He sat in the bar, looking out at the lightning, and wondered what he would learn from J. A. S. Jones, Welsh sapper. He turned as the man behind the bar asked what he'd have, and gave his order. Noting the man's limp and a ragged scar down his arm, he asked, "In the war, were you?"
The man smiled grimly. "I was that. And you?"
Rutledge gave his regiment, but not his rank.
"At the Somme, were you? Lost my brother there, I did."
"Bloody shambles," Rutledge answered, agreeing with the unspoken condemnation he heard in the Welshman's voice.
"It was, and all."
He brought Rutledge's ale, and said, "I've found it hard to settle again. I don't know if it's because of my brother or because I can't see any sense in anything now. We were close."
"What about your family?"
"That's what my da asks, over and over again. What about my wife and children. I don't know the answer. I think I've changed. And they haven't."
He went away to serve another storm-bound driver, and then came back to where Rutledge was still standing.
"How've you managed, then?"
"I was wise enough not to marry before I went away to fight. Just as well, as it happened." He regarded the man. "What did you do with your identity discs, when you came back?"
The man gave a bark of laughter. But it was bitter. "Burned them, I did. In the grate. As if I could burn away all that went with them. Sadly, it made no difference."
More people were coming in, and he was busy. Rutledge took his glass and went to an empty table by the window. He'd hardly finished his ale when the storm moved on almost as suddenly as it had appeared, and the rain changed from downpour to a light drizzle that barely concealed the sun.
Moving on, Rutledge discovered that J. A. S. Jones lived in a town so small it hardly took up space on the map he'd used to bring him this far. The small slate-roofed houses huddled together against a hillside, and the road seemed to help pin them there, preventing them from sliding down into the brisk little stream on the far side.
J. A. S. Jones lived above his father's greengrocer's shop. A stair to one side of the shop door led up to another door at the top, and here Rutledge knocked several times before anyone came to answer the summons.
Jones was a small, dark man, with thinning hair and a short beard. He looked at Rutledge quizzically and said, "If you're wanting your money, I don't have it. Not this week."
"My name is Rutledge. From Scotland Yard in London-"
"Good God, I know I'm overdawn at the bank. They needn't have sent the Yard!"
"I know nothing about your banking arrangements," Rutledge said. "I'm here to ask a question about the war, to do with a murder inquiry in Sussex."
"Sussex? I don't think I've ever been there." His frown appeared to be genuine. "What is it you want of me?"
"Can you tell me what became of your identity discs?"
Jones stared at him. "I-I don't really know. Is it important?"
"Very. If they are here, will you look for them, please?"
"Come inside, then." Jones stepped back from the door. "I'm a bachelor. There's nothing tidy about the place."
It was true. Half-eaten meals littered the tabletop in the long single room, and clothes had been dropped helter-skelter on the floor, the two or three chairs, and the posts of a bed. Rutledge could see the tiny kitchen at the far end opposite the door.
"I'm out of work at present," Jones told him, dragging a small battered trunk out from under the high, old-fashioned bed. "My family does what it can to keep me out of the poorhouse, but it's been a close-run thing." Unlocking and then lifting the lid, he considered the contents, mostly the uniforms. "Why would you want my discs? I served out my time, there's been no problem with the Army." He began to delve into a corner, fingers poking here and there.
Rutledge said, "There have been several murders in a village where all the men served together. In each case, a disc was found in the dead man's mouth. The names on the discs appeared to be random-Yorkshire, Cheshire, Wales. We're trying to find out what connection the discs could have with events in the war."
Jones looked up from his search. "You're saying one of these men had my disc in his mouth? But that's not possible, I have my discs here. There must be some mistake."
"If you have your own discs, then I shall have to agree with you there," Rutledge responded.
Jones went back to searching and finally brought out a thin strand of rope, from which two fiberboard discs dangled. "Here they are, then," he said triumphantly.
Rutledge took the rope and examined the discs. Both were there, the name on each one worn but still legible. The only difference between the two he held now and the one that had been found in Sussex was a small nick in the edge of the one owned by Jones.
"You're right," he said slowly. "You have both." After a moment he passed them back to Jones. "Did you ever serve with men from the vicinity of Hastings? Anyone named Theo Hartle, Jim Roper, Anthony Pierce, or William Jeffers?" He deliberately put no rank to the names.
An army in the field was seldom made up of one homogenous regiment. To bring a regiment up to strength, the army took what it needed from whatever troops were available. And so a company from Hastings might for a time serve with a company from Glasgow, only to see it replaced by a company from Cornwall if it suffered heavy casualties.
But Jones shook his head. "I don't think so."
"You were a sapper. Did you ever serve under a Lieutenant Daniel Pierce?"
"Never served with him, but we knew about him. There were stories of his going back into a tunnel to see why a charge hadn't blown. Or going back after men caught in the tunnel when it collapsed. One such story claimed he broke through into a German countertunnel, and the two men shook hands, then shot each other. I don't know how much of it was true, but we were always willing to believe the tales. It gave us a glamour, you might say. They claimed he dug a hole down to hell one night, and dined with the devil. There was always something being whispered behind the backs of our officers. It was their opinion such tales encouraged recklessness. It was dangerous duty at the best of times."
"What else was whispered about Lieutenant Pierce?"
"Oh, I dunno. That he was unlucky in love, that sort of thing." He set the discs back in the trunk, straightened the contents where he'd been digging around, and added over his shoulder, "He wasn't the only one unlucky in love. I came home to find that the girl I was to marry had eloped with a bo'sun from a frigate. An Englishman at that."
Hamish was saying something in the back of his mind, but Rutledge was already posing the question. "How did you know that Pierce was unlucky in love?"
"One story said the girl he was to marry had died. Another said that she'd chosen another man. Either way, she was lost to him, wasn't she? And where there's smoke, there must be fire." He shoved the trunk back under the bed and got up, dusting off his hands. "Will there be anything else, Inspector?" he asked warily, as if the discs had been a trick to get Rutledge in the door and the truth was to come out now.
Preoccupied, Rutledge said, "No. Thank you. I'm satisfied that all is as it should be."
But when he left, Jones was standing in the doorway, watching him go, as if to make sure Rutledge wasn't playing some sort of game.
Rutledge could feel his gaze on the back of his neck and wondered what Jones had done that made the man so suspicious of a policeman's visit. On the whole, Rutledge thought, his answers had appeared to be truthful.