Rutledge thought that when Kenton was speaking to him about Hopkins earlier, he had been driven by his own uncertainty, perhaps even the fear that if the killer was shown to be an employee as well as a personal connection of the owner of Kenton Chairs, it might seem that Kenton had protected him.
Pierce said, "I'm of two minds there. Anthony would have trusted him, if he'd come into the brewery looking for him."
It was to Pierce's advantage, Rutledge knew, to distract the police from any interest in his son Daniel. But would the man go as far as letting another person take the blame? He reminded himself that Pierce might have attacked Mickelson if he had been on the verge of finding new evidence that pointed in Daniel Pierce's direction.
Kenton scowled. "And why, pray, would Carl need to find your son, in the brewery or out of it?"
"I'm only saying-" He broke off as their soup arrived, and then added, "How is Inspector Mickelson? Any news in that direction?"
"Just that he's alive and holding his own," Rutledge told them. He hoped that it was still true.
Pierce said, "Nasty business. I suppose he hasn't spoken yet?" The question wasn't as casual as it seemed. Rutledge understood now why Pierce had sought him out when he'd failed to come to the brewery.
"He was found in Hastings, I'm told. Just as young Hartle was," Kenton put in. "I don't see why that shouldn't clear Carl."
They argued through the first course and well into the second. Rutledge was heartily sick of it. And then Kenton asked, "When is Daniel coming back to take his brother's place? He'll require some training, I should think. He was never as interested in the business as his brother was, although I wondered if that was only a facade. He said to me once, before the war, that there was no room for him at the brewery and it was all he knew. What has he been doing since the Armistice? New interests of some sort?"
Pierce said shortly, "When he's ready, he'll take his place at Pierce's."
"You're not growing any younger," Kenton pointed out. "I'd considered leaving Kenton Chairs to Carl, before all this happened. Now I'm not so sure if it's the right thing to do. Last thing I heard about Daniel, he was going into business with someone. Mrs. Farrell-Smith's husband, as I remember. But then the man died rather suddenly, and nothing came of it. Race horses, was it?"
He was goading Pierce, using Rutledge's presence to keep the moment civil.
Rutledge thought, Kenton has heard rumors about Daniel Pierce, and the father's smugness has irritated him.
Pierce was outraged. "Race horses? Good God, where did you hear that nonsense? I grant you they were at school together-Anthony was there as well. As for any business venture, they were hardly of an age before the war to be thinking about such matters. In fact, as Mrs. Farrell-Smith can attest, she and her husband were only just married, and Daniel was considering the law as a profession."
"My mistake," Kenton answered, smiling. "Shall we take our tea in the lounge?"
Pierce signaled to the woman who had served them. "It's late, and I really must look in at the brewery." He rose and said good night.
Kenton watched him go. "He's in trade as well as I am. But you'd think the brewery set him up higher than the rest of us. I never could abide self-importance."
"You rode him hard," Rutledge said. "His son is one of the victims."
"He was prepared to believe that Carl had been to the brewery the night Anthony was murdered," Kenton retorted. "Anthony moved in such exalted circles he probably wouldn't have recognized Carl on the street. Ironic, isn't it? Pierce wanted the Yard here in Eastfield. And I trusted the Yard, to my sorrow."
Rutledge left shortly thereafter. It was nearly time to start his patrol of the streets, and he went first to his motorcar to fetch his torch.
The shops had closed hours before, and the sun had vanished behind a bank of clouds. Shadows had deepened along the High Street, and beneath trees there were already pools of blackness. A gray cat trotting past a stationer's shop disappeared around the corner, leaving him alone as he left the hotel behind and turned toward the brewery. He turned again to walk down the side street by the Misses Tate School, and doubled back toward the Hastings Road before moving on in the direction of the rectory. It was a random pattern, his ears attuned to the silence around him, his faculties alert.
Hamish said, "It's an uneasy quiet."
It was. A warm evening usually drew couples out to walk, holding hands in the darkness, or men talking together and laughing as they headed to the pub or sat on the bench outside the baker's, having a last smoke. Instead, doors were shut, closing the sound of voices and laughter in, rather than letting it spill out into the night. Occasionally he'd seen a curtain twitch as someone looked out, then quickly pulled it across the window again.
The gate to the rectory was just ahead. He looked up at the long window that marked the staircase to the first floor, a hanging lamp glowing softly through the glass. As he did, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw movement in the churchyard beyond, and he turned his head for a better look.
It was that time of night when objects lost their color. Beneath the trees in the churchyard were patches that seemed impenetrable they were so thick with shadow, gravestones irregular splotches of gray, the church itself a stark silhouette beyond.
He stepped through the rectory gates, crossed the lawn to the wicket into the churchyard that rectors time out of mind had used to reach the church. The gate hinges squeaked a little, betraying his movements, but he walked on, wishing he could turn on his torch to prevent himself from stumbling over the settling ground and the footstones nearly hidden in summer grass. But to do so would mark his progress and take away his night vision.
It was near that tree, he thought, using a beech to keep himself oriented. He couldn't tell whether someone was still near the thick trunk or if the figure had moved on. After a moment, he stopped, trying to listen.
Hamish said, "There. By the corner of the kirk."
His eyes were adjusting to the gloom, and he could almost swear there was a figure disappearing toward the south porch, used sometimes for funerals when it was raining. He changed direction and followed, nearly sprawling headlong as the toe of his boot caught in something, tripping him up. Swearing silently, he reached the corner of the church and paused, one hand on the cooling stone.
It was very dark here, the grass and wildflowers heavier under foot. He could barely pick out the thicker blackness of the church porch, against a patch of sky.
The hair on the back of his neck seemed to rise.
Someone was there, he was sure of it. But in the porch, or in the darkness on this side of it?
Hamish muttered, " 'Ware!" but Rutledge was already debating the wisdom of going forward.
Was he being lured? As the first victim, William Jeffers, could have been? Or was the unseen figure as eager to see him turn away as he himself was to go?
He moved on, keeping one hand on the church wall as he walked. He was halfway to the porch when he heard the slight grating of the door into the church, as if someone had gone inside.
But he wasn't convinced. He thought the man must still be inside the porch, waiting for him.
"I know you're there," he called softly into the shadows. "Come out and let me see you."
Silence followed.
And then movement again, as if someone had slipped out of the porch and was going east, toward the apse.
But then a footfall on pavement, a shoe scraping in the gritty entrance as someone turned back to the porch, came to him.
A trap, then. Set with care. For him? For Walker? Did the figure ahead of him know who was following?
Forewarned, he kept his eyes on the porch, one hand still brushing the stone wall of the church, his feet thrusting through the thick summer grass with care. Sinners and saints alike wished to be buried as near to the church wall as possible. And on that thought, his felt his foot strike the edge of a gravestone.