was on his rounds before first light, and stopped in a copse of trees just north of the turning for Hastings. It appeared his horse was lame, or he thought it was, and he drew up out of the road. Or someone hailed him, we'll never know. But the horse is indeed lame, a stone in its shoe. We found that out when we tried to turn the cart for a better look at Marshall's body."
"My motorcar is still outside. Show me."
The copse was some hundred yards past the turning to Hastings, just as Constable Walker had described it. On the far side, where the trees began, there was a small grassy opening among the trunks, and Walker pointed to it.
"Just there. The body was still warm. And if you look hard enough, you can see the roof of Marshall's barn beyond the treetops in that direction. He died within sight of his own farm."
Rutledge turned. There was indeed a barn roof, nearly hidden by the leaves of a stand of trees.
"Have you notified his family?"
"Not yet. Do you want to deal with that and afterward see the body?"
"They'll be wondering where he went. We'll go there first. What sort of family did he have?"
"A mother who lives there with him, his wife, and three small children. He always claimed he made up for the war years as soon as he got home. He was wounded early in 1918, and by the time he was fit to return to active service, the war was over."
They could smell the pigs as they approached the farm, but the house was tidy and there were flowers along the track that led to the door.
An elderly woman opened the door to their knock, fear in her eyes. And then she clapped a hand to her mouth as she read their faces.
"He's dead." It wasn't a question. "When he didn't come home with the cart, I knew something must have happened." Her voice was low, almost a whisper. Ushering them into a front room, she added, "My daughter-in-law is upstairs nursing the little one. Let her finish." She glanced up the stairs and then shut both doors quietly.
Rutledge identified himself. "I'm afraid we've come to confirm your fears, Mrs. Marshall. Your son was found this morning in the copse down the road. He was murdered."
"Like the rest of them. I told him. I said, you mustn't leave so early." She pressed her knuckles against her mouth, as if to stifle the scream rising in her throat. A low moan escaped, and she sat down suddenly. And then with an effort of will, she raised her head and said, "Where is he now? My son?"
"At Dr. Gooding's surgery," Constable Walker answered her.
"He lived through that awful war. And now this." It was an echo of what Mrs. Winslow had said. "I want to see him."
"I think-" Constable Walker began,
But she cut him short. "I brought him into the world. I'll see him out of it." Again she looked upward, as if she could see through the ceiling to the room above. "How am I going to tell her?"
In the silence that followed, Rutledge could hear the faint, rhythmic sound of a rocking chair moving back and forth, and a low hum, as if someone was singing softly.
Mrs. Marshall stood up. "I'll just call up to her, and then we'll go. The rest can wait. I want to see my son now."
They couldn't dissuade her. In the end, she did as she'd said she would. She called to her daughter-in-law, "I'm just stepping out, Rosie, I'll be back shortly. Mind the soup on the fire."
Then she led Rutledge and Constable Walker to the motorcar and sat beside Rutledge as Walker turned the crank. Rutledge had a moment's panic as the constable turned and opened the rear door, but he couldn't look to see where Hamish was. He felt the motorcar shift as the man settled in his seat. And then he had no choice but to drive on, pointing the bonnet back to Eastfield.
Mrs. Marshall sat in stoic silence, her eyes straight ahead. Neither Rutledge nor Walker could find words of comfort. None seemed adequate.
People on the street turned to stare as they passed. Rumor had already run ahead of them, and villagers knew who was in the motorcar as well as where they were going.
Rutledge pulled into the drive in front of Dr. Gooding's house, and before he could step out and open her door, Mrs. Marhsall was already out of the motorcar and striding toward the surgery.
She was a tall, rawboned woman in a faded apron over a blue dress patterned with small white sprigs of flowers, her graying hair drawn back into a bun. But she moved with the dignity of a Spartan woman preparing to receive and bury her dead. Rutledge watched her and was moved.
Dr. Gooding was surprised to see her, looking over her head at Rutledge and the constable.
"She wished to see her son," Rutledge said, and Gooding said, "Er-give me a moment, and I'll take you back."
He disappeared, and Mrs. Marshall showed no sign that her resolve was weakening. Dr. Gooding's nurse came out of an adjoining office and asked Mrs. Marshall if she would like a cup of tea before her ordeal.
"No, thank you, Mrs. Davis, I'll be all right. Rosie is waiting at home for me."
The doctor came back just then and escorted them to the room where the body had been examined. It was tidy, and Hector Marshall lay under a sheet drawn up to cover the ravaged throat.
