With that he turned his back on Rutledge and went to sit again on his cot, his head in his hands. Rutledge stood there watching him, then walked away.
15
W hen Rutledge came back again to Inspector Norman's office, it was clear that the two men had been having words. He could almost feel the tension, and their faces were flushed.
"I didn't learn anything of interest," he said. And with a nod to Inspector Norman, he walked out to where he had left his motorcar. After a moment Chief Inspector Hubbard joined him.
"Is there somewhere we can talk privately?" he asked.
Rutledge said, "By the water."
They drove toward The Stade, pulling over where they could. The fishing boats were in, and the air smelled of salt, tar, and fish. The tall net shops were black against the sun, almost sinister, and the headland above them was a deep, rich green.
"That's where they found Mickelson. In one of those sheds, hanging from a hook," Chief Inspector Hubbard told Rutledge.
"Good God!" After a moment Rutledge said, "I assumed he'd been found in Eastfield. Small wonder Inspector Norman was unwilling to step aside. As it is, he'll keep probing. That man of his, Petty, is very good."
"The fleet goes out very early," Hubbard went on. "That means he must have been put there while it was still dark. The killer brought a length of rope from somewhere, to pass over the hook. Or he found it in one of the sheds."
Hubbard turned to face Rutledge. "If Carl Hopkins hadn't been in custody-and if Mickelson had been garroted-I might find myself wondering if you hadn't been very very clever. He very nearly got you killed. Twice over, if I remember."
Rutledge laughed grimly. "You know damned well I didn't touch him. You also know what Chief Superintendent Bowles was playing at, calling me to book for misconduct. He must have panicked when he heard about Mickelson. He must have thought he was next."
Hubbard said only, "I wouldn't joke about that, if I were you."
"He was protected by Bowles. If I'd been tempted to kill the man, I'd have done it in London and put his body into the river somewhere east of The Poole. By the time they'd fished him out, there would be no way of knowing how he died, where he died, or by whose hand. They would be lucky to know who he was. I might as well have hung a placard around his neck with my initials on it, leaving him in that net shop. I'm not that much of a fool. And I have no wish to hang."
"Then who met him outside the churchyard and lured him into a motorcar? Assuming, that is, Mrs. Farrell-Smith is remotely telling the truth."
"Who found the body?"
"Fishermen coming for their nets. Must have scared them out of ten years' growth, I should think. Why the hell are they so tall and narrow, these net shops?"
"A blow to the tax man, I'm told. When the town tried to levy new taxes on building footage here, the fishermen looked at their long drying sheds and thought, why not build them vertically? They did, the taxes were eventually revoked, but the sheds stayed. They must burn from time to time or fall over in a gale, but the fishermen thumbed their noses at the authorities."
"You haven't answered my question about the motorcar," Hubbard pointed out.
"If it's true, if Mickelson was met by someone, then the killer came looking for him." He gestured toward the dark red bonnet of his motorcar. "In the dark that could be red. Or green. Or even blue or black. She saw the shape of a touring car, not the color. Or possibly she saw the two men talking, and invented the motorcar to throw suspicion in another direction."
"Why should she do that?"
"She could have thought it was Daniel Pierce. She's been waiting here for him to return since before the war. And he did come home, to stay in Eastfield only a matter of a few weeks."
"She's in love with him?" Hubbard asked.
"I don't know," Rutledge said, "whether she wants to have him or kill him. It depends on whether or not she killed her husband for him."
"Quite," Hubbard said as Rutledge turned the motorcar and drove out of Hastings. As they climbed toward Eastfield, he added, "But Mrs. Farrell-Smith is not our business at the moment. Are you certain these killings aren't war related?"
"I'm sure of nothing. Someone knows the answer-but that someone may not realize the importance of it. Whatever happened, it appears not to have made a deep impression on the victims of these murders. That makes it all the more personal to the murderer."
"Then I should think this man Hopkins fits the bill very well indeed. From what I was told he held a grudge that no one else knew about."
They were silent for the rest of the drive, but as they were coming down the Hastings Road into Eastfield, Hubbard said, "I'm not comfortable, leaving you to cope alone."
"Then you still believe I struck Mickelson."
"Be reasonable, man. It was a misunderstanding."
But Rutledge remembered the feel of that cell and the walls closing in on him, and the miasma of fear and hopelessness embedded in the very paint. He stopped the motorcar at the hotel and said, "I'll find someone to drive you to the nearest railway station after you finish your business here." As he got out of the motorcar, he added, "I've lost the promotion. I understand that, even if Mickelson lives to clear me. You can tell Chief Superintendent Bowles-"
He left the sentence unfinished, and walked away.
Chief Inspector Hubbard had the good sense not to follow him.
Of all the people he could think of who would talk to him, Theo Hartle's sister seemed to be the best choice.
He found her just clearing away the tea things, and she said as she came to her door, "We've just finished-would you care for some tea?"
"Thank you, no. I need to talk to you, Mrs. Winslow. It's a pleasant afternoon. Will you walk a little way with me?"
She cast a glance over her shoulder. "I think my husband has nodded off in his chair. I ought to be here, if he wanted anything when he wakes up."
"He's just had his tea. I shouldn't think he'll need you straightaway."
She came reluctantly. "Where's the other man, then? If you're back again?"
"Didn't you hear?" But he could see she hadn't.
"We're not often in the village," she explained. "I only go when I really need something."
"He was nearly killed."
"Like those other men?" She stared at him, horrified.
"No. Someone fractured his skull."
"He's a policeman, " she said, as if that made it all the worse, that authority itself had been flouted and threatened with chaos. "I didn't care for him, but still and all-" She looked over her shoulder, as if there was someone following them. "We're all that afraid of going out at night. Hardly anyone stops by the pub, they say."
"That's not why I'm here. Tell me about your brother's life."
"He was a bouncing baby. That's what Mum always said. Full of vinegar from the start." She smiled, tears welling in her eyes. "But he was never in any trouble. Just mischief, that sort of thing. I didn't like it when he was teasing me about my freckles. But he meant no harm." She shook her head.
"Teasing can hurt," he said.
"It did sometimes," she admitted. "He called them my spots, and told Mum to wash my face in buttermilk. And he tried it once, but they didn't go away. 'You've got spots,' he'd say, and sometimes I'd cry. Mum said he was just being a boy. They went away when I was older, my freckles, I mean, and I was glad of it."