Retracing his steps, he knocked again. When the housekeeper answered a second time, Rutledge said, "I wonder if you could help me, since Mr. Ottley isn't here. Have you lived in Eastfield most of your life?"
"All my life," she told him complacently, "save when Mr. Newcomb and I went to Cornwall on our wedding trip."
She invited him inside, leading him to the parlor and offering him a chair with the simplicity of someone accustomed to receiving the rector's visitors and making them comfortable until he returned. But when it came to sitting with him, she was clearly ill at ease, perching on the edge of her own chair.
"How well did you know the murder victims? I wonder if you could tell me what they were like as schoolboys. Were they often in trouble, or were they generally good youngsters?"
"Not troublesome, precisely," she answered, considering the matter. "Lively, I'd say. Thoughtless, sometimes, as when they set fire to the old mill. The fire could have spread, you see, but it didn't. Except for Mr. Anthony, his brother Daniel, and Theo Hartle, they were farmers' sons, and eager to be outside, not shut up learning history and Latin and the like. Not that some of them weren't good students. The elder Miss Tate told me once that Jimmy Roper could have made something of himself if he hadn't been the only son and expected to inherit the farm. Theo was very good at numbers, and if he hadn't had such a gift for working with wood, I think Mr. Kenton would have made him bookkeeper."
Here finally was the information that Mrs. Farrell-Smith could-should-have found for him in the school records.
"I've heard," he said, choosing his words carefully, "that there was some problem with young Daniel Pierce."
"He got his nose bloodied a time or two," she said, nodding. "But he was a sweet boy, nevertheless. He just never wanted to be a brewer. That was Mr. Anthony's life, he was always underfoot there. The foreman's wife told me once that Mr. Anthony wanted to go hop picking, to learn more about them." She smiled at the memory. "His mother put a stop to that. 'When you're older,' she told him."
"Were the brothers on good terms with each other?"
"They got on well enough together. They were just different. Mr. Daniel was always adventuresome, and Mr. Anthony more bookish. In 1910 when there was all this talk about going out to Africa to grow coffee, I told Mr. Newcomb it was a shame Mr. Daniel wasn't old enough to give it a try, but he said if the boy didn't care for the brewery, then he wouldn't be one for growing the coffee beans."
Rutledge brought her back to the subject at hand. "Who bloodied Mr. Daniel's nose, if it wasn't his brother?"
"It was the other boys, if you ask me. They'd band together sometimes and tease Mr. Anthony or Mr. Daniel about their clothes or their accent or their manners. Mr. Anthony would ignore them, but Mr. Daniel was not one to turn the other cheek. I remember Rector had a word with him about that."
"Was there much teasing or taunting, do you think? If they turned on the Pierce brothers, who did the other boys harass? People tell me boys will be boys, but sometimes it's cruelty, well beyond the bounds of teasing."
"Yes, sometimes it did get out of hand. I remember that poor Summers lad. He was overweight to begin with, and afraid of his shadow. Not good at sports, his face all blotched, clothes never together properly. Mr. Newcomb worked on the wormwood at the school one September, and he told me the boy was the butt of all manner of jokes and pranks and never stood up for himself. Mr. Newcomb wanted to say something to the elder Miss Tate, but it wasn't his place. Mr. Newcomb did speak to Constable Walker, when Mr. Daniel got into trouble about fighting, defending him, like, but nothing came of it."
Rutledge had heard some part of this story before. From Mrs. Winslow? Yes, as she talked about her brother Theo tormenting her about her freckles. He asked, "What became of the Summers boy? Does he still live in Eastfield?"
"Oh, heavens no. His father was a clerk at Kenton Chairs, and he was made a better offer by a firm elsewhere. Lincolnshire? Staffordshire? I can't remember just where, but he packed up and left. There was just the two of them, a boy and a girl. Their mother died when they was very young. She's buried in the churchyard here."
Walker-speaking about the near-drowning of a boy-had said the family moved away.
"Do you remember the child's first name?"
"I believe it was Tommy. Tommy Summers. I haven't thought about him in years. I hope things worked out better for him, wherever he went."
Yet sometimes a child was marked, and other children sensed it, like wolves turning on the weakest member of the pack. It was a poor analogy, perhaps, but it served.
"I wonder if Inspector Mickelson came here to ask Mr. Ottley about the Summers boy?"
"Where would he hear about him?" Mrs. Newcomb countered. "I daresay half the people in Eastfield have forgot about him by this time. I had, myself."
But Tommy Summers may not have forgot Eastfield or the wretched years he'd spent here.
They talked for ten minutes or so longer, but Mrs. Newcomb had very little to add to what she'd already told him or he'd learned elsewhere. And so he took his leave.
Walking back down the rectory drive, Rutledge asked himself if Tommy Summers, a grown man now, could be slowly wreaking revenge on his erstwhile playmates. But then what about Carl Hopkins?
16
R utledge encountered Constable Petty on the High Street as he was walking back to the hotel.
Petty stopped, saying, "I was about to report to Inspector Norman."
"Did you take anything from Inspector Mickelson's room when you searched it earlier today?"
"No, sir, I did not. I made an inventory of his personal belongings. Inspector Norman was waiting for instructions from Scotland Yard regarding their disposition."
"Is Mickelson in hospital in Hastings?"
"I was told he had been transferred to Chichester. There's a man there who knows a good deal about head injuries. It wasn't considered wise to try to move him to London."
"No, I understand. I want a daily report on his condition. If you're here to keep an eye on things for Inspector Norman, then you might as well serve me too."
"Sir, I-"
"Yes, yes, I understand. You're Hastings police. But I'll have that report each day. I think you'll find that Inspector Norman will raise no objections."
"Yes, sir."
"Did Chief Inspector Hubbard leave?"
"He found someone from the hotel willing to take him to the station. Or so I was told."
"How did you get here, Petty?"
"Bicycle, sir."
"There's something else you can do. Keep an eye out for motorcars similar to mine, but the color scheme may not be the same. I'd like to know where they're going and who is driving them. If there's one in Hastings Old Town that doesn't belong there, I want to hear about that as well."
"I'll do my best, sir."
Rutledge nodded and walked on.
Petty had only one loyalty. But Rutledge needed his eyes.
He brought back to mind the man he'd seen at The White Swans. Most likely Daniel Pierce, not Tommy Summers. The descriptions differed.
Hamish said, "Aye, but ye canna' judge how the Summers lad looks now."
And that was an important point.
As agreed, Constable Walker had collected his nephew, Billy Tuttle, Hector Marshall, and Alex Bullock, and they were waiting for Rutledge in the Eastfield police station.
They sat on the bench, stony faced, as if expecting Rutledge to lock them up again, already resisting what he was about to say.
But there was new information since he had summoned them, and so he asked, "Do you recall a village child called Summers? He and his sister attended school with you."
They stared at him.
"His father moved north when the boy was about ten, I should think-not all that many years ago. Tommy Summers."