"And you're sure he said nothing that would tell you who this other child was?"
"Just the phrase, 'he was an ugly little toad.' As if that explained everything."
Constable Walker spoke up. "Do you think it was the Summers boy?"
He had spoken to Rutledge, but the rector said, "Was he still in Eastfield? I did ask-Theo told me Summers had already left to take up his new position."
"Hartle must have lied to you. He probably knew that's why Summers left here. The boy must have told his father something about what had happened. He'd been terrified, after all. Hartle didn't want to take the blame for that as well. His confession had its limits."
The rector said, "He was the butt of much teasing, I'm sure. A very unpopular child, never could put a foot right. But do you think he really was Hartle's victim?" There was lingering doubt in his voice. "Still, there's the problem of how Virgil Winslow knew."
"I don't think Winslow knew-not this story, at least. I think tonight he may have been whistling in the dark. We'd asked his wife if her brother had any secrets. Winslow must have assumed that he had-because he'd been murdered." Rutledge added, "Thank you, Rector, for telling us this. We'll use the knowledge to look into the matter. If nothing comes of it, then I think perhaps Hartle exaggerated what happened. That with time he'd blown it out of proportion, and it seemed more ominous than it was."
The rector's face brightened. "To tell you the truth, I found it hard to believe that young Hartle could be so-vicious. He was a good man, he would have made a good father."
But there were dark places in many a child's life. Temptation was hard to resist when it was something that a child very badly wanted. The ability to know right from wrong wavered in the face of longing. The lemon drop at eye level in the greengrocer's shop, the toy that another child played with, the larger biscuit on the plate, the biggest apple in the bowl. These seldom led to attempted murder, but a child who had planned his truancy carefully, was already half frightened by his audacity but intent on finding smugglers' gold, would be desperate to rid himself of what he perceived as an intruder, someone who was about to ruin everything he'd longed to do in this one glorious escape from authority. Consequences never entered his head. Only being caught before he could find treasure. Would he have gone as far as murder? Or would he have considered it murder, if the boy fell over the cliff without his help?
Who could say?
They thanked the rector and left, warning him to lock his doors.
Walker said as they were out of earshot, "You let me lie to him. The story will have to come out."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Meanwhile, what good would the truth have done, do you think?"
The first drops of rain struck them in the face, blown by the wind, great wet drops that promised a downpour. Lightning illuminated the rectory gate, and thunder followed almost on its heels.
"We'll have to speak to Roper's father. To see if Jimmy knew this story. And Mrs. Jeffers. I don't know if we'll get much joy from Tyrell Pierce. Anthony could do no wrong. The heir and hope," Walker said as they dashed through the gate and ran for The Fishermen's Arms. There was another flash of lightning, and then the rain came down in earnest. They arrived damp and breathless.
"I'll borrow an umbrella." Walker cast a glance at the sky. "Are we still patrolling the streets?"
"No. I think he's gone, whoever he was."
"Then I'll say good night." He went into Reception, where there was a porcelain stand filled with umbrellas for the use of guests, chose one, and with a nod to Rutledge trotted out into the rain.
Hamish said, "Yon priest. He didna' want to remember. Ye ken, these were lads."
"And it was a very long time ago," Rutledge said.
"Aye. Now they must judge the men the lads became."
And that was true. The men had turned out well. They'd served their country with honor and distinction, they had respectable lives ahead of them, and the foibles of the past were forgiven.
Rutledge said, "It's late. There's nothing more I can do tonight."
"Are ye forgetting The White Swans?"
He stopped in his tracks, halfway up the stairs. He had forgot.
Without a second thought, he went pelting down the steps and out to the motorcar. The drive to Hastings in the heavy rain was not pleasant, and he felt his tires slip several times as he ran down the twisting road into the Old Town.
The White Swans was quiet, most of the guests in their beds. He walked into the lounge and beckoned to the sleepy attendant at the far end.
"Whisky," he said and chose a table that was secluded enough that his presence wasn't obvious. As he sat down, he remembered another hotel, the Marlborough in London, and Meredith Channing's last remark.
He took a deep breath, trying to put it out of his mind. But he couldn't. He'd tried for days, but it was there, underlying everything he did during the day and his last thought as he fell asleep at night.
He couldn't imagine a future with her. He couldn't imagine a future without her. That was the dilemma. There was something about her, the poise that was so unusual in one so young, the quiet understanding that had seen him through a rough afternoon, the willingness to help even when she didn't particularly care for the fact that he dealt with murder and violence. Her voice, low and soothing. He'd fallen in love with Jean because she was pretty, she was of his own social class, and she was amusing. He had slowly fallen in love with Meredith Channing because she was herself.
What sort of man had her husband been? The war was over. Had been for two years. If Channing had been missing for four-five-years, it was more than likely he was dead. But she refused to accept it. Had she loved him so much? And was her guilt the growing realization that she must admit he was dead?
Rutledge didn't know. But he was a policeman, and solving riddles was bread and butter to him.
A good many men had gone missing. Blown up, their bodies mutilated beyond recognition by shells and gunfire, rotting in No Man's Land under the summer sun until the black, bloated body held no resemblance to the living.
Had she loved him so much?
The attendant brought his whisky and Rutledge paid for it on the spot. The harsh swirl of his first taste seemed to burn down his throat, and he set the glass aside.
This had been a wild goose chase. If the man from St. Mary's churchyard had come to Hastings, he wasn't here, or if he was, he was in bed and asleep, where he himself ought to be now.
But he waited all the same.
And just before dawn, after he'd finished his whisky and was fighting the fatigue that was slowly dulling his senses, he heard footsteps, brisk and male, crossing the marble floor of the lobby.
He turned his chair very slightly, so that he could see the elevator. But the man didn't use it, he took the broad, carpeted stairs two at a time.
Rutledge reached the lobby about a dozen steps behind him, and setting his hat on his head at an angle that shadowed his face, he went up after the man.
He reached the first floor in time to see his quarry disappearing into the fifth door on the seaward side. Rutledge followed, leaning lightly toward the door to listen.
A warm female voice said, "You're late, my dear."
And a man answered, "But I'm here now."
She laughed, a silvery sound, pleasant. "Come to bed, then."
Rutledge looked at the number on the door.
He moved silently away from it and then walked back the way he had come, down the stairs to Reception, where he rang the bell for the night clerk. The man limped as he stepped out of an inner office, his face slack with sleep.
"May I assist you, sir?"
Rutledge said, "Scotland Yard. You can verify that by contacting Inspector Norman, if you like. I just need information at the moment. And my request will not fuel the morning gossip. Is that understood?" He set his identity card on the mahogany counter. "Who are the guests in number eight?"