Daniel Pierce looked nothing like his brother. A good face but not attractive, as Anthony had been even in death.
Hamish said, "The second son."
Second in all things.
The woman beside him was fair and very pretty, dimpling into a smile that made her seem almost beautiful.
He recalled hearing his sister Frances saying something about all brides being beautiful, and here it was certainly true.
At her feet was a little dog, tongue out as he panted in the warmth of the summer's day. Of indeterminate breed, fur overhung his dark eyes in a fringe that was almost frivolous, and he looked up adoringly at his mistress. Her dog, then.
Rutledge walked to the wardrobe and looked inside. There was a pair of suitcases, without monograms, her clothes and his, side by side, shoes below, hats on the shelf above.
Shutting the wardrobe doors, he saw the small dog basket next to this side of the bed, and in it, folded into a square, was a blanket hand-embroidered with the name Muffin.
Leaving everything as he'd found it, he walked out of the room and shut the door. The hotel maid smiled at him as he passed, and he thanked her again.
Outside in the bright sunlight, he decided to put in a call to Sergeant Gibson and turned back into the hotel. But the sergeant was not at his desk. Rutledge didn't leave a message. He'd learned his lesson.
He went back to The Stade, and looked again at the strange black towers that held the drying fish nets.
How long would it be before Gibson found his man? The sergeant was very good at what he did, always thorough. Rutledge debated going to London to see what he could learn for himself. But he knew that would get him nowhere. And he wasn't prepared yet to deal with Chief Superintendent Bowles or face the curious glances of everyone at the Yard. The story had got out, it was bound to, and he knew any shouting match with the Chief Superintendent was sure to feed the rumor mill. He was still furious about the charges brought against him, and even if he could rein in his temper, he would be hard-pressed to pretend that he didn't know why they had been brought: because Bowles was suddenly afraid that his machinations had led to murder.
And Meredith Channing was in London as well. He didn't want to know the answers to the questions that wouldn't go away. Not now.
Inspector Norman came up, looking with him at the odd black structures. "You're no closer to the truth than you were when you left. And men continue to die."
"Are you saying that Inspector Mickelson didn't make it?"
"As far as I know, he's not out of danger. Nothing has changed. Look, if it wasn't Carl Hopkins-and it appears that he isn't our man-then bring the rest of that Eastfield Company in, and keep them there until someone admits the truth. They work for their living, every one of them. They can't afford to stay cooped up in a cell indefinitely."
Rutledge thought about Mrs. Marshall asking for help to feed the pigs. Every one of these deaths had created a hardship of some sort. "It's tempting. But I think they're as much in the dark as we are."
"I can't believe that. If you've fought side by side with a man for four years, you learn very quickly what he's made of." It was an echo of Constable Walker's words.
"Why would the survivors keep their mouths shut, when one name would make the rest of them safe? These murders are as deadly as sniper fire. Men are picked off at will."
"Because there's something none of them wants to come out. What's the worst crime a soldier can commit?"
Thinking about Hamish, Rutledge said, "Desertion under fire."
"They'd hardly cover that up. Shooting prisoners? Shooting one of their officers in the back?"
"Then why did Anthony Pierce die? He wasn't in their company."
"Point taken. I'm glad you were sent back here. I won't have to face the blame for coming up empty-handed on this one. That's in your future, not mine."
Would this become the case he couldn't solve? Like Cummins and the murder at Stonehenge? He'd already considered that possibility.
"I'll let you know. You'll be happy to come and gloat."
Inspector Norman laughed. "If we weren't so much alike, we could be friends." He turned and walked away.
Rutledge watched him for several minutes, then went back to the motorcar. The leather seats were hot from the sun, and there were holidaymakers strolling along the promenade and The Stade. The lush grassy slope of the East Hill spoke of peace and plenty. He watched three young girls flirting with a young man their own age. Carefree, pretty faces shaded by parasols. They were dressed to suit the fine weather in white or lavender or palest green. If he squinted his eyes, he thought, he could almost pretend it was 1914, and the war was only a shadow to come.
And then Hamish said something, and the image was shattered. H e went to see Mrs. Jeffers, and found her in her kitchen, bottling plums.
The child who had answered the door and conveyed him there went skipping out into the kitchen garden, chasing butterflies.
"They can forget, for a time. I wish I could," she said, her gaze following her daughter. She had auburn hair that had been pulled back out of her way, and her hands were red from working with the boiling water and hot jars. "I have to keep at this, or they'll spoil," she told him. "To tell the truth, I don't know what good talking to me will do. I wasn't there when Will was killed. And I can't think he had any enemies. How could he have? He hadn't done anything to be ashamed of. He was a good man. I don't know how we're to get on without him." Her eyes filled, and she wiped at them with the cloth in her hand. "I tell myself I can't possibly cry any more, and the next thing I know, I'm crying again."
"Did your husband know Tommy Summers well?"
"Tommy? I doubt anyone did. He was not easy to know. I think his feelings had been hurt so many times that he just locked himself deep inside and let nobody else in. It was a crying shame how the boys treated him, Will among them. I sometimes thought, if he dropped off the face of the earth tomorrow, who would care? His father, or maybe his sister. But that's all." She sealed two jars and turned to fill a third. "Now his sister I liked. A pretty girl, and sweet natured. She was younger than most of us. Her mother was dead, and I was sometimes paid to keep an eye on her after school. I'd have done it for free, if it hadn't been for Tommy, always lurking about, as if he was spying on us. I wrote to her for a time after the family moved away. I thought it a shame she had such a wretch of a brother, but then I was a child myself and hardly knew better. Now, thinking back on it after such a long time, I can see that he wasn't nearly as bad as we liked to make out. He had this look about him of having bitten into something bitter. Sour, that's what it was. I didn't trust him."
"Do you still have those letters?" Rutledge asked, realizing that he might find the sister faster than Sergeant Gibson would.
"Oh, I never kept them after I got married. I didn't see any point in it, did I? We hadn't seen each other in so many years we'd have been like strangers when we met, with nothing to talk about but the weather and our children. But I did think about inviting her to my wedding. It wouldn't have worked out, but when you're happy, you want everybody to know it, don't you?"
"Do you remember how to get in touch with her?"
"Oh yes, it was such an odd name. Regina Summers, Old Well House, Iris Lane, Minton, Shropshire. I couldn't think what an old well house must look like, and my sister said it must be a hole in the ground because Tommy the slug would live in a hole. She thought it was funny, but I didn't."