And then Rutledge remembered Mrs. Sanders, who had seen the lorry driver come through Hastings and then return again for the police after he'd spotted the first body on the road. Rutledge had read her statement.
He turned and looked across the way. Where was she? Not in the shops-or even above them. Then he saw the tall, narrow house wedged between a milliner's and an apothecary's. It looked to be one of the oldest buildings in Eastfield, brick and timber, the upper story leaning slightly to one side, as if the foundation had begun to subside when the newer apothecary's had been built.
Crossing the street, he walked up to the front of the house and looked up at the double windows of the first floor.
One window was open to the slight morning breeze, the lacy white curtain billowing into the dark room behind, and Hamish said, " 'Ware!"
Rutledge peered intently at the window and then realized that behind the panel of white curtain was a tiny, wizened face, looking to be as old as the house itself.
He called to the woman staring down at him, pitching his voice so that it carried to her but didn't rouse neighbors on either side.
"I'm looking for Constable Walker."
"Come in," Mrs. Sanders called after a moment. "I never lock my door."
He turned and lifted the latch. The door swung open easily, and he stepped into a narrow dark passage. To one side, stairs climbed to the first floor. To the other, shut doors led into two rooms, and then a third door closed off the passage at the far end.
He took the stairs two at a time, and rounded the railing toward the open door of the room that overlooked the street.
A chair stood by the window, and in it sat the woman he'd glimpsed from below, cushioned and pillowed and covered with a quilted comforter.
She turned her head to smile at him, the wrinkles in her face smoothing across her withered cheeks. But the eyes in that face were neither clouded nor dim. They were the color of pansies, almost a purple they were so dark a blue. Her well-brushed white hair, drawn back into a smooth braid that lay over one shoulder, looked like a pale halo in the shadow of the curtain.
"Come in, young man. You must be the policeman from London. I've seen you come and go from the station with Constable Walker."
"Yes, I'm Inspector Rutledge. Mrs. Sanders?"
"Indeed I am. There's a chair behind you. Do sit down."
He sat. "I'm trying to find the constable. Unaccountably, the station is locked."
"So it is. He came out shortly after midnight and walked away. I think he locked the door as a precaution."
"A precaution?"
"He was afraid those who were inside would try to leave."
Rutledge felt a surge of sheer relief. "He's kept the six men locked up inside?"
"Oh, yes, but it wasn't an easy task. I could hear the yelling last night. My guess is, that's why Constable Walker left. There's nothing wrong with my eyes or my ears. Only my limbs have given out."
"I believe you. Do you sit at that window every night?"
"And every day, except when I take my meals. I'm nosey, you see. And I have the world spread out before me here. I don't need much sleep. I doze when I feel like it, and the rest of the time, I watch. It can be quite entertaining. Eventually the whole town passes beneath my window or across the street from me."
"You gave Constable Walker a statement regarding the lorry driver-" He had been about to say, the driver who found the first body, but broke off.
"Don't be shy, young man. There have been four murders in this town, if you count poor Theo Hartle. I have a woman who comes and cleans for me, and another who brings my evening meal. We gossip."
He was sure they did.
"Have you seen anything else from your window? Strangers who come to Eastfield in the night but who aren't to be found during the day?"
"There was a man, before the killings began-perhaps a week before. It was dark when he came walking up the Hastings Road. I couldn't see him clearly enough to identify him. He was moving without haste, like a sightseer taking in the view. I thought it was odd, even so, but I decided he was looking for work and trying to determine whether he stood a better chance here or in Hastings. I expect he chose Hastings, because I never saw him again."
He said, taking a chance, "Did you know Daniel Pierce well enough to say with any certainty that the man wasn't Pierce?"
Her eyebrows rose. "Danny Pierce? Do you think he's come home? Or considered it?"
"I don't know. You must tell me."
She gave that some thought. "I can't see Danny slinking through Eastfield in the dark. He'd come striding in. There are those who would be happy to see him, if he did."
"Then who else could that man have been?"
"If I come up with a name, I'll tell you," she promised. "Meanwhile, there's Constable Walker standing by your motorcar, wondering where you might have got to."
Rutledge rose and glanced out the window. And he had a perfectly clear view of the constable, framed as neatly as a photograph for Mrs. Sanders's pleasure.
He thanked her and left, closing the house door behind him. As he started across the street, Constable Walker called testily, "I wondered where you went. I was about to try the hotel." He waited until Rutledge had reached him and added, "What did you learn about those discs? I hope it was worthwhile. I've had to put up with enough abuse while you were away."
"The Yorkshire corporal had never had discs. The Welsh sapper found that his were still in his trunk, where he expected them to be. There was no time to move on to Cheshire, but I'm beginning to think we need to take a closer look at those discs we have."
"You're saying there's no feud between companies?"
"The two men I questioned had never heard of our victims. But they knew Daniel Pierce by hearsay. He was a colorful man, apparently."
Walker frowned. "Mr. Pierce-his father-won't be pleased with that news."
"And you are not to tell him. This is a Yard matter. We'll leave him out of it until we need to question him again. Meanwhile, I was very glad to see you'd kept your charges."
"Actually, I let one of them go in the middle of the night. His wife had her baby, there were complications, and Dr. Gooding sent to ask if he could come home. I locked the door to the police station and took him there myself. As it turned out, mother and child are fine, but they could have lost the baby."
"Well done. Let's see how the rest of our charges are faring."
Walker unlocked the door to total silence. He glanced at Rutledge, and crossed to the cabinet behind his desk to retrieve the lantern he kept there. Then he led the way to the large holding cells where he'd incarcerated the six men. When he opened the second door into that passage, his eyes had to adjust to the gloom before he saw his five remaining prisoners. They were standing, backed up against the cell wall, faces pale and eyes squinting against the sudden glare of the lantern, trying to see who was behind it. And then they recognized their jailer, their gaze traveling on to the tall figure behind him.
There was an outburst of protest, vociferous and heated.
Rutledge had expected their anger to be directed at him, since he'd insisted on locking them up here. He wasn't disappointed. As he sorted through the words tripping over one another as the men demanded to know why Walker had abandoned them for the remainder of the night, he realized that they had come to agree with him about the danger they were in.
After a moment, Rutledge raised his own voice, accustomed to being heard on a battlefield, and stopped them in midsentence.
They glared at him but fell silent. He turned first to Walker's nephew.
"Now. One at a time. What's happened?"
"There was someone outside. Not fifteen minutes after my uncle had left with Tom. And here we were locked tight in here, like fish in a barrel," Tuttle told him.