"My motorcar is still outside. Show me."
The copse was some hundred yards past the turning to Hastings, just as Constable Walker had described it. On the far side, where the trees began, there was a small grassy opening among the trunks, and Walker pointed to it.
"Just there. The body was still warm. And if you look hard enough, you can see the roof of Marshall's barn beyond the treetops in that direction. He died within sight of his own farm."
Rutledge turned. There was indeed a barn roof, nearly hidden by the leaves of a stand of trees.
"Have you notified his family?"
"Not yet. Do you want to deal with that and afterward see the body?"
"They'll be wondering where he went. We'll go there first. What sort of family did he have?"
"A mother who lives there with him, his wife, and three small children. He always claimed he made up for the war years as soon as he got home. He was wounded early in 1918, and by the time he was fit to return to active service, the war was over."
They could smell the pigs as they approached the farm, but the house was tidy and there were flowers along the track that led to the door.
An elderly woman opened the door to their knock, fear in her eyes. And then she clapped a hand to her mouth as she read their faces.
"He's dead." It wasn't a question. "When he didn't come home with the cart, I knew something must have happened." Her voice was low, almost a whisper. Ushering them into a front room, she added, "My daughter-in-law is upstairs nursing the little one. Let her finish." She glanced up the stairs and then shut both doors quietly.
Rutledge identified himself. "I'm afraid we've come to confirm your fears, Mrs. Marshall. Your son was found this morning in the copse down the road. He was murdered."
"Like the rest of them. I told him. I said, you mustn't leave so early." She pressed her knuckles against her mouth, as if to stifle the scream rising in her throat. A low moan escaped, and she sat down suddenly. And then with an effort of will, she raised her head and said, "Where is he now? My son?"
"At Dr. Gooding's surgery," Constable Walker answered her.
"He lived through that awful war. And now this." It was an echo of what Mrs. Winslow had said. "I want to see him."
"I think-" Constable Walker began,
But she cut him short. "I brought him into the world. I'll see him out of it." Again she looked upward, as if she could see through the ceiling to the room above. "How am I going to tell her?"
In the silence that followed, Rutledge could hear the faint, rhythmic sound of a rocking chair moving back and forth, and a low hum, as if someone was singing softly.
Mrs. Marshall stood up. "I'll just call up to her, and then we'll go. The rest can wait. I want to see my son now."
They couldn't dissuade her. In the end, she did as she'd said she would. She called to her daughter-in-law, "I'm just stepping out, Rosie, I'll be back shortly. Mind the soup on the fire."
Then she led Rutledge and Constable Walker to the motorcar and sat beside Rutledge as Walker turned the crank. Rutledge had a moment's panic as the constable turned and opened the rear door, but he couldn't look to see where Hamish was. He felt the motorcar shift as the man settled in his seat. And then he had no choice but to drive on, pointing the bonnet back to Eastfield.
Mrs. Marshall sat in stoic silence, her eyes straight ahead. Neither Rutledge nor Walker could find words of comfort. None seemed adequate.
People on the street turned to stare as they passed. Rumor had already run ahead of them, and villagers knew who was in the motorcar as well as where they were going.
Rutledge pulled into the drive in front of Dr. Gooding's house, and before he could step out and open her door, Mrs. Marhsall was already out of the motorcar and striding toward the surgery.
She was a tall, rawboned woman in a faded apron over a blue dress patterned with small white sprigs of flowers, her graying hair drawn back into a bun. But she moved with the dignity of a Spartan woman preparing to receive and bury her dead. Rutledge watched her and was moved.
Dr. Gooding was surprised to see her, looking over her head at Rutledge and the constable.
"She wished to see her son," Rutledge said, and Gooding said, "Er-give me a moment, and I'll take you back."
He disappeared, and Mrs. Marshall showed no sign that her resolve was weakening. Dr. Gooding's nurse came out of an adjoining office and asked Mrs. Marshall if she would like a cup of tea before her ordeal.
"No, thank you, Mrs. Davis, I'll be all right. Rosie is waiting at home for me."
The doctor came back just then and escorted them to the room where the body had been examined. It was tidy, and Hector Marshall lay under a sheet drawn up to cover the ravaged throat.
Ignoring the others, Mrs. Marshall walked straight across the room without faltering and looked down at her son's face. After a moment she touched his hair, which Dr. Gooding had combed. Then she bent to kiss him. Her voice was audible, but not the words as she addressed him. She stared at him a moment longer, and before the onlookers could stop her, she stripped back the sheet. Nodding at the body as if she understood something, she gently pulled the sheet back into place.
"I'd thank you to take me home, now."
Rutledge moved to her side, but she walked out of the room without help, down the passage, and out to the motorcar, thanking the doctor for taking care of her son.
Walker was there to open her door, and she got in without another word. When they had delivered her again to her home, Rutledge said, "Would you like us to help you break the news to your daughter-in-law?"
"Thank you, no, she'll be able to cry if we're alone." She turned to Constable Walker. "Could you send someone to feed the pigs today? They will be hungry by now."
He promised, and with a nod she disappeared inside, shutting the door quietly.
Rutledge said, "Will she be all right? Should we send someone to look in on her later?"
"Best to let them mourn," Walker said.
Rutledge turned the motorcar, hearing Hamish's voice like thunder in his head. And as he started off down the track, he heard a woman's scream, so full of pain he winced. T hey went back to the surgery, but Dr. Gooding could tell them very little more.
"When was he killed?" Rutledge asked.
Gooding said, "Later than the others by a good four hours. After the rain ended, I think. Marshall was on his back, and his clothing was wet from lying in the leaves. His chest was dry. Of course the killer had to wait for him to start his rounds, that may account for a change in timing."
Or the killer had been thwarted, unable to reach the victim he had been waiting for.
"I was driving back from Hastings close to that time," Rutledge said slowly. "I'm surprised I didn't meet anyone on the road." But Daniel Pierce had walked into The White Swans just before dawn broke. Where had he been?
"It's a tragedy," the doctor finished, after showing Rutledge the identity disc from Marshall's mouth. "I can't believe there's no way to stop this madman. And what about Carl Hopkins? I thought he was the killer. Is he still in jail? Surely the police will have to let him go, after this."
"He's still there," Rutledge said. "Our murderer would have been smarter to let well enough alone, and let Hopkins take the blame."
"Pierce won't like it. He was so certain his son's killer was in custody. I ran into him just after Inspector Mickelson had taken Hopkins to Hastings. You could almost see the relief in Pierce's face. As if a burden had been lifted." Gooding covered the body again. "My nurse wondered if perhaps he'd been worried about Daniel having some role in this business. She asked if Daniel would be coming for Anthony's funeral, and he all but snapped at her. Where is Daniel? Does anyone know? I haven't seen him since just after the war."
Walker said, "Mr. Pierce hasn't said."