"Why not? Surely, someone recognized the situation? After he nearly fell off the cliff at East Hill."
"My father was so busy mourning my mother he saw very little. And as for the school staff, no one liked Tommy. He didn't fit in. The Misses Tate saw him as a troublemaker."
"And you did nothing?"
She smiled sadly. "I was too young to understand. I just knew that people liked me and they didn't like my brother. I was glad they liked me, and I didn't want to lose that."
"Did Daniel Pierce take your brother's part when he was being bullied?"
"Sometimes he did. I think it was to be contrary, not because he liked Tommy. My brother saw Mr. Daniel after the war. He told me in his last letter. He expected Mr. Daniel to remember him, and his feelings were hurt when Mr. Daniel didn't. But he said Mr. Daniel had changed, that he was thin and not himself. He thought he'd been ill."
"Do you know when this was? Or where?"
"May or June of 1919. In London, I should think."
He thanked her and walked back to the motorcar.
Hamish said, "This is a verra' fine cottage, with yon flowers, and a' just as she likes it. She only needs her brother to walk her doon the aisle, no' here."
But if that brother was the killer, what, after all these years had set him on this road? H is route south and east took him within striking distance of Chaswell, and Rutledge decided he could afford half an hour out of his way to call on Rosemary Hume. Although he'd received Reginald's letter, his duty to Maxwell was personal.
As Reginald had noted, some of the sharp edges of the anger that had made her bitter had been blunted, and when Rutledge was shown into her sitting room, he could just see the telltale redness around her eyes from tears shed in the night.
Still, she greeted him with cool civility. He hadn't been forgiven.
"You find extraordinary excuses to come by Chaswell. I thought you had been sent to Sussex. That's a fair distance, if I recall my Baedeker.
He didn't take offense. "I think you'll find that Wales and Shropshire are in your vicinity. But yes, it was Sussex business that took me there."
She had never been comfortable with the fact that he was a policeman and not a solicitor or even a barrister if he chose to deal with crime at all. It had seemed to be a step out of character and out of class.
Relenting, she smiled and asked if he cared for tea. It was too early, she suggested, to offer him a drink.
"Thank you, but no. I must be on my way. Is Reginald still with you?"
"If you stopped in London to retrieve your mail, you will know that he is. I posted a letter for him not three days ago."
"I'm glad. He seemed in great distress at the funeral. I think Maxwell's death is partly to blame, and his lungs the rest."
"Stupid war," she said with some heat. "And where did it get us? Poorer than we were, and the world changed beyond our wildest expectations."
"It isn't Reginald's fault that he was gassed," he reminded her. But he knew what was in her mind: that her husband's cousin should have been the one to kill himself, not Max. Anyone but Max, anything but this drastic alteration in her world. "Do you think he would wish to see me, while I'm here?"
"He's in the garden. You know the way. You'll forgive me, won't you, for not walking out with you." She rose and held out her hand. "It was good to see you, Ian. Thank you for coming by."
He took her hand, held it for a moment. "When Reginald is-gone, if you need me, I'll come."
"I-thank you."
He turned away before she could know that he'd seen the tears welling in her eyes.
Reginald was sitting in a deck chair in the shade of a large maple. He appeared to be asleep, but the painful rise and fall of his chest told Rutledge he was not.
"You've become quite the man of leisure," Rutledge said as he came nearer, so as not to startle the ill man.
"This is a surprise! Hallo, Ian, it's good of you to come. Have you seen Rosemary?"
"Yes, just now. She thinks I've mistaken my Baedeker -Chaswell is nowhere near Sussex."
Reginald began to laugh, and it was cut short by a spasm of gasping for breath that was painful to watch.
When he had control of his breathing again, he said, "I'm glad you will be looking in on her. I'm not doing as well as the doctors had expected."
"Nonsense," Rutledge began in a rallying tone.
"I saw the doctor this morning. Doctor Bones, I call him. He is forever telling me that I shan't make old bones. But he's right. It's more and more of a struggle. And one day, it will be over. I could be at peace with that save for two things. Rosemary is one of them."
"And the other?"
"I don't want to be alone. But I don't want Rosemary to have to face it with me."
"I've already promised-"
"I know. But there's the Yard. Your time isn't your own. I've left instructions in a letter my solicitor keeps for me. And if you aren't here, there's another letter meant for you. For old time's sake."
"I'm glad you told me. I shall be here, if it's at all possible."
He rose and took Reginald's hand. "Would you prefer to be at home?"
"No, no. I think the decision to stay on here was a good one. Whether she wants to admit it or not, sometimes when I rattle about the place, she can pretend that Max is just in the other room, or upstairs, or sitting out here in his favorite chair. He'd taken to smoking a pipe out here, every afternoon, did you know? Smelled like the very devil, but he thought it might steady his nerves."
Rutledge said, "Then you've done the right thing."
He left soon afterward, wondering if he was likely to see Reginald alive again. But he'd meant his promise, and he would try to keep it.
Hamish was his companion on the rest of the drive back to Sussex, and they debated the whereabouts of Tommy Summers and Daniel Pierce, before the discussion moved on to Reginald and the war. Rutledge could feel the tension mounting as the voice grew louder in his ears, and he could feel himself slipping back into the waking nightmare of the trenches. He couldn't remember much about the last one hundred miles, but it was late when he rolled into Battle, passing the great gatehouse of the abbey ruins. Eastfield was not far away. He dreaded to hear that there had been another killing. Tuttle or one of the others.
Where the bloody hell was Tommy Summers? He knew where to lay hands on Pierce. N o one had died in his absence.
And Constable Walker was relieved to see him.
"There's no better news of Inspector Mickelson," he told Rutledge, "but Inspector Norman has asked to set up the inquest without him. Now that Carl Hopkins has been released. Waiting for the inspector to recover doesn't serve any purpose now."
"Yes, all right. And send word by Constable Petty that Hartle's body can be released. Perhaps we can tempt our murderer to attend the funeral service."
He had said it wryly, but Constable Walker asked, "Do you think that's likely?"
"That depends. Is there anyone in Eastfield who isn't well known to you? A distant cousin come to visit? A mate from the war-someone we could have overlooked?"
"Nobody. I've been thinking about it. I'd recognize Tommy Summers if I saw him."
"I doubt it." Rutledge told him of the visit to Regina Summers's cottage. "You're remembering the child, not the man. He could be someone we see every day but never think twice about."
"Constable Petty?" Walker asked with dry humor. "He's a great help, I don't doubt that, but the man gets on my nerves. Always creeping about. It's as if he knows where he's not wanted, and pops up there on purpose."
"If there are no strangers, what about someone who has lived quietly here for the past year or less? A new worker at the brewery? A laborer on one of the farms? Someone at Kenton Chairs? Above suspicion, because he's been accepted?"