Ignoring the others, Mrs. Marshall walked straight across the room without faltering and looked down at her son's face. After a moment she touched his hair, which Dr. Gooding had combed. Then she bent to kiss him. Her voice was audible, but not the words as she addressed him. She stared at him a moment longer, and before the onlookers could stop her, she stripped back the sheet. Nodding at the body as if she understood something, she gently pulled the sheet back into place.
"I'd thank you to take me home, now."
Rutledge moved to her side, but she walked out of the room without help, down the passage, and out to the motorcar, thanking the doctor for taking care of her son.
Walker was there to open her door, and she got in without another word. When they had delivered her again to her home, Rutledge said, "Would you like us to help you break the news to your daughter-in-law?"
"Thank you, no, she'll be able to cry if we're alone." She turned to Constable Walker. "Could you send someone to feed the pigs today? They will be hungry by now."
He promised, and with a nod she disappeared inside, shutting the door quietly.
Rutledge said, "Will she be all right? Should we send someone to look in on her later?"
"Best to let them mourn," Walker said.
Rutledge turned the motorcar, hearing Hamish's voice like thunder in his head. And as he started off down the track, he heard a woman's scream, so full of pain he winced. T hey went back to the surgery, but Dr. Gooding could tell them very little more.
"When was he killed?" Rutledge asked.
Gooding said, "Later than the others by a good four hours. After the rain ended, I think. Marshall was on his back, and his clothing was wet from lying in the leaves. His chest was dry. Of course the killer had to wait for him to start his rounds, that may account for a change in timing."
Or the killer had been thwarted, unable to reach the victim he had been waiting for.
"I was driving back from Hastings close to that time," Rutledge said slowly. "I'm surprised I didn't meet anyone on the road." But Daniel Pierce had walked into The White Swans just before dawn broke. Where had he been?
"It's a tragedy," the doctor finished, after showing Rutledge the identity disc from Marshall's mouth. "I can't believe there's no way to stop this madman. And what about Carl Hopkins? I thought he was the killer. Is he still in jail? Surely the police will have to let him go, after this."
"He's still there," Rutledge said. "Our murderer would have been smarter to let well enough alone, and let Hopkins take the blame."
"Pierce won't like it. He was so certain his son's killer was in custody. I ran into him just after Inspector Mickelson had taken Hopkins to Hastings. You could almost see the relief in Pierce's face. As if a burden had been lifted." Gooding covered the body again. "My nurse wondered if perhaps he'd been worried about Daniel having some role in this business. She asked if Daniel would be coming for Anthony's funeral, and he all but snapped at her. Where is Daniel? Does anyone know? I haven't seen him since just after the war."
Walker said, "Mr. Pierce hasn't said."
"Do you remember Tommy Summers?" Rutledge asked the doctor.
"Summers?" Dr. Gooding frowned. "Oh yes, I do remember him. He was a clumsy child, and his father brought him to me to see if there was anything to be done. Some children are just naturally poorly coordinated. He wasn't a very prepossessing boy. Sadly, such children are seldom popular at that age. And they seldom grow into swans, do they? Nature is often unkind."
"What did he look like, do you recall?"
"Rather pudgy, and short for his age. Sandy hair, I think."
"He couldn't have been mistaken for either of the Pierce boys, then?"
Gooding smiled. "No, of course not. Far from it. What are you driving at?"
Rutledge said, "How would you describe Daniel Pierce, the last time you saw him?"
"Daniel? He'd just come home from France, and he was quite thin. He couldn't settle to anything, apparently, because he was away again soon afterward. He's a little above medium height, brown hair."
The description would have fit a dozen men Rutledge had seen on the streets of Hastings. Except for the thinness, it fit the man he'd seen at The White Swans.
"I don't understand why you should be asking about Pierce?"
"I'm curious about anyone who lived in Eastfield at one time and who isn't here now," Rutledge answered easily. "There was someone in the churchyard last night. Before Marshall was killed. I never got a good look at him, but he didn't move like a heavy man."
"Yes, I see," Gooding replied, but Rutledge didn't think he did.
They left the surgery and went back to the police station.
Constable Walker said, "You've asked a good many questions about this Summers boy. And now you're asking about Daniel Pierce. Have you made up your mind that the killer isn't someone in Eastfield?"
"I haven't made up my mind about anything," Rutledge countered. "But if Carl Hopkins isn't our killer, who is?"
