"I can't be away for three nights," Hector Marshall exclaimed. "I've got cows to milk, vegetables to hoe, chickens to feed."
Another man added that his wife was pregnant and likely to deliver at any time.
Two more told Rutledge they could look after themselves and didn't need his help doing it.
He answered only, "I'm sure Theo Hartle would have said the same. He was a bigger man than any of you. And still he was murdered."
Walker's nephew, Billy Tuttle, said, "With all due respect, sir, what if it's one of us? The killer, I mean. And we're shut in together?" He looked at the others defiantly. "I'm not saying it is, not by any means, but it bears thinking about."
The last two to come in asked why they should be punished when they'd done nothing wrong, refusing outright to stay in a cell.
Rutledge listened patiently to their protests and then said, "Very well. Let's make it simple. We needn't draw straws. Tell me, which of you will volunteer to become the fifth victim? Step forward. I'll release you as a stalking horse, to see if you're on the killer's list. Or not. And if the murderer should be one of you, he will most certainly have to wait until he's free before killing again. He's not a fool, whatever else he may be. He won't kill here."
They stared at him.
"It won't work," Marshall told him point-blank. He was a small, compact man with a broken nose and an obvious dislike of authority. "You can't be sure that madman is after one of us. Why not the greengrocer? Or the foreman at the brewery? The rector, or the clerk at the hotel?"
"Are you volunteering?" Rutledge asked.
"I'm not volunteering-" Marshall began.
Rutledge cut him short. "I remind you, each victim was alone after dark. No one saw the killer arrive, no one saw him leave. Think of a better plan, and I'll consider it."
Marshall objected again. "Look, we don't know why those four died. I'm not saying it's something they did. Or didn't do. But my conscience is clear. Why should I run with my tail between my legs, like?"
There was a silence.
"Step forward. Who among you feels safe enough to take such a risk? You survived the war, the lot of you. Are you feeling lucky?"
They talked amongst themselves and then turned back to him.
"Three days," Walker's nephew said. "Not an hour more."
"Thank you. But I warn you, if you give Constable Walker here any reason for complaint, I'll have the lot of you in charge for obstructing the police. Is that clear?"
The man called Henderson said, "Where will you be?"
"Tracking down connections between the living and the dead. Unless you can tell me what you believe this is all about? Unless you know something that I don't-and Constable Walker doesn't. What happened in France?"
"Nothing," Henderson replied. "Nothing that would lead to murder, then or now. We served with honor. All of us." There was the ring of truth in his voice.
But he hadn't been in the company that left Eastfield together. Three years younger than the rest, according to Walker, he'd volunteered on his seventeenth birthday and had served with the new tank corps. Like Anthony Pierce, he was an outsider. Still, Pierce had been murdered anyway.
No one else spoke up. Rutledge waited, looking each man in the eye, and they dropped their gaze first, even Marshall.
Hamish said into the silence, "Ye ken, it might not be what they did, but what they failed to do. And they wouldna' remember that."
Rutledge answered him in his mind. This killer could have moved on to Hastings or Rye or even London. But he hasn't. Because his quarry is still here.
Half an hour later, he left Eastfield behind.
Walker's parting words were, "I hope you find something that makes this incarceration worthwhile." There was an undercurrent of doubt in his voice.
Rutledge's first stop was in Hastings to see if any progress had been made in tracing Hartle's movements before he was killed.
Inspector Norman said testily, "It's early days. But he was seen in a shop that carries varnish at half past ten in the morning. They didn't have what he needed, and he went to another place of business and found it closed. He came back half an hour later and bought four tins of the varnish. He was to pick them up at two o'clock. At that point, it appears he had lunch in a small pub that fishermen frequent. Apparently he knew the pub's cook in France. He visits the man whenever he's in Hastings. Yesterday the man wasn't there. His wife's mother was being taken to hospital in Eastbourne for suspected appendicitis. We checked, and she was admitted for surgery. Hartle waited for him at the pub, and the cook returned to Hastings at three-fifteen. The two men sat down together for a good twenty minutes, and Hartle asked if the family was able to pay for the mother-in-law's care. Then a little before four o'clock, Hartle left to retrieve his tins, ostensibly on his way home to Eastfield, or so the cook says. He could think of no reason why Hartle would delay returning-he'd got what he'd come for. We know for certain our man left the pub close on to four. Half a dozen people can vouch for that. After that, we lose him."
"Then that must be when he encountered the killer."
"You can't be sure of it. It's possible my men will turn up something more by the end of the day."
"Where is the van he was driving when he arrived in Hastings?"
"We haven't found it yet. It doesn't mean we won't. I don't fancy the idea that this man, whoever he is, is setting up shop in Hastings. I want him to go back to Eastfield. At least until you've made a little progress toward identifying him."
"This fellow soldier Hartle visits when he's here in Hastings-is the man in the clear?"
"Oh yes, he couldn't overpower Hartle if he tried. Consumptive, if you ask me. Thin as a rail."
Rutledge drew a breath in frustration. "Keep looking. I'm on my way to London to investigate these discs. Call the Yard and ask for Sergeant Gibson, if you need to reach me."
But he wasn't ready to leave Hastings just yet. He went in search of the pub, The Fisherman's Catch, and saw that it was a small establishment that catered to men who ate hearty in the morning and were in bed well before nine in the evening, to sail with the sand fleet before the sun rose.
Hamish said, "He wouldna' stay o'er long, if he was to reach home at a reasonable hour."
"He must have done this time. Was someone following him? Or did the killer know he was being sent to Hastings yesterday? It's uncanny how well someone understood the habits of the first three victims and where to find them alone at night. If he's watching them, he lives in Eastfield. That's one of the reasons I penned those men in the police station."
The cook, one Bill Mason, was in the middle of preparing a roast for the evening meal, and Rutledge agreed to interview him in the kitchen.
It was small, crowded, noisy, and almost unbearably hot. Claustrophobic, Rutledge felt the beginnings of a cold sweat.
"I've already talked to Inspector Norman's men," Mason said, busy basting the roast and then preparing potatoes and onions to add to the pan. Inspector Norman had called him thin, but he was cadaverous, his hands shaking, his cheeks sunken, a nervous tic by one eye.
Rutledge recognized the symptoms. Shell shock, not consumption. He swallowed hard, to keep his own voice from cracking as he said, "They must have asked you about when Hartle came here, and when he left. I want to know if he was afraid of anyone?"
The sunken gray eyes turned to gaze for a moment at Rutledge's face.
"Afraid?"
"Yes. Of anything. Anyone. Did you serve with him in France?"
"We met in hospital. We never fought together." Mason turned back to his work, as someone from the bar shouted a request for a ham sandwich with pickle. A helper, who had been listening in to the conversation, reluctantly turned away to fill the order. Mason watched him for a moment, then said quietly, "I don't know that Theo Hartle was afraid. Not exactly. But he saw someone here in Hastings. Yesterday morning, while he was looking to buy the varnish. He couldn't put a name to the face, and that worried him. He caught just a glimpse, mind you, but he couldn't get it out of his head. When I came back from Eastbourne, he was waiting for me here. He wanted me to help him search, and see if I recognized the man. I told him to leave well enough alone."