He thanked her with a smile that brought an answering smile, and then he was walking east along the Hastings Road.
But it was hopeless, there were more people on the walk now, and one man could easily have disappeared among them or popped into one of the small shops that catered to holidaymakers. He would need half a dozen policemen to help him search them all.
Standing to one side so as not to obstruct pedestrians coming toward him, he waited, on the off chance that the man, thinking himself safe, might reappear.
But his quarry was far too canny. And even though Rutledge returned to The White Swans and sat for a time in the quiet lounge, facing Reception, he never returned. Rutledge even spoke to the desk clerk, but he had been busy putting a jewelry box into one of the hotel guest safes, and never noticed the man waiting at Reception for him.
Rutledge drove back to Hastings Old Town and stopped where he had before, near the net shops. Even this space was more crowded than it had been, but he closed his eyes and tried to recall his brief glimpse of the man's face before he had turned away.
What had he seen? What could he be sure of?
How many times had he asked witnesses to describe someone?
The man was of a little above medium height, broad shouldered, hair a medium shade of brown, eyes indeterminate, but Rutledge thought they must be light rather than dark. Gray, possibly, or a pale blue.
Hamish said into the silence in the motorcar, "Gray eyes. Ye ken, he was wearing a gray suit."
It was true.
"What else?"
"He moved well."
That was true. That swift turn, almost on the thought, so that Rutledge could no longer see his face. And he was able to leave the hotel and cross the terrace without creating a stir, even when he was hurrying.
And he had fit in, at The White Swans. Clothing and appearance in keeping with the clientele. Nothing to make him stand out or seem memorable in a crowd. Even the woman with the child, when questioned, had paid him little heed, because he attracted no attention.
Rutledge gave it another few minutes, but there was nothing else.
He got out and started the motorcar and then for a moment debated where to turn. Not to Inspector Norman. Constable Walker, then.
He set out for Eastfield, his mind busy.
He would like to believe that the man was Daniel Pierce. But how could Pierce recognize him on sight? Rutledge was aware that he too had fit into the hotel scene, comfortable in his surroundings and in no way attracting attention to himself. No one had walked past the telephone room while he was making his call. He was certain of that, for he could see clearly through the glass doors. The man couldn't have overheard part of his conversation, then. Their first contact came as he was stepping out of the telephone closet and starting down the passage. The man must have looked up, seen him, and in that same instant known who he was.
Hamish said, "Unless he followed you into the hotel. And wanted a better look."
"That's unlikely."
But was it? Where had the contact begun? In Eastfield, for instance? Had someone stalked Rutledge just as he'd stalked his victims, to take the measure of his opponent? There were enough dark corners and darker alleys, someone standing silently in the shadows could have escaped Rutledge's notice. But could he escape Hamish's?
There was no way of knowing. Before, when he had walked half blind out of the Hastings police station, he might well have attracted the notice of someone during that hour of helpless wandering. Still, he wanted to believe that it was unlikely. He didn't care for the feeling of vulnerability that being followed at such a time gave him.
Reaching Eastfield, he left the motorcar at The Fishermen's Arms and went on foot to the police station. Constable Walker was just leaving to eat his midday meal.
He saw Rutledge's face as he came through the door, and said immediately, "Something's happened."
Rutledge answered, "I'm not sure. Describe Daniel Pierce for me."
Walker said, "Pierce? Let me see. Not as tall as you. Dark hair, light blue eyes. Slim. At least he was the last time I saw him. He'd just come home from France. He may have filled out since then. Why?" He frowned. "Don't tell me you've found him!"
Was it Pierce?
Hamish said, "The sun could ha' lightened his hair."
That was true. But was it Pierce?
Or had he caught a glimpse of the murderer, who would have every reason by now to know what the man from London looked like.
Better to let it go. Rutledge said, "I was probably mistaken."
"Or wishful thinking," Walker replied with a grin. Then it vanished as he added, "Despite what his father says, I don't know of any reason for Daniel to be living in Hastings, within a stone's throw, you might say, and not keeping in touch with his family. If you want my opinion, for what it's worth, Daniel Pierce is living in London, where he's his own man. It's what I'd do, in his shoes." R utledge was sorely tempted to ask Tyrell Pierce if he kept a photograph of his sons at the brewery, but better judgment prevailed. It was not yet the time to let the man at The White Swans-if he was indeed Daniel Pierce-know that he'd been identified.
On the other hand, there was a question he wished to put to Theo Hartle's sister.
He went to the Winslow house and knocked at the door. He was almost certain someone was inside, and he waited. Eventually, Winslow himself opened the door, his face sour.
"I'm not up to visitors today," he said plaintively. "You must come back another time."
"I'm sorry to have disturbed you. It was your wife I wished to see."
That brought a grunt from the man in the chair. "She's not here."
Rutledge thanked him and left.
As he walked back to the Hastings Road, which formed the main street of Eastfield, he asked himself where Mrs. Winslow could be found at this hour of the day. The greengrocer's, the butcher's, the bakery?
He stepped into each shop, but didn't see her. Not doing her marketing, then. He paused outside the police station and thought about it.
Her brother was dead. The rectory. He turned and walked toward the churchyard.
Hamish said, "Aye, she wouldna' wish to have her husband with her."
And Rutledge saw that she was indeed standing in the churchyard, pointing to a space next to two stones. Hartle's wife and child?
The rector and Mrs. Winslow looked up as he approached across the freshly mown grass of the churchyard.
"Not more bad news?" the rector asked anxiously.
"No. I've come for a word with Mrs. Winslow, when she's finished her business here."
She pointed to the markers at her feet. He saw he'd been right: here lay her brother's wife and child. "I was just asking Rector if there was room here beside Mary. He says there is. I don't know quite what sort of service to have." She frowned. "My husband feels it ought to be brief, without much ceremony. But Theo didn't kill himself, did he? It doesn't seem right."
"A proper one," Rutledge answered her without reservations. "The fact that his life ended abruptly makes no difference. The service should be the same as he'd have been given as an old man, with all honor due him."
She smiled, tears filling her eyes. "Yes. Thank you. That would be fitting." She turned to the rector. "There we are, then. I'll think of what hymns he'd have liked, and any favorite scriptures." She bit her lip.
Rutledge knew what was on her mind.
"Your brother's body," he said gently, "will be released very soon."
She nodded, unable to trust her voice. The rector took her arm and walked with her a little way until they were out of the churchyard and standing in the drive up to the rectory.
Rutledge gave them a chance to finish their private discussion, but as the rector turned and nodded to him, he caught them up.
"Now," Mrs. Winslow asked brightly, as if to affirm that she was in control of her feelings again, "you wanted to speak to me?"