Tuttle turned to Bullock. "I don't think there was a Summers lad, do you?" Looking back to Rutledge, he added, "He must have been younger. Or older, even."
Marshall said, "Summers. There was a girl by that name. My sister's age. Long blond plaits down her back."
"Was she the Summers girl? I thought she was dark."
They argued amongst themselves, but the upshot was, they had no recollection of Tommy Summers at all.
Rutledge said, "You tried once to drown him as a witch."
Something stirred in Marshall's eyes, but he shook his head.
Tuttle shrugged. Bullock looked at the far wall, as if expecting more to follow, and this was somehow a trick to lull them. They were more interested in the present than the past.
Rutledge said, "Someone fought with Daniel Pierce for defending the boy."
Walker said, "I remember that. Was Summers his name?" He pulled out his watch and added, "It's growing late."
"Yes, all right. Take them home, Constable." There was no use pushing the issue. He watched them go, grumbling amongst themselves at the waste of time. As Hamish was pointing out, it was high summer and their busiest months.
And as if he'd overheard the remark, Marshall said in a voice intended to carry to Rutledge's ears, "He hasn't volunteered to milk the bloody cows, now has he? Londoner." But there was bravado in the words.
Walker admonished him and followed the men into the street.
They had gone no more than twenty yards when Tuttle turned and glanced at Rutledge, as if of half a mind to call to him or go back, but Walker said, "Come along, then, it's getting dark," as if he were all too aware of Inspector Mickelson's fate. The sanctity and authority of a policeman had been shattered. He was taking no chances being out in the night alone.
Rutledge waited until he'd returned, reluctant to leave the police station until he was sure Walker was all right.
The constable came in after Rutledge had lit the lamps, and shut the door with undue haste, as if he were shutting out the shadows waiting in the street.
"You're still here, then."
"I waited to ask you the same question I'd asked the others. You told me once, I think, about a boy being bullied. Do you remember any other details?"
"Not bullied, exactly. He was just one who never quite fit in. I'd have intervened if they'd done any real harm," he said dismissively. "They were young lads. It happens."
But words could hurt as much as blows.
"Where did the father go, to take up his new position?"
"Did I tell you that?" Walker was surprised. "North, I think. Staffordshire?"
"Has Constable Petty left for Hastings?"
"Half an hour ago." He hesitated, and after a moment asked, "Is the killing over, do you think? We assumed, after Hopkins was taken into custody, that it was. Then Inspector Mickelson-it doesn't make sense, does it?"
Which was precisely why the police had come for Rutledge, but he said nothing.
Walker added, "I did tell the others to take the same precautions as before. To be on the safe side." He grinned. "Marshall called me an old woman. But his wife told me once it's dark, he's under her feet."
"We'll patrol the streets until Inspector Mickelson regains consciousness and can tell the police what happened. Did he call on the rector that night, before he was attacked? Or was it a coincidence that he encountered someone near the rectory?"
Walker shook his head. "Rector never mentioned it. I think he would have, under the circumstances."
'I'll take the first four hours, as soon as it's full dark." It was the most dangerous time, based on the earlier killings. "I'll come for you, shall I, when it's your turn?"
Walker opened his mouth and then shut it again. "I'll be awake. Good evening, sir," he called finally as Rutledge was about to close the police station door behind him.
Hamish said as Rutledge was on his way to the hotel, "It would ha' been best to give yon constable first watch. Or to share it. Ye're no' a trustworthy witness, ye ken that. The ithers will believe what he tells them, but no' you."
He's older. Rutledge almost said the words aloud, stopping himself just in time. And not as fit.
"And what if there's no trouble atall?"
I've wasted four hours of sleep.
He recalled his impression of Carl Hopkins. Whatever anger the man harbored, Rutledge couldn't quite imagine him using a garrote. Physically, he could probably have managed it, but was there the strength of mind needed to kill four men with it?
"But ye havna' seen him in a frenzy. Only despondent in yon cell."
Which was a very good point. There had been three days between each of the murders, three days in which a man could whip himself into another killing temper.
"It willna' be easy returning to the Yard," Hamish warned, "if Mickelson doesna' recover, and Hopkins is convicted."
As he put out his hand to open the hotel door, Rutledge heard someone call his name. Turning, he saw that Tyrell Pierce was coming toward him. He paused and waited for the older man to catch him up.
"I'd expected you to call today," Pierce said without greeting him. "Sad business about Inspector Mickelson. But I would be lying if I said that I wasn't glad to have you back in charge. What happened, anyway? You were here, and then you weren't. Walker wouldn't tell me anything, so I had to assume he knew nothing to tell."
Rutledge didn't answer him directly. "Who do you think attacked the inspector?"
"I daresay it was the killer. I'm not particularly happy to be out at this time of evening myself." As he reached Rutledge, light spilling from the windows was reflected in his face. There was tension around his eyes, a grimness to the set of his mouth.
"Then why didn't he use the garrote?" Rutledge asked him.
"Yes, I wondered about that myself. I decided he must not have had it with him. Well, I shouldn't care to be walking around with the damned thing in my pocket, in the event I was stopped because I was a stranger in town. Walker stopped someone just yesterday. Did he tell you? A man on his way to Hastings, as it happened. That's what my foreman told me-he'd witnessed the incident. According to him, the man might have been able to handle a garrote, but he'd have been hard-pressed to use it on Theo Hartle." He gestured toward the door. "Have you had your dinner? I was just going to the hotel hoping to find you."
They walked in together, and as they paused on the threshold of the dining room, they saw Mr. Kenton sitting by one of the windows. He looked up at the same time, and beckoned to them. They joined him, and as Rutledge sat down, Kenton said, "I didn't expect Carl to be taken into custody. I merely told you about him out of a sense of duty."
He had ordered his dinner but it hadn't arrived. The woman serving meals that evening brought over a menu, and Rutledge, after scanning it, made his selection.
While Pierce was considering his choice, Rutledge turned to Kenton. "I never passed on that information to Inspector Mickelson. Nor to Walker. Someone else saw you with me."
He could tell that Kenton didn't believe him.
"I should have thought that what happened to Mickelson proved beyond a doubt that Carl isn't guilty."
"We don't know if that attack and these murders are connected-"
"Any fool will tell you that there aren't two murderers running loose in a village the size of Eastfield! Carl is one of my best workers. I'm going to have to find a replacement soon. And I don't want to do that. I wish I'd never come to you. I expected you to ask him a few questions, clear the air." But that wasn't the impression Rutledge had got when Kenton first approached him.
Hamish said, "Second thoughts."
Pierce turned to them and said, "What's this about Carl?"
"I was just saying he was one of my best workers. I've known him all his life, I can't see him committing murder."