"Oh, yes. I heard that the police were trying to find out where he was before he was killed. I saw him where the main road divides just at the foot of Marine Street. He was speaking to a man. A friendly conversation, as far as I could tell, but rather serious as well. I was walking with a friend, and we weren't going in that direction, and so I didn't have an opportunity to ask after his sister."
"You know the family?" Rutledge asked, surprised.
"His mother and I went to school together. And then we were married and went our separate ways. But we stayed in touch. Peggy Winslow is my goddaughter, and I have tried to keep an eye on her for her mother's sake. But that worthless complainer she's tied to keeps her on a short rein. A pity, but there you are. She always enjoyed the little treats I planned for her visits. But she doesn't come to Hastings these days."
Rutledge remembered how Mrs. Winslow had seemed to enjoy the pastries at the tea shop in Eastfield.
"Did you know the man Hartle was speaking with?"
"I don't think I do, although I may have seen him about from time to time."
"And Hartle didn't appear to be afraid of him, or uncomfortable in his presence?"
"No, not as far as I could tell."
"What time of day was this?" Inspector Norman asked.
"Closer to seven than six, at a guess," she said. "I wasn't exactly keeping track of the time."
"And they were still there talking when you last saw them?"
"Still there, on the corner. I couldn't have said where either of them went after that. I find it so hard to believe that Theo is gone. He survived the war. The Germans couldn't kill him, and then some murdering maniac takes his life. I shall go to the funeral, no matter what that husband of Peggy's has to say. And I'll bring her here as well," she ended vigorously, and Rutledge had no doubt that she would do just that.
"Can you describe the other man?" he asked.
She pursed her lips, thinking. "Not as tall as you. Brown hair, slim. I had no particular reason to take note of him."
All the same, it sounded like the man Rutledge had encountered at The White Swans Hotel. No certainty, of course, but still, very likely.
Hamish said, "Ye ken, it doesna' mean he didna' follow his victim and kill him when it was finally dark."
And that was true as well.
"You were never near enough to hear any of their conversation?" Rutledge asked. "You couldn't judge the other man's accent, for instance?"
"No, not close enough by a long chalk," Mrs. Griffith replied. "Are you thinking he might have been a foreigner, then?"
"Actually I wondered what class of man he might have been."
"I can tell you, he was dressed more like a gentleman."
Inspector Norman had turned to stare at Rutledge. "Are you suggesting what I think you are?"
He was a sharp man, and Rutledge had forgotten that.
"No one-that is to say, no one alive-has heard the killer speak. He could be a Scot as far as we know. Or from the Midlands. It would be helpful if we could place him."
Norman grunted, then turned to Constable Petty. "If you'll take Mrs. Griffith's statement?" And to the woman, he added, "When the shop is closed, we'd like you to come in and read it over before signing it."
"I don't know that I've been any help," she said doubtfully. "But yes, I shall come in and sign the paper."
They left her, then, and on the street once more, Inspector Norman stopped by the motorcar, instead of getting in. "You think it was Daniel Pierce, don't you?"
"I've been given no reason to suspect Pierce," he said, keeping to the literal truth. There was only circumstance and conjecture so far, hardly evidence. "But I'm told you wouldn't mind seeing him taken up for this crime or any other."
"And you have a reason for thinking as much," Norman went on relentlessly, ignoring the denial. "Don't hold out on me, Rutledge!"
"I'm not holding out," he retorted. "So far there's no clear motive for these murders. And as long as there isn't, I have no more reason to suspect Pierce than I do any other person."
"I'm told you went away for several days. What was that in aid of?"
Rutledge wondered who had told him that? Walker? Or someone else? "I went to see two of the men whose names were on the identity discs we've found. One man swears he never had them-and that's likely. He was a career soldier and sewed his name into his uniform. The other man I spoke with found his discs in the trunk where he kept his uniform and souvenirs. I saw them for myself. I didn't pursue the question any further. There wasn't time. But if two of the discs are false, then the others are likely to be."
"If these are false, then where did the killer get real names to put on them?"
"From transport manifests, burial details, payroll accounts, censoring letters-or merely sitting in a pub and keeping his ears open."
"And so where does that leave us?" Inspector Norman demanded.
"I'm not sure. The discs we've found in the mouths of victims appear to be real, but that means someone has learned how to counterfeit them well enough to pass for authentic discs. It would be easy enough, I should think. But why should anyone go to that much trouble? And if he did, why not simply make up the names on them? Or use the victim's name? If I'm any judge, the two men I spoke with hadn't heard of or met anyone from the Eastfield Company. Nor did they know Anthony Pierce. Instead the killer used real people. The point, then, seems to have been the confusion these discs have created."
"There's only one reason I can think of to use the wrong names," Inspector Norman said, opening the door to the motorcar. "If he'd used the names of the real soldiers involved, then we'd be able to trace them and learn precisely whatever it is that's behind these murders." He got in and waited until Constable Walker had turned the crank and stepped into the rear seat. "What if the Eastfield men fired on another company by mistake, and killed a number of them?"
Constable Walker spoke up for the first time. "That's not likely. My nephew is one of the Eastfield Company. And he'd never cover up something of that sort. And I knew each man in that company. If they'd done wrong, he'd be the first to try to take responsibility and make amends."
"That may well be. But there were other things going on at the Front. Like shooting an unpopular officer in the back during an attack."
"You weren't there," Constable Walker persisted.
"Neither were you," Inspector Norman retorted. They had reached the police station, and he got out as the motorcar pulled in by the main door. "Well. I don't know if Mrs. Griffith clarified or clouded the issue. But for what it's worth, I'll see you get a copy of her statement, when it's drawn up and signed."
And then he was gone, striding into the police station with the intensity of a man who knew he had long hours ahead of him, his mind already busy with the two women killed by the intruder.
As they drove away, Constable Walker said, "He's wrong," as if that settled the matter.
Rutledge let it go. Inspector Norman's remarks had distracted everyone from the subject of Daniel Pierce. And Rutledge was not ready for a witch hunt that muddled the case prematurely.
He said to Walker, "I have a stop to make before we leave Hastings. You can wait in the car, if you will."
"Yes, sir," Walker replied, his mind still on Inspector Norman's charges.
Rutledge found the military shop again and leaving his motorcar just out of sight, walked in to collect more information about the man who had brought in the flint knife.
The proprietor was going through the pockets of an officer's greatcoat as Rutledge came through the door.
"Hallo. Looking for more flint knives?"
Surprised, Rutledge said, "Do you have any others?"
Smiling, the proprietor hung up the greatcoat and shook his head. "No, more's the pity. That's to say if you were looking to buy another one."