"Do you remember Tommy Summers?" Rutledge asked the doctor.
"Summers?" Dr. Gooding frowned. "Oh yes, I do remember him. He was a clumsy child, and his father brought him to me to see if there was anything to be done. Some children are just naturally poorly coordinated. He wasn't a very prepossessing boy. Sadly, such children are seldom popular at that age. And they seldom grow into swans, do they? Nature is often unkind."
"What did he look like, do you recall?"
"Rather pudgy, and short for his age. Sandy hair, I think."
"He couldn't have been mistaken for either of the Pierce boys, then?"
Gooding smiled. "No, of course not. Far from it. What are you driving at?"
Rutledge said, "How would you describe Daniel Pierce, the last time you saw him?"
"Daniel? He'd just come home from France, and he was quite thin. He couldn't settle to anything, apparently, because he was away again soon afterward. He's a little above medium height, brown hair."
The description would have fit a dozen men Rutledge had seen on the streets of Hastings. Except for the thinness, it fit the man he'd seen at The White Swans.
"I don't understand why you should be asking about Pierce?"
"I'm curious about anyone who lived in Eastfield at one time and who isn't here now," Rutledge answered easily. "There was someone in the churchyard last night. Before Marshall was killed. I never got a good look at him, but he didn't move like a heavy man."
"Yes, I see," Gooding replied, but Rutledge didn't think he did.
They left the surgery and went back to the police station.
Constable Walker said, "You've asked a good many questions about this Summers boy. And now you're asking about Daniel Pierce. Have you made up your mind that the killer isn't someone in Eastfield?"
"I haven't made up my mind about anything," Rutledge countered. "But if Carl Hopkins isn't our killer, who is?"
"There are the other survivors of the Eastfield Company. I asked my nephew just last night if he could make head nor tail of this business, and he refused even to consider anyone from the war. Unthinkable, he said. He'd served with them, they'd gone through too much together in France. Besides, if one of them believed he was still in France killing Germans, he'd have used a shotgun."
"That's probably true. And I understand what Tuttle is telling you. Battle is a man's testing ground."
Walker nodded. "Well, then I asked him about Tommy Summers, and he laughed. Summers wouldn't have been able to overpower Theo or Hector. Or even Jeffers."
"People change," Rutledge reminded him. But Walker shook his head.
"Inside sometimes, outside seldom."
Rutledge didn't argue. "I'll collect Kenton, and we'll go to Hastings to bring back Carl Hopkins."
"I'd leave him there a little longer," Constable Walker said. "He's safer."
But Rutledge remembered the bleak cells, and shook his head.
"Where does our murderer go, between killings?" he went on. "We need to find out. He can hardly be staying in Eastfield. Under the circumstances, a stranger would have caused considerable comment."
"I've wondered about that," Constable Walker agreed. "There's no derelict building he could hide in. No castle ruins or such. For that matter, no rough land. He must come up from Hastings. Or over from Battle. There you can wander the abbey grounds at will, you know. Still, someone hiding there would attract notice."
"What about these smugglers' caves in the Old Town?"
"Well, that's possible. Not all of them have been explored. Although boys must have poked about in them long before this and never said anything. Caves and treasure-irresistible. My own father told me the caves were still in use when he was a lad. I wasn't sure whether to believe him or not-he might have been making certain I never ventured into them."
"It might be wise to have a look, if Inspector Norman can spare the men. By the way, he's letting us have Constable Petty for the duration. On his terms, of course. But we need an extra pair of eyes."
"It didn't do a hell of a lot of good last night, did it? Our watch. The devil's determined, and he finds a way."
"The question is, why was he in the churchyard, if he'd already set his sights on Marshall?" Rutledge looked at his watch. "I must go back to Hastings. I'm expecting a telephone message from the Yard-"
Mr. Kenton came down the street, hurrying in their direction. "I say. There you are, Rutledge!" he hailed them.
Rutledge turned to him. "Just the man I wanted to see. You had a clerk some years ago, by the name of Summers. He left for another position. Do you recall where he went?"
Caught unprepared, Kenton said, "What? Summers? My God, that was fifteen or more years ago. Somewhere in Staffordshire, I think. Or was it Shropshire? Yes, it must have been Shropshire. A firm of wardrobe makers. The name escapes me. Never mind Summers! I've come about a far more important matter. I've just been told about Hector Marshall. I want Carl out of that jail, do you hear me? I won't take no for an answer."
"I was just going down to Hastings. Follow me in your own motorcar and you can bring Carl back to Eastfield."
Kenton spun on his heel and went back the way he'd come.
Watching him go, Walker said, "He's happy. Mr. Pierce won't be." C arl Hopkins was almost dazed with relief when he was brought to Inspector Norman's office.
"They say I'm free to go. Has there been another murder, then?"
"Hector Marshall," Kenton said.
"Dear God." Hopkins shook his head. "When is it going to stop?"
Inspector Norman said, "Yes, it's a good question, Rutledge."
He ignored the taunt.
After the formalities were complete, Rutledge walked with Hopkins out of the station, followed by Kenton.
"I didn't think I could manage another night in that cell," Hopkins was saying. "I'd started to imagine things. Is there any news on Inspector Mickelson?"
"Nothing new," Kenton said from behind them.
Hopkins sighed, looking up at the blue sky. And then his jaw tightened, and he said, "Do I still have a place at Kenton Chairs?"
Kenton had the grace to look ashamed. But he said, "I never doubted you, my boy. You must believe me."
"Then why didn't you come to see me? Why didn't you bring me books-some writing paper?"
Rutledge walked away, leaving them to sort out the changes in their relationship. He drove to The White Swans and asked at the desk for any messages. There were none.
After a brief hesitation, he went up the stairs to the room belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Pierce.
The maid was just closing the door after cleaning the room, and Rutledge said to her, "I just wish to leave a message."
She looked uncertain, but he handed her a few coins, and she pocketed them almost before her fingers had closed over them. "I'll just be across the way, then," and she gave the door a little shove to open it again.
Rutledge walked in. The room had been serviced, and there wasn't much to see. It was well appointed, in a French Provincial style that was suited to a bridal suite. Long windows overlooked the street, and beyond that, the strand, and he remembered someone opening the curtains last evening. He walked over and looked out.
It was indeed a beautiful view, far out to sea. Sunlight glistened on the water, sparkling as the waves rolled inland, and the salt-tinged air blew the lacy curtains against his face.
Turning back to the room, he considered it. A wardrobe. A desk. Tables on each side of the bed, drawers below. One could hardly hide a garrote and a supply of identity discs here, and risk having a maid or one's bride stumbling over them.
Crossing to the desk, he picked up the scrolled silver frame that stood there and looked at the man and woman standing by the white swans that guarded the terrace. They looked happy, carefree, holding hands and smiling for the camera.
He recognized the man at once. A high brow, strong straight nose, firm chin. He'd seen him before, only not as clearly as here in the photograph. The first time, he'd been standing at Reception, staring, when Rutledge had stepped out of the telephone closet. And he was the man Rutledge had followed to this room only last night-or early this morning to be more precise. Had he also been in the churchyard last evening? Hard to say. Yes, possibly.