He repeated it, as if trying to take it in, then he opened the book and scanned the entries. "Number eight. The guests in that room are a Mr. and Mrs. Pierce. Is there any problem, sir?"
The last thing Rutledge wanted was for this man to wonder about the occupants of number eight. And so he said, "Someone in London must have made a mistake. They aren't the guests I was expecting to find in that room."
"They've been here for several nights. Newlyweds, I'm told."
Surprised, Rutledge said, "Indeed? I wish them happiness." He turned and walked out to the terrace and down the broad steps to the street. The rain had stopped, but the waves, invisible in the darkness, were rolling in with the wind still behind them. He could smell the sea, and feel the spray on his face.
He turned in the street and looked up at the hotel facade, counting windows and focusing on what must be number eight.
And as he watched, the lights went out, and someone drew the curtain wide, letting in the sound of the sea. Rutledge turned away, wondering if he'd been seen. He walked on to his motorcar without looking back.
Daniel Pierce was in Hastings New Town. And with a wife. A new wife, according to the clerk at Reception.
That hardly sounded like a murderer. And yet-and yet the man had been out very late. Alone.
Hamish said drily, "This willna' sit well with Mrs. Farrell-Smith." W hen Rutledge awoke in the morning, the sun was well up. As he'd crested the ridge coming out of Hastings, he had seen the first hint of dawn struggling for a foothold among the clouds scudding east. The sun, apparently, had finally won, although there was no strength to it, as if it held on by a thread.
He ate a hasty breakfast and drove first to the home of Jimmy Roper. It was early for a social call, but not for the police to knock at the farmhouse door.
The housekeeper opened it a crack and peered out. "If you're wishing to see Mr. Roper, he's not himself this morning. Call again, if you will, later in the day."
"Scotland Yard. It's important that I speak to him."
Grudgingly, she opened the door to allow him to come inside. The passage was furnished simply, one narrow table with cut flowers in a black glass vase, a portrait above them, and across the way, by the stairs, another portrait facing it.
Looking at that one, a man and a woman in wedding clothes, he thought this must be the elder Roper himself and his wife. Young and happy and unaware of what the future might bring.
The housekeeper led Rutledge to a small parlor, opening the door to usher him in. It faced west, and on this dreary morning was still filled with shadows.
Rutledge thought he was expected to wait here, but as he turned he saw that Roper was seated in a chair by the window, a rug across his knees, his head tilted at an angle that indicated he was dozing.
"Mr. Roper?" the woman said, crossing the room to nudge him gently. "There's an inspector from Scotland Yard to see you."
The man lifted his head and looked up at the woman bending over him. "What did you say, Sadie?" The words were slurred.
"Scotland Yard to see you."
"I thought the bastard was dead," he replied in clearer tones.
"As far as I know, he's still alive," Rutledge answered, coming forward so that Roper could see him in what light there was. "I spoke to you in the village, shortly after your son was killed."
Roper turned to stare at him. "So you did. What brings you here?"
"I'd like to talk to you about your son. Do you feel like answering a few questions?"
"My son is dead," he said flatly. "What's the use of talking about him? It won't bring him back, will it?"
"It won't," Rutledge agreed. "But in remembering, you may find a little solace."
Roper was quiet for some time, and Rutledge had almost despaired of an answer when the man said, "He was a beautiful baby. My wife said so, and even I could see that he was. A good one too, never any trouble. Well, that changed when he started walking. Nothing was safe, he'd clamber on anything, and never cry when he brought it all down with him. More surprised than afraid, as if he'd expected it to hold." A flicker of a smile touched his mouth, pride in his son. "He was a good student. He wanted to go on to university, but of course there was no money for that. He said that farming was changing, and we had to change with it or be left behind. And then there was the war. When he marched away, it was the blackest day of my life. But he came back, like he said he would. Though it changed him, I could see that. I thought he might marry and settle down, but he said he needed to forget first. He didn't say what he needed to forget, but I expect it was the horrors."
"Did the Misses Tate feel that he should go to university?"
"They spoke of him as promising. He never had to study long hours, he just listened to his lessons and remembered what he'd heard. He took after my dear wife, there. She was a great reader, and read to him of an evening in winter. I liked listening to her voice. She could make you believe the story was real."
"Did he get on well with his fellow students?" Rutledge probed patiently.
"Oh, yes. He rose to corporal in the war, did you know? But he didn't like soldiering very much."
Rutledge had no choice but to bring up names. "Was he friends with Theo Hartle? Or William Jeffers? Or young Tuttle? Did he get on well with Virgil Winslow or Tommy Summers? Or the Pierce brothers?"
Roper turned to look at him. "Imagine you knowing all their names! I'd not say friends, so much as they grew up together. Still there's a bond in that. He didn't care much for Winslow, he said he traded too much on his illness. Some do, you know. Others never let it change them."
And Summers's name was conspicuous by its absence in his recollections.
Rutledge said, "What about the Summers boy?"
"As I remember, he left Eastfield early on. I doubt I could put a face to him now. I don't think Jimmy much cared for him. It was sad, you know, the girl was such a pretty little thing, took after her mother. And the boy was plain as a fence post, with a nature to match. I don't think I've ever met such a disagreeable child. Jimmy told me he could never keep up and was always whining. What's more, he could never see when he wasn't wanted."
"Was there ever any particular trouble between Tommy Summers and your son?"
Roper shook his head. "Jimmy was never a troublesome child. Well, there was the fair in Battle. As I remember, Tommy's father had given him a pony for his birthday, and Tommy was to show it at the fair. For a lark, Jimmy and the other boys painted the pony's hooves purple the night before the fair. They thought it would wash right off, Jimmy said, but of course it didn't, and they were sorry for that. It wasn't meant to keep the pony from being shown. They just wanted to see Tommy's face when he walked out of the barn that morning."
"What did Tommy's father have to say about this prank?"
"He was that upset, of course, but I said to him, they are only lads, they didn't know the paint would stain the way it did. Even blackening the hooves didn't help, when the sun struck them, the purple showed. I sent Jimmy over to apologize to Tommy, and that was that."
But of course "that was that" may have satisfied the father, but what about the boy?
And Roper answered as if Rutledge had spoken aloud. "Tommy was the butt of more than one prank, now that I think about it. But it's all part of learning to get on together, in my book. The lad just seemed to have the knack for making a nuisance of himself."
Rutledge found himself wondering how Roper would have felt if the shoe had been on the other foot. But he said only, "Was Jeffers one of the youngsters who painted the hooves?"
"I believe he was. It was such a long time ago, and my memory isn't what it used to be. I do recall sending Jimmy to apologize. To his credit, I don't believe he was as thoughtless after that. It was a good lesson learned."