"I think, to get it off his chest. He isn't the sort of man who accepts failure lightly."
"No, I expect there was another reason. You've told him of your own discoveries? What has he had to say about them?"
"In fact, there was a letter from him in the post before I left London." He patted his pockets, found it, and drew it out.
It was very brief. A matter of a few lines. He read them aloud. My grandfather was Charles Henry Cummins. I visited his home as a child. In East Anglia. His garden was his pride and joy. What the hell is this all about?
"Well, well," Melinda said after a moment. "I wonder why this man chose Hastings to sell his murder weapon?"
Rutledge said slowly, "I don't know. I've asked myself that same question."
"It was deliberate, you must see that." Melinda frowned. "If he went to so much trouble to make sure the knife was carefully documented, then he had a reason. Perhaps it was his name-the murderer's. Or the name of the victim."
He thought, fleetingly, of the Salisbury solicitor who was nowhere to be found. Was it that connection-or Cummins's?
"That's a fascinating idea. I'll have to give it some thought. But why, three years later, would a man who had successfully eluded the police and had nothing to fear, leave clues that could lead to his arrest?"
"A guilty conscience?"
"Murderers seldom have guilty consciences," he told her wryly.
"But if this was a sacrifice, perhaps he did?"
Rutledge smiled. "You should have become a policeman, Melinda. The Yard would have benefitted from your cleverness."
"Oh, no, my dear, the Yard doesn't want women underfoot. We could prove to be too much competition for men set in their ways." Her dark eyes sparkled. "As my late husband could have told you, I have no ambitions."
He left the next morning, reconciled to what lay ahead. Melinda Crawford had kept him too busy to dwell on the Yard-he had an uncomfortable suspicion that it was intentional-that she had seen the tension in him and even without understanding it, she had dealt with it by distracting him. He wished he could have said something to her about Meredith Channing, to hear her opinion there. But if he had, he'd have had to tell Melinda more about his time in France than he could bear to put into words.
Her house was in the most western edge of Kent, and he had just crossed into Surrey when a Kent police vehicle quickly overtook him and waved him to one side.
Rutledge pulled over, assuming that the Yard was searching for him. He waited for the constable sitting beside the driver to get out and come to speak to him.
"Inspector Rutledge?" the constable said, bending his frame a little so as to see Rutledge's face more clearly. He was a tall, angular man with a scar across his chin.
"Yes, I'm Rutledge. What is it?"
Hamish, from the rear seat, said, " 'Ware!"
"You're wanted in Hastings, sir. Straightaway. I've been sent by London to find you and bring you to Sussex as quickly as possible."
Surprised, Rutledge said, "I'm no longer involved with the inquiry there. Didn't London tell you that?"
"Their instructions were to take you directly to Hastings. If you don't object, sir, I'll ride with you to your destination."
Rutledge said, "You aren't a Hastings man. No need to waste your time there."
"No, sir, I'm from Rochester. And we have our instructions, sir."
Rutledge was silent for a moment, weighing that, and then said to the constable, "Get in."
The man nodded and walked around the bonnet to open the passenger door.
Rutledge had expected the other vehicle to turn back, but when he drove on, it followed him at a distance. It was still there when he headed south to Sussex at the next crossroads. The constable was staring straight ahead with nothing to say for himself.
"What's this about? Do you know?"
"Sir, I'm not at liberty to discuss the matter."
Giving it up, Rutledge fell silent, an uneasy feeling beginning to build in his mind. This was how a suspect was arrested if found on the road. Except that he would be asked to step into the police car, leaving the constable to drive his.
There was the charge of improper conduct against him, but Chief Inspector Hubbard had all but told him that if he took a few days leave voluntarily, it would be ignored.
What else had Mrs. Farrell-Smith found to say about him? He'd have thought she would have been satisfied to see him withdrawn from the case.
Or had she learned that he had uncovered the facts surrounding her husband's death? That was an old case, not something that he had permission to reopen. But did she know that?
It was another hour before Rutledge drove through Eastfield and down the Old London Road into the Old Town. He hadn't expected to return here, now that the inquiry had been successfully concluded.
The morning sun sparkled on the water, touching the tips of the choppy waves with gold and catching the sail of a small private craft tacking down the coast, a white triangle against the blue of the sky.
He reached the police station and pulled in behind another vehicle standing there, and the constable accompanying him got out.
"Thank you for cooperating, sir. It's much appreciated." He gestured to the door. "This way, if you please."
Rutledge led the way inside, and the sergeant on the desk recognized him.
"If you'll wait here, sir, I'll send someone to fetch Inspector Norman."
"I know the way to his office-" Rutledge began, but the sergeant shook his head.
"If you'll wait here," he repeated.
"Yes, all right," Rutledge said, irritated now.
Five minutes later, Inspector Norman strode briskly into the room and said without any greeting of any sort, "Inspector Ian Rutledge, I am arresting you on the charge of attempted murder."
Rutledge stood there, speechless. And then he was being led away, and the constable from Rochester was turning to leave.
"What the devil is this all about, Norman?"
Hamish was warning him not to lose his temper, and he held on to that advice with a tight grip.
Inspector Norman had nothing to say to him, and Rutledge had no choice but to go with the constables, who escorted him to a room in the back of the station.
They asked him to empty his pockets, give them his belt and his tie and his watch, and then they wrote out a careful receipt for him. There were holding cells in the back of the police station, and as he was escorted there, Rutledge had the impression they'd been dug out of the bedrock, because they were windowless, and he could feel the dampness emanating from them. There were four of them, and they looked, in fact, more like a dungeon than prison cells. There was no natural light, no fresh air, and they were too small to contemplate. And before he was quite ready to face it, the iron-barred door was swinging shut behind him, and the two constables were walking away, leaving him there.
He tried to think why he should have been arrested on a charge of attempted murder, and then realized that if anything had happened to Mrs. Farrell-Smith, the Hastings police might wish to question him. But an arrest?
It would have required the approval of the Yard to send the Kent police looking for him. Had they been to Melinda Crawford's house, asking for him? Or had they been scouring the county for him, and had just had the good fortune to spot him on his way to London?
He refused to consider where he was, he refused to look at the dimensions of the cell, the walls, the furnishings. He hated confinement, and this was the ultimate of that. He kept his eyes on the floor, and wished for his watch. It wouldn't be long before someone came for him. He couldn't remain here for very long. He could already feel panic rising.
He waited what he estimated to be half an hour, his temper nearly getting the best of him, before Inspector Norman came back to the holding cells and said, "I'll not handcuff you. Call it professional courtesy, one officer to another. But you'll have to give me your word that you'll not cause me any trouble while I take you to my office for questioning. They're sending someone down from the Yard, but this is my patch, and I'll do my own questioning, thank you very much."