"How do you remember who brought you each item?" Rutledge asked.
"I've kept a record over the years. I read it sometimes. There was a gilded sword that had belonged to one of Napoleon's generals. Inscribed as well. I was reluctant to sell it, but money is money."
He pulled a dog-eared ledger from beneath his counter and opened it at random. Rutledge could see that he had listed each object he'd bought, the date, and the price paid. He'd also drawn a fine sketch of it as well. "Let's see." He thumbed through the pages until he'd found what he wanted. "There it is: 1908. Flint knife blade." He pointed to the clever sketch, filled in with black ink. "Sold to me for fifteen pounds by a Charles Henry. No provenance that it is as old as it appears to be, but it is a fine example of flint workmanship, and I rather liked it. But it never brought in the profit I had anticipated." He turned more pages, and then pointed out that he had sold a button hook to a man from Kent on holiday in Hastings. "This is the half of the ledger where I keep my sales listed."
Rutledge thanked the man and was on the point of leaving when he changed his mind and asked the price of the flint knife.
"Sixteen pounds, I'm afraid. Necessary to turn a profit even after all this time."
Rutledge bought it, and then asked if it could be wrapped and put into a box for mailing.
Ten minutes later, he walked out of the shop and went to find the post office. There he sent the small parcel to Chief Inspector Cummins.
He'd added a brief message: I found this in a shop in Hastings, Sussex. It is said to be old, but I should think anyone who knew how to work flint could make one just like it. Add a handle, wrap it well with rawhide, and it would make a formidable weapon. It would most certainly explain the bit of flint found in your victim's wound. And it could explain, in some measure, why he was a sacrifice. This may not be as old as Stonehenge, but it could most certainly have been used to kill men as well as animals. What do you think? A t the Yard, Sergeant Gibson had the direction of the three men whose discs had been found before Rutledge had arrived in Sussex.
He had had time, on the long drive, to consider which of the men to call on first. And he'd chosen the man whose name was connected with Anthony Pierce. Pierce the officer, the anomaly.
Corporal Trayner lived in Belton, Yorkshire, and Rutledge drove on late into the night to make up for lost time, finally stopping in Stafford, in a hotel near the railway station. This was industrial country, and the town's buildings were black from coal smoke. Stafford's narrow streets and tall church tower had always reminded him of etchings he'd seen of German villages.
Late the next morning he arrived in the little town of Belton and asked at the local police station for directions to the Trayner house. It proved to be one of six Victorian cottages down a lane just past the churchyard: solid houses of no particular distinction except for the gardens that grew rampant in the small space between the gate along the road and the door. Hollyhocks stood tall in the back of the gardens, holding pride of place at this time of year. A rose climbed to the small porch of the fifth house, and a small sign by the walk identified this as SPRING COTTAGE.
Rutledge went to the door and lifted the knocker, a brass dolphin.
A young woman answered the summons, and asked his business.
Rutledge identified himself and asked to speak to Corporal Trayner.
She invited him in, saying over her shoulder, "Dear, there's a Mr. Rutledge to see you. From Scotland Yard."
She led the way into the front room. Although the curtains stood open, the room felt dark, closed in, despite its eastern exposure and the brightness of the morning sun. A man sat in one of the chairs, a cushion at his back and a white cane at his side. He rose as Rutledge entered and held out his hand. But his eyes were scarred and blind, and he waited for his visitor to come to him.
Rutledge took the extended hand, and then the chair that Trayner indicated. He was fair, with broad shoulders and a ruddy complexion. He said, "What brings you here, Inspector?" There was only curiosity in his voice, not strain. If he had a guilty conscience, it was well concealed.
Rutledge briefly explained his reason for driving to Belton, and added, "Can you tell me if you are still in possession of your identity discs?"
"I don't think I ever had any. Not of the sort you describe. I know what they are. I just sewed labels in my uniforms, mostly in the pockets, and that was that."
It was an unexpected response.
Rutledge said, "You're quite sure about this? It's rather important."
"Yes, I'm sure. To tell you the truth, most of the men in my company were not impressed with the fiberboard discs. We were regular Army, you see. Or I was, until this." He gestured in the direction of his eyes.
"Did you know an officer by the name of Pierce? Anthony Pierce?"
Trayner shook his head. "No, the name means nothing to me. Should it?"
"Does Eastfield, Sussex, mean anything to you? Or these names: William Jeffers, James Roper? Theo Hartle?"
Trayner frowned but said only, "I'm afraid I can't help. You must be mistaken."
"Your name was on the disc I saw. I can't be wrong on that."
"And you say that this must have something to do with me? But what?"
"I don't know," Rutledge said slowly, feeling his fatigue as he spoke. It had been a long drive for nothing. And time was short. He had three days. Not enough time to go elsewhere. And yet now he felt compelled to try.
Finally he asked, "Was there anything that happened in France-anything at all-that might make someone feel he had to avenge your blindness?"
"Revenge is a very strong term. But if any of my men felt that I had been wronged, they'd have taken their anger out on the Germans. Not the British. It was a German shell that did this."
Rutledge had to leave it there. He asked them to contact the Yard if they could remember any detail that might have been overlooked, and they agreed.
Mrs. Trayner saw Rutledge to the door. He apologized for disturbing them, and she smiled wryly. "I've never seen anyone questioned in a murder case before. It breaks the tedium of our days. But my husband is telling the truth, Inspector. He always does."
Rutledge thanked her and turned away. But Trayner's voice called to him from inside the house, and Rutledge heard him stumble as he hurried toward the door. Mrs. Trayner went quickly to help him, but her husband brushed her aside impatiently.
"No harm done, Lucy! Don't fuss." He came out into the passage and asked, "Are you still there, Inspector Rutledge?"
"Yes, I'm here. What is it?"
"I was right when I told you I didn't remember your Anthony Pierce. But there was another Pierce-David, I think it was. A lieutenant in the sappers. He was attached to our division for two or three weeks. I don't think I met him, but I knew of him. Is that any use to you?"
"David?" Rutledge queried.
"No, David isn't right." Trayner's sightless eyes squinted in the direction of the sky as he pondered. "Daniel. That was it, Daniel Pierce." His eyes came back to where he thought Rutledge was standing. "He had a reputation for being difficult, as I recall. That's how I came to hear of him. But damned good at his job, from all reports."
Trayner was pleased with himself, as if this was a small victory over his sightlessness, proving to Scotland Yard that he was a reliable witness, even if he couldn't see as other men did.
"That's very helpful," Rutledge answered, thanking him and moving on to the motorcar.
Just as he was about to drive away, Hamish said, "Is he still there?"
And Rutledge looked back. Trayner was standing in the open door, as if savoring the world beyond his doorstep. His wife hovered in the background, fearful that he might take it into his head to do something that would harm him. T here was a severe thunderstorm as he crossed into Wales, and Rutledge took shelter in a small hotel that was miles short of his destination. The Welsh border had once been as turbulent as the Scottish border, but this hotel catered to day-trippers coming across from Worcester, and the dining room was crowded with those caught out by the weather on their way back to England.