He broke off as the fresh pot of tea and a dish of biscuits was set before them. When the woman had gone away again, Rutledge said, "I appreciate your sense of duty. I shall look into the matter. I can't promise anything, but I will respect your confidence as far as I'm able."
Kenton appeared to be relieved. That was clearly what he had come to ask.
"Theo was a good man," Kenton went on. "I don't know how we're to replace him. Steady, dependable. Amazingly gifted when it comes to working with wood. Well liked by the others in the firm. Such a loss. I've been asked to say a few words at his funeral."
He paused, stirring his tea, as if it were the most important task of the day.
Rutledge said, watching his face, "I don't think that's what you've come here to tell me."
Kenton met his gaze. "No. No, it isn't. I don't know where to begin, I suppose."
"What had Hartle done that could be of interest to the police?"
He turned to the window, ignoring the question. "My mother had a companion for many years. She had an arthritic condition and was a regular visitor to the spas of Europe, looking for a cure for the pain if not the disease. When she fell ill at Wurzburg, a young woman named Hilda Lentz nursed her back to health. When my mother recovered, she asked Hilda to come back to England with her. The idea of travel must have appealed to her, because she agreed. But instead of returning to Germany, she married the son of one of our friends, a man named Peter Hopkins, and they had three children. She continued to work with my mother until her death. And Hilda died of appendicitis a year or so later. She'd lost a child, a daughter, in childbirth, but her sons were treated more or less as members of our family. Carl Hopkins in fact came to work for me, because he has a way with machinery that's invaluable."
"What does he have to do with Theo Hartle?"
"Nothing. Everything. I don't know." He shook his head vigorously. "Carl was torn about the war, you see. His eyesight was damaged by a case of the measles, and there was no doubt that he couldn't serve, when the war came. But his younger brother George joined the Army with the Eastfield Company. And Carl's favorite German cousin-Hilda's sister's boy-hurried to join the German army. Carl considers himself English, but he was worried about his brother and his cousin. Neither of them survived. It wasn't long after we heard about George that someone sent Carl an anonymous letter saying that George had been shot in the back while crossing No Man's Land. The Army refused to confirm or deny the story, but the letter claimed that George had been shot because he had a German mother, spoke fluent German, and wasn't to be trusted."
George Hopkins. Rutledge remembered the name. He'd been one of the two Eastfield soldiers who died in the war.
"Go on."
"When the Eastfield soldiers began to come home from France, Carl asked them how his brother had died, and in Carl's view they were evasive. Well, apparently it was a night attack just as George's commanding officer had told us in his letter. No one really knew how he died. Were you in the war? I can't imagine that it's a tidy business, attacking at night. I suspect the letter-which was posted from London-was meant to be hurtful, not true. Unfortunately, about this same time, Carl's aunt wrote to him to say that his cousin had died of his wounds as an English prisoner, and she believed he hadn't been given proper attention. It was understandable, she was upset, looking for someone to blame, but she told Carl that he ought to be ashamed of his English heritage, because the English had killed both George and his cousin. Carl withdrew into himself. Dr. Gooding gave him something to help him, because he walked for hours every night, unable to sleep. Thank God, early last year he got over whatever it was, came back to work, and seemed to be himself again. I can't tell you how relieved I was."
"Then why are you telling me about him now?"
Taking a deep breath, Kenton met Rutledge's gaze. "Several weeks ago, he received a letter from someone in Germany. His aunt had hanged herself. Despondent still over the death of her son, according to her priest, and enclosed was a copy of the letter from her doctor, documenting her ill health. An effort, I should think, to convince the church that she was not an intentional suicide, but it made sad reading. Carl showed it to me, asking what to do. I suggested making a small gift to the church, in her name. And that was the end of it for all I knew. Now… now I'm betraying a trust."
He stopped, his face drawn, his eyes reflecting his discomfort and anxiety.
Rutledge said, "I'll speak to him. Quietly, without making it obvious. Thank you."
"I'm not saying-I'm not pointing a finger, you understand. But my God, four men are dead, and if I don't speak up, there may be others. I love Carl like a son, I'll do anything to help him. But I was fond of Theo as well. I can't believe Carl could have harmed him. Not Theo."
"It took a great deal of courage to come here. But you did the right thing."
Kenton rose from the table. "Have I? He could have been my son, you know. But my mother persuaded me not to marry Hilda. And she was right, in the long term we were much happier with our respective spouses. All the same, I still remember how I felt at the time."
As he walked away, Rutledge wondered if that last was true. Or if over the years Kenton had convinced himself that it must be true, that his mother had been wise.
He went directly to the police station and found Constable Walker reading a message from Inspector Norman.
He looked up as Rutledge came in.
"There's a woman in Hastings who saw Theo Hartle at seven o'clock, speaking to a man. The Inspector wants to know if you'll be interested in interviewing her with him. I told Constable Petty that we'd come as soon as I tracked you down."
"Let's go," Rutledge said, and turned toward the inn to collect his motorcar. He told himself that Carl Hopkins could wait.
But he was wrong.
12
I nspector Norman was waiting for them, impatient and short tempered. He greeted Rutledge with a sharp, "I was about to go on without you. I've got a murder inquiry of my own, two women killed in a house on Brent Street. They walked in on a man ransacking it. There's an intensive search in progress. I don't appreciate the distraction of your inquiry."
"We'll talk to this person ourselves, Constable Walker and I."
"This is my patch. I told you." He reached for his hat and led the way back to the street. "We'll use your motorcar, if you please."
And so Rutledge had no choice but to accommodate Inspector Norman, Constable Petty, and Walker, with no space left for Hamish where he usually rode. However, the distance wasn't too great, and in a matter of minutes they were walking into a shop that catered to newborns and small children. There were caps and blankets, gowns and christening robes, finely woven blankets and the dresses that children of both sexes still wore when very young, rich with embroidery and ruching and tucks. There was also a small selection of prams, rocking horses, and the Teddy bears that the American president had made so popular, as well as a tray of silver rattles, spoons, cups, and teething rings.
The woman waiting on a customer was large and motherly, with a low-pitched voice and a warm manner. She glanced up as she saw the four men enter the shop, but her discussion of cap ribbons never faltered. And so the four policemen were forced to stand idly waiting until the customer was satisfied and had left with a small parcel done up in silver paper.
"Mrs. Griffith?" Inspector Norman asked, coming forward.
"Yes. How may I help you? I doubt you've come for christening robes or china kittens."
Inspector Norman gave their names, and then said, "You spoke to one of my men. About Theo Hartle."