"I'm after information this time. I'm curious about the man who brought them in. I'd like to know whatever you learned from him. Perhaps he kept one or two more such knives, better made than this one."
The man shrugged. "I doubt he has any more. He'd probably have sold them with the original one. Would you like me to contact him for you?"
"Thanks, but I'd rather write to him myself." He could feel the man's reluctance, and added, "I don't mind paying a finder's fee, if he's got other examples." This was not his inquiry, and Rutledge had no authority to invoke the power of Scotland Yard to ask for the shopkeeper's cooperation.
The proprietor smiled. "You're a man after my own heart, Mr…"
He let his voice trail away, hinting.
"My name is Rutledge. I'm from London. I'm here in Hastings on a matter of business."
"Then, Mr. Rutledge, if you'll give me five minutes, I'll look in my books and see what I have that will help you track down the former owner of a fine flint knife. Meanwhile, is there anything else you'd care to see?"
"Not at the moment."
It took fewer than five minutes for the man to find the proper entry, and he wrote the name on a sheet of paper in a bold, clear hand. Even upside down, Rutledge could read the name: Charles Henry. It was what he'd remembered from the first visit.
Below were the rest of the details. 21 June 1908. Grandfather East Anglia, dug up in garden. Not definite when found.
1908. Three years after the murder of the man found at Stonehenge, Rutledge thought. But-on the summer solstice. Coincidence?
Rutledge thanked him, and after an exchange about the greatcoat that the proprietor had been preparing for sale, he left.
Walker said as he came through the shop door, "Were you buying identity discs?"
Rutledge realized that the constable was quite serious, and answered him in the same vein. "I'd asked if there were any for sale. I was told that he didn't carry any because there was no call for them."
"Too bad. It would have made our work easier." Walker sighed. "We've not made much progress, on the whole. It's mostly finding out what isn't there, like looking for trouble and finding none. And then trouble turns up on the doorstep."
It was true. But so far, there hadn't been any other deaths. And that in itself was progress of a sort.
When they drove into Eastfield half an hour later, Walker said, "Who, pray, is that?"
A man was standing in front of the police station, a grim expression on his face.
Rutledge took one look, and swore.
"You know him?" the constable asked, surprised.
"Yes. And I have a feeling I know why he's here."
Instead of leaving his motorcar in the hotel yard, he drove the short distance to the police station and drew up there.
Rutledge got out but stood by the motorcar's door.
"Inspector Mickelson," he said in greeting.
Mickelson made no effort to return the greeting. "I've come to relieve you," he said coldly. "Officially. There have been complaints about your conduct. Chief Superintendent Bowles assured the Chief Constable that these would be taken seriously, and you'd be withdrawn before the day is out. That was this morning. And as you can see, I am here." He turned to Constable Walker. "And you are?"
Walker gave his name, and looked from one man to the other. "I don't quite understand why Inspector Rutledge has been replaced. Misconduct, sir? Of what sort?"
"That's a matter between the Chief Constable and Scotland Yard." Turning to Rutledge, he added, "Your orders are to return to London immediately."
Rutledge said, "I've several matters that need my attention first."
"Not anymore. You have been relieved." Mickelson turned again to Walker and said, "I'd like to see the statements you've taken from witnesses and the medical reports on the dead men. I'd also like to meet Mr. Pierce as soon as possible, and also Inspector Norman." He opened the door of the police station, and Constable Walker hesitated.
"You needn't look to Mr. Rutledge for instructions, man. I've told you, I'm here now." And he strode into the station without waiting for Walker or saying anything more to Rutledge.
Walker, behind his back, began, "Sir-"
But Rutledge said only, "I'm leaving for London. Keep an eye on things until I'm able to return."
He got back into the motorcar, and Walker had no choice but to step inside the station after Inspector Mickelson.
Furious, Rutledge drove first to the school and asked to see Mrs. Farrell-Smith. The girl who opened the door said nervously, "She's not in, sir."
"She should not ask you to lie for her," he replied quietly, and took the stairs two at a time.
Mrs. Farrell-Smith looked up as Rutledge opened her office door without knocking. Then her gaze went to the girl at his back. "I thought I told you-" she began, but Rutledge cut her short.
"She told your lie for you. I didn't believe her." He turned to the girl, still standing in the doorway, her cheeks pink with uncertainty. "Thank you," he said gently. "Please close the door as you go."
She hesitated, and then did as he asked.
Mrs. Farrell-Smith said, "I have nothing to say to you."
"But I have something to say to you. You've made a serious mistake, and it could easily get someone else killed. Will you rescind your complaint?"
"Why should I? I never wanted the Yard to handle this business in the first place. Inspector Norman is quite capable of clearing up these murders promptly and efficiently."
"No doubt he could. He's a good man. But you haven't got Inspector Norman. Instead you still have the Yard, Mrs. Farrell-Smith, and I think you'll find Inspector Mickelson is cut from a very different cloth."
She stared at him. "But I expressly told them-"
He didn't wait for her to finish. "I'm sure you did. But Mr. Pierce insisted earlier on bringing in the Yard, and I expect the Chief Constable understands that it is Mr. Pierce's son who is among the murder victims, not yours. If you want to call off the Yard, then I suggest you find someone with more authority than a brewery owner to do your work for you."
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and went out the door.
This time, she didn't call after him.
He packed his belongings quickly, left the hotel, and drove to London in a cloud of anger and bitter frustration. Hamish, reacting to the tension in his mind, reminded him that he had admitted that he had not come to any conclusions himself about the identity of the killer loose in Eastfield.
"And that," Hamish added as the motorcar finally reached the city, "is the only way ye'll find yoursel' reinstated."
But Rutledge didn't respond. He found a place to leave his motorcar, and once inside the Yard, took the stairs two at a time, in search of Sergeant Gibson.
He found the sergeant in the canteen, having what passed for his dinner, a plateful of sandwiches and a cup of tea. Gibson looked up, saw Rutledge, and said, "Not here."
Carrying the plate of sandwiches with him and balancing the cup of tea, Gibson followed Rutledge to his office, and as Rutledge took the chair behind his desk, Gibson carefully set down first the cup and then the plate on the corner of a box of files.
"Sir, Superintendent Bowles never liked the fact that he wasn't here to choose who was to go to Eastfield. And you gave him the excuse he needed to change inspectors."
"I didn't give him any such thing," Rutledge retorted. "Mrs. Farrell-Smith has her own agenda. I don't know what she expects to gain from it, but at a guess, I don't think it's the murders that are worrying her. It's an earlier run-in with the Yard."
Gibson stared at him. "How did you know?"
"I didn't. It was the only explanation I could come up with on the long drive back to London."
"There was an inquiry into her husband's death. He died of a fall while walking in Derbyshire. The police felt that the circumstances didn't quite match the version of his fall that Mrs. Farrell-Smith had given them. She was present, you see, but had sat down on a rock to catch her breath, and her husband went on alone for some distance because he wanted to take a photograph from the overlook. He fell just after she caught him up. She said. She admitted to having witnessed it."