"Verra' like yon inquiry in Hastings."
Rutledge tried to ignore the comment.
If the dead man wasn't Wheeler, it would mean starting the inquiry at the very beginning-so many years after the fact. With witness memories uncertain, with evidence tainted or lost, with no assurance that any resulting conviction would be any more correct than the initial one, person or persons unknown.
Cummins had been obsessed because the answers were out of his reach. It was the blot on his copybook, a personal failure that he couldn't quite accept.
But by the same token, Rutledge reminded himself, a man had died violently, and the person or persons unknown who had killed him had escaped the workings of the law.
He closed the folder and put it aside to be returned to the files where old cases were kept.
Setting his teeth, he reached for the first of the reports awaiting his attention, refusing to think about what was happening in Sussex.
But Hamish's remark about the murders in Hastings still rankled. And there was nothing he could do about it. A trial in which Rutledge was to give evidence was unexpectedly returned to the court docket after a long postponement, and he was summoned to Winchester the next morning. Sergeant Gibson brought him word shortly after two o'clock in the afternoon. He left at once to pack and drove through the golden light of late evening to the hotel room reserved for him. There was time after breakfast before he was scheduled to begin his testimony, and he walked in the cathedral precincts for half an hour.
The constable who was sent to fetch him was an older man, gray and stout.
As they walked back to the courts, Rutledge said, "Do you recall the man who was found murdered at Stonehenge in 1905? The case was never solved."
Constable Gregg frowned. "My good lord, sir, I haven't thought of it these dozen years or more. How did you come to know about it?"
"I knew the inspector who headed the inquiry. He retired recently."
"He was a good man. If anyone could have found an answer it was him."
"The Salisbury police were first on the scene, were they not?" It was a question designed to draw out his companion.
"It was a Winchester man. Constable Dutton. He was on his way back from giving evidence in a trial. On his bicycle, mind you, and he had a flat. By the time he'd walked to the next village and managed to get the tire mended, it was after dawn. The people celebrating the summer solstice had sent someone to walk to the nearest village-they happened to be one and the same. This man's name was Taylor. Clerk in a bank. He'd been sick at least twice, and nearly fell flat on his face when he saw Dutton coming toward him. All he could manage to say was, 'A body. At Stonehenge.' So Dutton pedaled off, and there it was, hanging on that stone at the end of the avenue. And a group of would-be Druids were sitting on the grass, looking like they wished they were back at home in their beds. Dutton didn't know whether to stay at the stones and send someone out on his bicycle, or go himself. In the end, he sent the schoolmaster for help. That's when it was turned over to Salisbury. All the witnesses were interviewed two and three times, but they never saw anything of any use."
Gregg shook his head, marveling. "There's usually something, you know. You find the slimmest bit of evidence, a piece of paper, a pencil stub, a footprint. And it opens the inquiry right up. I kept up with the case, you see."
"And someone looked into the background of each of the latter-day Druids?"
"Oh, indeed, sir. They were all what they appeared to be."
They had reached the courts and were climbing the stairs to the room where Rutledge's case was being tried.
As he stood there waiting to be called, Rutledge said, "Was there a Charles Henry among the Druids?"
"Charles Henry? Not precisely among the Druids," Constable Gregg replied. "I believe that was the name of the solicitor the schoolmaster sent for. Yes, Charles Henry. He was-"
He turned as the door opened and the summons came. Rutledge was still looking toward Gregg, but he was moving away, nodding, as if to wish him well. He had no choice but to walk on, seeing the sea of faces turned his way in the crowded courtroom, the judge in crimson and the KC in black, their wigs properly appended to their heads, and the prisoner in the dock, his expression taut with concern. Rutledge moved to the witness box, fighting to clear his mind of Cummins's obsession, which was fast becoming his own, and to dredge up the facts in this case. As he was taking the oath, he felt the calm of duty settle over him, and as he stated his name and rank as he'd done so many times in this box, he was ready for the first question.
Half an hour later, cross-examined and finally dismissed, Rutledge left the courtroom and went in search of Constable Gregg.
But he was told the man had been sent for and was on his way to take down a witness's statement in another case.
The trial dragged on into the second day, as the Crown rested its case and the defense presented its view of events. At long last the jury was sequestered and Rutledge was free to go.
He could spare the time, the days were long, and so he drove on to Salisbury, in search of Charles Henry, solicitor, but it was as he'd expected. If the solicitor had been there in 1905, he was not there now. Rutledge asked at chambers he passed as he went up and down several streets, and even stopped in the main police station. The answer was the same. No one recalled the name or the man himself. It had been fifteen years, and Henry had played only a minor role in the case.
Hamish said, "Did he sell yon knife in Hastings?"
"How did he come to have it?" Rutledge countered. "No, there's something else at work here, I think."
He should have been on his way to London an hour or more ago, but it had been important to track down Charles Henry, if he could. He walked back to where he'd left his motorcar, feeling unsatisfied. But it hadn't been his case, it had been someone else's.
Still, Charles Henry rankled.
He arrived in London later than anticipated, held up by an overturned lorry blocking the trunk road, and stopped by the Yard to leave his notes on the case in which he'd given evidence. There was a message on the blotter, waiting for him.
Chief Inspector Hubbard wished to see him. The note had been amended at the bottom, indicating he'd come looking for Rutledge a second time. My office, please, eight o'clock in the morning.
Rutledge knew Hubbard, had spoken to him from time to time, but had never worked with him on an inquiry. He had a reputation for strict adherence to rules, a strong sense of fairness, and a razor-sharp mind.
It would be a refreshing change from Chief Superintendent Bowles.
The next morning he arrived at the Yard fifteen minutes before time, and as it happened, met Chief Inspector Hubbard on the stairs. He was a man in his late forties, what he called the sunny side of fifty, still very fit, his manner brisk.
"You're prompt," Hubbard said. "Come with me, we'll get started. How was the case in Winchester?"
"The jury was still out when I left. But at a guess, the Crown expects them to see matters its way. The evidence was clear, solid."
"That's what I like to hear. I daresay the results will be in today." They had reached Hubbard's office, and Rutledge was offered a chair. Hubbard set his hat on the top of the taller file cabinet, and sat down at his desk. He took a deep breath and said, "I hear that inquiry in Sussex is a sticky one."
"Whoever the killer is, he's clever. Nothing is what you expect it to be. But I'd started ruling out possibilities when I was sent for. Constable Walker is a sound man, he'll bring my replacement up to speed very quickly."
Hubbard nodded, then picked up a folder he'd put to one side on his desk. He opened it, read the contents, as if to familiarize himself with them, and then set it down.