"There are the other survivors of the Eastfield Company. I asked my nephew just last night if he could make head nor tail of this business, and he refused even to consider anyone from the war. Unthinkable, he said. He'd served with them, they'd gone through too much together in France. Besides, if one of them believed he was still in France killing Germans, he'd have used a shotgun."
"That's probably true. And I understand what Tuttle is telling you. Battle is a man's testing ground."
Walker nodded. "Well, then I asked him about Tommy Summers, and he laughed. Summers wouldn't have been able to overpower Theo or Hector. Or even Jeffers."
"People change," Rutledge reminded him. But Walker shook his head.
"Inside sometimes, outside seldom."
Rutledge didn't argue. "I'll collect Kenton, and we'll go to Hastings to bring back Carl Hopkins."
"I'd leave him there a little longer," Constable Walker said. "He's safer."
But Rutledge remembered the bleak cells, and shook his head.
"Where does our murderer go, between killings?" he went on. "We need to find out. He can hardly be staying in Eastfield. Under the circumstances, a stranger would have caused considerable comment."
"I've wondered about that," Constable Walker agreed. "There's no derelict building he could hide in. No castle ruins or such. For that matter, no rough land. He must come up from Hastings. Or over from Battle. There you can wander the abbey grounds at will, you know. Still, someone hiding there would attract notice."
"What about these smugglers' caves in the Old Town?"
"Well, that's possible. Not all of them have been explored. Although boys must have poked about in them long before this and never said anything. Caves and treasure-irresistible. My own father told me the caves were still in use when he was a lad. I wasn't sure whether to believe him or not-he might have been making certain I never ventured into them."
"It might be wise to have a look, if Inspector Norman can spare the men. By the way, he's letting us have Constable Petty for the duration. On his terms, of course. But we need an extra pair of eyes."
"It didn't do a hell of a lot of good last night, did it? Our watch. The devil's determined, and he finds a way."
"The question is, why was he in the churchyard, if he'd already set his sights on Marshall?" Rutledge looked at his watch. "I must go back to Hastings. I'm expecting a telephone message from the Yard-"
Mr. Kenton came down the street, hurrying in their direction. "I say. There you are, Rutledge!" he hailed them.
Rutledge turned to him. "Just the man I wanted to see. You had a clerk some years ago, by the name of Summers. He left for another position. Do you recall where he went?"
Caught unprepared, Kenton said, "What? Summers? My God, that was fifteen or more years ago. Somewhere in Staffordshire, I think. Or was it Shropshire? Yes, it must have been Shropshire. A firm of wardrobe makers. The name escapes me. Never mind Summers! I've come about a far more important matter. I've just been told about Hector Marshall. I want Carl out of that jail, do you hear me? I won't take no for an answer."
"I was just going down to Hastings. Follow me in your own motorcar and you can bring Carl back to Eastfield."
Kenton spun on his heel and went back the way he'd come.
Watching him go, Walker said, "He's happy. Mr. Pierce won't be." C arl Hopkins was almost dazed with relief when he was brought to Inspector Norman's office.
"They say I'm free to go. Has there been another murder, then?"
"Hector Marshall," Kenton said.
"Dear God." Hopkins shook his head. "When is it going to stop?"
Inspector Norman said, "Yes, it's a good question, Rutledge."
He ignored the taunt.
After the formalities were complete, Rutledge walked with Hopkins out of the station, followed by Kenton.
"I didn't think I could manage another night in that cell," Hopkins was saying. "I'd started to imagine things. Is there any news on Inspector Mickelson?"
"Nothing new," Kenton said from behind them.
Hopkins sighed, looking up at the blue sky. And then his jaw tightened, and he said, "Do I still have a place at Kenton Chairs?"
Kenton had the grace to look ashamed. But he said, "I never doubted you, my boy. You must believe me."
"Then why didn't you come to see me? Why didn't you bring me books-some writing paper?"
Rutledge walked away, leaving them to sort out the changes in their relationship. He drove to The White Swans and asked at the desk for any messages. There were none.
After a brief hesitation, he went up the stairs to the room belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Pierce.
The maid was just closing the door after cleaning the room, and Rutledge said to her, "I just wish to leave a message."
She looked uncertain, but he handed her a few coins, and she pocketed them almost before her fingers had closed over them. "I'll just be across the way, then," and she gave the door a little shove to open it again.
