"What about Anthony Pierce? Did he take part in these pranks?"
"Jimmy said he didn't care to join in, but he never told on any of them, either. When one of the Misses Tate asked him about some difficulty Tommy was having with his books and belongings disappearing, Jimmy told me that Anthony professed ignorance of the whole episode, and of course Miss Tate believed him. He was a good sort, Jimmy said, never ratting them out."
And that had been Anthony's sin. He'd wanted to belong as well, and he stood by while the torment went on, rather than trying to protect the Summers boy or telling the Misses Tate what was happening. Many a bullied child suffered in silence, afraid to ask for help, enduring what couldn't be stopped. Rutledge was beginning to see why Tyrell Pierce had sent his sons off to public school in Surrey. The sons of brewery workers and farmers and the like were not his sons' peers. Farrell-Smith must have been more to his liking.
Mr. Roper was tiring, and Rutledge rose to leave, thanking him for his time.
The man said, his dry, thin hand shaking Rutledge's, "He's still dead. It didn't help."
Rutledge said, "Sadly."
Driving back to Eastfield, Hamish said, "This was in the past. Ye canna' crusade for justice for Tommy Summers. It's too late."
"I don't want to crusade for him. I need to find out now if he's turned to murder to settle old scores."
"If it's old scores, why did he put yon discs in the mouths of the dead?"
"To put us off the track? And if it was, he nearly succeeded. But there could still be a connection we've overlooked."
18
R utledge went next to Hastings New Town. He arrived at The White Swans to find that the clerk at Reception was not the same man he'd spoken to the night before. He asked for Mr. Daniel Pierce, but he was told that Mr. and Mrs. Pierce had gone out. He waited for an hour, but they didn't return. Rutledge went back to Reception.
"Could you tell me, please, how long the Pierces intend to stay at The White Swans?"
The clerk consulted the register. "The rest of the week at least," he said. "Would you care to leave a message?"
"I think not. I'd like to surprise them."
The clerk smiled. "They should be dining in the hotel this evening."
Rutledge thanked him and then left.
He stopped next at the police station, to ask after Inspector Mickelson.
The latest report confirmed that he was holding his own, but only just. He had come to his senses very briefly during the night, but had had no idea where he was or why. That, Hamish pointed out, boded ill for clearing Rutledge's name.
Inspector Norman was in, and Rutledge asked to speak to him.
Norman received him with ill-concealed distaste. "If you've come for Carl Hopkins, you're wasting your time."
"I need your help," Rutledge told him. "I want the loan of Constable Petty. We need to patrol Eastfield at night, and Constable Walker can't do it alone. If you want Petty to spy for you, you can spare him for my purposes as well. I'll see that he's put up at The Fishermen's Arms."
After a moment, Inspector Norman said with evident reluctance, "He has a cousin there. Works in the brewery. He can stay with him. I don't want him beholden to you."
Which, Hamish was pointing out, went a long way toward explaining how Inspector Norman had been keeping an eye on Eastfield.
Rutledge answered, "That's fair enough. I'll expect him there tonight."
"It won't stop your murderer. If that's what's in your mind. Even with three of you, you can't be everywhere at once. It takes no time at all to garrote a man and then walk away."
"It's better than nothing," Rutledge answered shortly. "There was someone in St. Mary's churchyard last night. I followed him around the church itself, where I lost him, and then I heard a motorcar leaving without its headlamps turned on."
Norman's manner changed. "Is that the truth? Where was it heading? Which direction, did you see?"
"Toward Hastings. There were lights on in the rectory as well, but the house was empty. We searched for Mr. Ottley, and finally met him walking toward us as we came back into Eastfield from the Roper farm. He sometimes goes there to sit with the second victim's father. But for a time, we were afraid he might have been the next target."
"Ottley is a good man," he said, defending the rector, "but sometimes he puts duty before common sense. He nursed the Spanish flu victims in Eastfield, day and night, without thought for his own safety. Before that, one evening when he was in Old Town, we had a ship in trouble off the East Hill. He went to the lifeboat station and offered his services if they needed another man. He'd kept a sailboat here in his youth. He'd have gone out with them."
"He may be at risk, all the same. If Carl Hopkins is innocent. I'm not convinced that these murders are connected with the war. They may have to do with someone with a long memory for the past."
"That's the trouble with educating a policeman," Inspector Norman said. "You're easily distracted by ideas."
Rutledge laughed. "Carl Hopkins is your war connection. But you haven't found the garrote and you haven't found where or how he managed to create those identity discs. It shouldn't have been hard to do, mind you, but he'd need the same type of fiberboard and the same type of rope, as well as the names of men in other units. Show me those, and I'll go back to London."
Inspector Norman's mouth twisted sourly. "Early days," he said as Rutledge took his leave.
He went back to The White Swans to look for Daniel Pierce, but he still hadn't returned.
Using the telephone, Rutledge put in a call to London.
Sergeant Gibson was wary, and Rutledge could almost hear the man trying to work out whether the inspector was back in good odor or not.
Rutledge told him what he wanted.
"It's a needle in a haystack," Gibson complained.
"His father went north to work when he was nine or ten years of age. Start with the War Office. If he was in uniform, they should know where he lived in 1914. And unless he has married, Somerset House won't help us."
"I'll do what I can," Gibson told him and asked how to reach him.
"Leave a message at Reception here in The White Swans."
But he was not destined to be there when it came through. As he was driving to The Stade, a police constable spotted him and hailed him.
Rutledge drew to the verge. "Constable?"
"Inspector Rutledge? Inspector Norman asked us to be on the lookout for you. Someone telephoned Hastings Police from the Pierce Brothers Brewery office. They've found another body."
Rutledge swore. "All right, thank you, Constable. I'm on my way."
He drove out of Hastings and made good time to Eastfield. Constable Walker, his face marked by sleeplessness and strain, was waiting for him at the police station.
"It's Hector Marshall," he said as Rutledge walked through the door. "He was garroted, like the others, and a disc was found in his mouth. We've taken the body to Dr. Gooding's surgery. He says there's no doubt. The wounds are much the same. Very little struggle. Left where he was killed, as far as we can tell."
"Where was he found?"
"He raises pigs out on the road to Battle. He goes about Eastfield with his cart, collecting scraps people save for him, and he takes milk from the dairy herds that they can't sell. He was on his rounds before first light, and stopped in a copse of trees just north of the turning for Hastings. It appeared his horse was lame, or he thought it was, and he drew up out of the road. Or someone hailed him, we'll never know. But the horse is indeed lame, a stone in its shoe. We found that out when we tried to turn the cart for a better look at Marshall's body."