It wasn't his inquiry, and he let it go.
Hamish, in the back of his mind, said as the motorcar turned around and Rutledge headed for England, "He was verra' careful of yon trunk. He brought back souvenirs he shouldna' have had."
And Jones wouldn't have been the first to do that.
Coming through Gloucester, Rutledge realized he would pass not twenty miles from where Rosemary Hume lived. She had told him to go away, but that was in the heat of anger and heartbreak over her husband's death. He debated, and then decided to stop and speak to her. She could have changed her mind, and he owed it to Max, he thought, to do what he could.
When he reached Chaswell, the first person he recognized was Max's cousin Reginald, sitting in a motorcar outside a greengrocer's.
He pulled alongside and Reginald looked up, greeting him with the warmth of a man doomed to boredom for a good half hour more.
"Inspector. What brings you back to Chaswell? You're the last person I expected to see this afternoon."
"I've been to Wales to interview a witness. I'm on my way back to London and thence to Sussex. How is Rosemary?"
"She's taken it hard-but you know that. She hasn't forgiven poor Max. And nothing I can say will change her mind. So I've given up trying. I'm surprised she wants me here. But she does. And in time that should help the healing." He made a deprecating gesture. "Or possibly she's afraid the journey back to Scotland will kill me, and she doesn't want my death on her hands."
Rutledge smiled, ignoring a lorry driver sounding his horn as he edged past the two motorcars half blocking the road. "Anything I can do?"
"No. Just-stay in touch." His gaze went to the shop door as two women emerged, baskets in their hands, chatting together. Then he turned back to Rutledge. "I haven't got much longer. I know that, and so does Rosemary. I expect that's why she hasn't sent me away." He paused, staring down the road, as if he knew where it was leading. He didn't look at Rutledge as he asked, "Will you come and see me, if I send for you? For Max's sake?"
Rutledge thought he knew what Reginald was saying, that with Max gone, he felt the need of someone to be there at the end. For it was not a death he could ask Rosemary to watch.
"I give you my word I'll try."
Reginald nodded. "It's no more than I expected. Thank you, Ian." It was the only time he'd used Rutledge's given name.
And then Rosemary Hume stepped out of the shop, and looked up to see Rutledge speaking to her houseguest. For an instant he thought she was about to turn away. Instead she gave him a cool greeting, and Rutledge asked how she was coping.
"I've had time to understand what happened to us, to Max and me," she said. "If he didn't care enough to go on living, if he couldn't face me with the truth of his feelings, then our marriage was over." She held out one hand, stripping off its glove. Her finger was bare of rings. "I intend to take him at his word, and go on with my own life as I see fit." But as she turned to pass the basket filled with her purchases to Reginald, Rutledge caught the reflection of unshed tears in her eyes. Recovering, she said, "I thought you had pressing Yard business in Sussex."
"It's what took me to Wales. I'm returning to Sussex now." He hesitated. "Rosemary-"
"Ian, no! Don't make excuses for him." She turned to Reginald, but before he could step out of the motorcar to turn the crank, Rutledge forestalled him.
"I'll see to it."
He did, and moved to one side. With a nod, she drove away.
Hamish said, "Ye canna' talk to her. No' until she's at peace."
"Yes," Rutledge answered, returning to his own vehicle. "That's true. At least Reginald has stayed with her. In the end, that may help her more than anything I could do or say." H e didn't stop in London. The three days were up at sundown. He paused in Hampshire and tried to put a telephone call through to the brewery, but there was no answer. He realized that Tyrell Pierce's office must already be closed. And there was no way now to reach Constable Walker, to tell him to keep the six men under lock and key until he could arrive in Eastfield sometime in the early hours of the morning.
He tried next to telephone Inspector Norman in Hastings, in the hope that he could get word to Eastfield. But Inspector Norman was out on another case, he was told, and Rutledge would have to wait for his return.
He attempted to explain the situation, but the man on the other end of the line said firmly, "I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to speak to the inspector."
Swearing to himself, Rutledge grimly set out again, making the best time he could.
He hoped that Walker would have the good sense to wait. But with each mile he was more and more convinced that the objections of the incarcerated men would prevail, and Walker would let them go. After all, he had to live in Eastfield, long after Rutledge had returned to London.
And there was nothing to be done about it but to pray that the waiting killer failed to find one of his targets alone and vulnerable.
10
I t was closer to five in the morning when Rutledge drove into Eastfield and drew to a halt outside the police station.
He had had to stop for an hour's rest somewhere in the New Forest, pulling to the side of the road in an effort to rest his eyes. The night sounds around him were soothing, and he had slept instead. For a wonder Hamish was quiet. He had been busy ever since Rutledge had left Chaswell, taking advantage as he so often did of the stress that was already filling Rutledge's mind.
It was becoming increasingly apparent that something more than an event in the war lay behind these murders. For one thing, there was the face that Hartle couldn't place, a face that worried him, on the day he was killed. Who was it he'd seen, and had he not only tried to find that man again, but encountered him in the dark on the headland? And why the headland? For another, the connection between those identity discs and the murders was less clear than it had first appeared.
And there was Daniel Pierce as well, whose name kept cropping up.
Were these pointers toward the truth, or was he still missing something that would bring the disparate pieces of the puzzle together?
But even Hamish was silenced by sleep, brief though it was-no more than twenty minutes, but twenty precious minutes if a man's life was hanging in the balance. The day had broken now. Whatever was going to happen had already happened.
He sat for a moment in the motorcar, fighting his fatigue and staring at the closed and silent police station.
It was one of the hazards of police work, making the wrong judgment. He had done his best to protect the six potential victims of this killer, rather than taking the chance that the murderer wouldn't strike again while he was away. But at the same time, he'd accepted a risk of a different sort-by denying the killer his opportunity, he could have changed whatever plan there was to these murders and caused it to take on different, possibly more personal overtones. He wasn't interested in finding out whether he could outwit the murderer or not. He was only intent on stopping him.
He got out of the motorcar and stretched, his muscles tight and cramped from the drive from Wales. And then he walked to the door of the police station and put out his hand to lift the latch.
The door was firmly locked.
He stood there for a moment, his tired mind trying to grasp what that meant. A police station was always open. If the constable wasn't there, he left a message on the desk telling whoever needed him where he could be found.
Foreboding gripped him. He knocked firmly, using his knuckles. And there was no answer.
He had no idea where Walker was. At home? At the scene of another death? And there was no one about at this hour, the street quiet and shuttered.