Rutledge walked in. The room had been serviced, and there wasn't much to see. It was well appointed, in a French Provincial style that was suited to a bridal suite. Long windows overlooked the street, and beyond that, the strand, and he remembered someone opening the curtains last evening. He walked over and looked out.
It was indeed a beautiful view, far out to sea. Sunlight glistened on the water, sparkling as the waves rolled inland, and the salt-tinged air blew the lacy curtains against his face.
Turning back to the room, he considered it. A wardrobe. A desk. Tables on each side of the bed, drawers below. One could hardly hide a garrote and a supply of identity discs here, and risk having a maid or one's bride stumbling over them.
Crossing to the desk, he picked up the scrolled silver frame that stood there and looked at the man and woman standing by the white swans that guarded the terrace. They looked happy, carefree, holding hands and smiling for the camera.
He recognized the man at once. A high brow, strong straight nose, firm chin. He'd seen him before, only not as clearly as here in the photograph. The first time, he'd been standing at Reception, staring, when Rutledge had stepped out of the telephone closet. And he was the man Rutledge had followed to this room only last night-or early this morning to be more precise. Had he also been in the churchyard last evening? Hard to say. Yes, possibly.
Daniel Pierce looked nothing like his brother. A good face but not attractive, as Anthony had been even in death.
Hamish said, "The second son."
Second in all things.
The woman beside him was fair and very pretty, dimpling into a smile that made her seem almost beautiful.
He recalled hearing his sister Frances saying something about all brides being beautiful, and here it was certainly true.
At her feet was a little dog, tongue out as he panted in the warmth of the summer's day. Of indeterminate breed, fur overhung his dark eyes in a fringe that was almost frivolous, and he looked up adoringly at his mistress. Her dog, then.
Rutledge walked to the wardrobe and looked inside. There was a pair of suitcases, without monograms, her clothes and his, side by side, shoes below, hats on the shelf above.
Shutting the wardrobe doors, he saw the small dog basket next to this side of the bed, and in it, folded into a square, was a blanket hand-embroidered with the name Muffin.
Leaving everything as he'd found it, he walked out of the room and shut the door. The hotel maid smiled at him as he passed, and he thanked her again.
Outside in the bright sunlight, he decided to put in a call to Sergeant Gibson and turned back into the hotel. But the sergeant was not at his desk. Rutledge didn't leave a message. He'd learned his lesson.
He went back to The Stade, and looked again at the strange black towers that held the drying fish nets.
How long would it be before Gibson found his man? The sergeant was very good at what he did, always thorough. Rutledge debated going to London to see what he could learn for himself. But he knew that would get him nowhere. And he wasn't prepared yet to deal with Chief Superintendent Bowles or face the curious glances of everyone at the Yard. The story had got out, it was bound to, and he knew any shouting match with the Chief Superintendent was sure to feed the rumor mill. He was still furious about the charges brought against him, and even if he could rein in his temper, he would be hard-pressed to pretend that he didn't know why they had been brought: because Bowles was suddenly afraid that his machinations had led to murder.
And Meredith Channing was in London as well. He didn't want to know the answers to the questions that wouldn't go away. Not now.
Inspector Norman came up, looking with him at the odd black structures. "You're no closer to the truth than you were when you left. And men continue to die."
"Are you saying that Inspector Mickelson didn't make it?"
"As far as I know, he's not out of danger. Nothing has changed. Look, if it wasn't Carl Hopkins-and it appears that he isn't our man-then bring the rest of that Eastfield Company in, and keep them there until someone admits the truth. They work for their living, every one of them. They can't afford to stay cooped up in a cell indefinitely."
Rutledge thought about Mrs. Marshall asking for help to feed the pigs. Every one of these deaths had created a hardship of some sort. "It's tempting. But I think they're as much in the dark as we are."
"I can't believe that. If you've fought side by side with a man for four years, you learn very quickly what he's made of." It was an echo of Constable Walker's words.
"Why would the survivors keep their mouths shut, when one name would make the rest of them safe? These murders are as deadly as sniper fire. Men are picked off at will."
"Because there's something none of them wants to come out. What's the worst crime a soldier can commit?"
Thinking about Hamish, Rutledge said, "Desertion under fire."
"They'd hardly cover that up. Shooting prisoners? Shooting one of their officers in the back?"
"Then why did Anthony Pierce die? He wasn't in their company."
"Point taken. I'm glad you were sent back here. I won't have to face the blame for coming up empty-handed on this one. That's in your future, not mine."
Would this become the case he couldn't solve? Like Cummins and the murder at Stonehenge? He'd already considered that possibility.
"I'll let you know. You'll be happy to come and gloat."
Inspector Norman laughed. "If we weren't so much alike, we could be friends." He turned and walked away.
Rutledge watched him for several minutes, then went back to the motorcar. The leather seats were hot from the sun, and there were holidaymakers strolling along the promenade and The Stade. The lush grassy slope of the East Hill spoke of peace and plenty. He watched three young girls flirting with a young man their own age. Carefree, pretty faces shaded by parasols. They were dressed to suit the fine weather in white or lavender or palest green. If he squinted his eyes, he thought, he could almost pretend it was 1914, and the war was only a shadow to come.
And then Hamish said something, and the image was shattered. H e went to see Mrs. Jeffers, and found her in her kitchen, bottling plums.
The child who had answered the door and conveyed him there went skipping out into the kitchen garden, chasing butterflies.
"They can forget, for a time. I wish I could," she said, her gaze following her daughter. She had auburn hair that had been pulled back out of her way, and her hands were red from working with the boiling water and hot jars. "I have to keep at this, or they'll spoil," she told him. "To tell the truth, I don't know what good talking to me will do. I wasn't there when Will was killed. And I can't think he had any enemies. How could he have? He hadn't done anything to be ashamed of. He was a good man. I don't know how we're to get on without him." Her eyes filled, and she wiped at them with the cloth in her hand. "I tell myself I can't possibly cry any more, and the next thing I know, I'm crying again."
"Did your husband know Tommy Summers well?"
"Tommy? I doubt anyone did. He was not easy to know. I think his feelings had been hurt so many times that he just locked himself deep inside and let nobody else in. It was a crying shame how the boys treated him, Will among them. I sometimes thought, if he dropped off the face of the earth tomorrow, who would care? His father, or maybe his sister. But that's all." She sealed two jars and turned to fill a third. "Now his sister I liked. A pretty girl, and sweet natured. She was younger than most of us. Her mother was dead, and I was sometimes paid to keep an eye on her after school. I'd have done it for free, if it hadn't been for Tommy, always lurking about, as if he was spying on us. I wrote to her for a time after the family moved away. I thought it a shame she had such a wretch of a brother, but then I was a child myself and hardly knew better. Now, thinking back on it after such a long time, I can see that he wasn't nearly as bad as we liked to make out. He had this look about him of having bitten into something bitter. Sour, that's what it was. I didn't trust him."
"Do you still have those letters?" Rutledge asked, realizing that he might find the sister faster than Sergeant Gibson would.
"Oh, I never kept them after I got married. I didn't see any point in it, did I? We hadn't seen each other in so many years we'd have been like strangers when we met, with nothing to talk about but the weather and our children. But I did think about inviting her to my wedding. It wouldn't have worked out, but when you're happy, you want everybody to know it, don't you?"
"Do you remember how to get in touch with her?"
"Oh yes, it was such an odd name. Regina Summers, Old Well House, Iris Lane, Minton, Shropshire. I couldn't think what an old well house must look like, and my sister said it must be a hole in the ground because Tommy the slug would live in a hole. She thought it was funny, but I didn't."
"Was your husband friendly with Daniel Pierce?"
"Mr. Daniel? Whoever told you such a thing? Will knew him of course, we all did. But Mr. Daniel's father had money, and our fathers didn't. That's a great barrier to friendship, even when you're young. Not that Mr. Anthony or Mr. Daniel put on airs, it was understood. They were different, even when they were doing what we were doing."
As he thanked her for her time, Mrs. Jeffers said, "Finding Will's murderer is the only thanks I need."
Leaving a brief message on Constable Walker's desk with a schedule for the nightly patrols, he packed his valise, left The Fishermen's Arms, and set out for Shropshire.
He had fewer than three days to find an answer.
Rutledge stopped in London for clean clothing, and found a letter waiting for him from Reginald Hume. I'm still with Rosemary. The thought of this empty house filled with Max's ghost was too much for her, I think, and caring for me has given her something to do. I'm no trouble, and I stay out of her way as much as possible. The doctors here are trying to persuade me to go to America and a place called Arizona. They believe the dry air there may help, but I don't believe I could survive the journey at this stage. And I have something to do before I die. Just wanted you to know that Rosemary is beginning to accept. But there's a long road ahead.
And then he was on the road north and west, to find Minton, Shropshire.