by Charles Todd
“If I have any say in the matter, the inquest will be held here.”
Rutledge said, “He died here. It will be held here. But you said yourself, he’s one of ours.”
Norman didn’t answer. Finishing his tea, he said, “We’ll see about that in due course. For the moment, leave me to my work and I’ll not interfere with yours. We’ll see if we can trace his movements in Hastings. If you learn anything in Eastfield that will help with that—why he was here in the first place—I’ll thank you to make life easier for us.”
“I’ll speak to his employer.” Rutledge rose. “My motorcar should have been brought in by now. Thank you for the tea. I’ll be in touch.”
Walker hastily swallowed the contents of his cup and rose to follow Rutledge from Norman’s office.
Norman let them go without saying anything more, and Rutledge was glad to see that his motorcar was in truth waiting in front of the police station.
He and Walker stepped out in the rain, and Walker said, “Back to Eastfield?”
Rutledge answered, “I’d like to go back to that headland.”
Walker’s groan was almost audible. Rutledge turned to him. “You needn’t get out.”
There, Rutledge crisscrossed the headland, looking for clues. It was nearly hopeless, given the conditions, but his eyes were good, and he knew that there was only this one chance to find anything at all.
Hamish said, against the wail of the wind, “Give it up.”
He was right. The search turned up nothing more than a halfpenny, which could have been lying in the grass for months, if not years. The bearded face of Edward VII stared back at Rutledge as he turned it over.
Retracing his steps to the motorcar, he got in and said to Walker, “Do you know the doctor who was out here this morning?”
“Not well. He’s Dr. Thompson. His surgery is somewhere in Hill Street.”
“Then let’s find it.” Rutledge drove back the way he had come, and after some trouble, they finally saw the small shingle that hung by the doctor’s door.
The doctor’s nurse, a tall, spare woman with a sweet face, answered their knock and showed them into the surgery.
A body lay on a long table, covered now with a sheet. Clothing and other belongings had been set aside in a shallow bin to finish dripping.
Dr. Thompson was just washing his hands, and he turned to greet them. Recognizing them, he said, “You were on the headland, with Inspector Norman. Did he send you? I was just about to ask him to step around.”
Rutledge identified himself and Constable Walker. “I’ve been sent by London to take over the inquiry. Hartle isn’t the first victim of this killer. The others were in Eastfield.”
“Ah, yes, I remember something being said about jurisdiction. I’ll tell you what I’ve learned and confer with Inspector Norman later.” He added, after a moment, “As a courtesy.”
“What do you know so far?”
“That my initial conclusions were correct. There’s the throat, of course. Not manual strangulation but the use of a garrote. Abrasions from the fall over the cliff’s edge, but these occurred shortly after death, not before. He wasn’t alive when he hit the rocky ledge below. How long he’d been dead, I can’t tell you at the moment, but I would make an educated guess of sometime before midnight. Perhaps as early as ten or eleven o’clock. The cold rain hampers any more definitive conclusion. Have a look.” He pointed to the sheet where Hartle lay, and Rutledge walked over to lift it.
He could see the wound very clearly, now, and the cuts and scrapes Dr. Thompson had mentioned. “Any thoughts on what sort of garrote it is?”
“Wire, most likely, to cut that deep. More efficient than a silk cord or even knotted rope.” He pointed to a long jagged wound in the dead man’s abdomen. It had healed, but the scar was still prominent. “Bayonet, I’d say. A miracle he survived the infection that must have followed, never mind the damage done by the blade itself. As you can see, he’s a big man. He would have taken some killing. I daresay your murderer has a few bruises to show for it.” Lifting one of Hartle’s hands, he pointed to the fingers. “Initially I thought this was damage from the fall or the recovery. But I’m of the opinion he tried to pull whatever it was away from his throat. See the broken nails, and there’s some indication of dried blood under the others. I’d put his age at about twenty-eight. From the lines around his mouth, he must have been in some pain from his wound. And large as he is, strong as he no doubt was, he isn’t as filled out as he should be.”
Walker spoke for the first time. “Twenty-eight his last birthday.” He was about to ask a question, but Rutledge forestalled him
“Did you find anything else of interest?” he asked.
Dr. Thompson said, “I was just coming to that. Nothing to do with the cause of death or the state of the body, you understand. Inside the man’s mouth was an identity disc. From the war, you know. I didn’t quite—I was told this victim was Theo Hartle—I believe it was you, Constable, who identified him? From Eastfield. But the disc would say that this was a man named French from Herefordshire. I don’t quite understand why the disc was there—the war has been over for two years, after all—or why there is some question about the name of the victim.”
He passed the disc to Rutledge. It was clear that he was curious and wanted an answer to his question.
It was also apparent that the police hadn’t made such details public, and Dr. Gooding had examined the other three victims, not Dr. Thompson.
Rutledge said, looking at the name on the disc, “Please treat what I’m about to tell you as confidential. Only a handful of people know that this appears to be the—shall I call it the signature?—or the hallmark of this murderer? Identity discs from another man and another regiment left in the corpse’s mouth. If Walker tells us that this man is Theo Hartle, I believe him. Why the disc of one Corporal French should be there we haven’t yet determined. Which is why we aren’t making this information public.”
Dr. Thompson stared at him. “Your murderer must be a little mad to do such a thing.”
“We don’t know,” Rutledge answered, “whether he’s mad or clever or just vengeful. Not yet.”
Thompson shook his head. “At a guess, there’s something buried so deep in him—whoever he is—that he uses unnecessary force to kill with the garrote. The wound in Hartle’s throat is obscenely deep. The sea washed away most of the blood, but it must have been a ghastly sight to begin with. And it’s personal satisfaction he’s after, your murderer, not simply the man’s death. He could accomplish that far more easily.”
A fascinating point. Rutledge looked at Thompson, reassessing this portly, backwater doctor who had such insight into a killer’s mind.
Thompson, who must have guessed what Rutledge was thinking, smiled grimly. “I was in the war myself. I know what men are capable of doing to each other. I have no illusions on that score. I also discovered that some of them enjoyed it. That may be what you’re facing here, someone who misses the thrill of stalking and killing. Someone who has discovered he can’t live without it. Blood lust, Inspector, isn’t something only the lower animals experience.”
8
It was nearly one o’clock. Rutledge and Walker went in search of lunch and found themselves in a small corner shop that catered to workingmen. It was situated on a street where buildings backed up to the shelving land. The lower portion of the room was mainly a counter filled with various cooked meats, cheeses, and an array of sandwiches. On the upper level, reached by a half dozen steps, were bare tables and chairs, set out in front of a bar that dispensed tea, coffee, and cider as well as beer and ale.
They ordered from the smiling young woman who came up to their table and presented a handwritten menu listing what was available.
She was just bringing their sandwiches and glasses of cider when the sun came out. The streets and rooftops began to steam as the air warmed, and the neighboring houses gleamed wetly, giving them a just-washed look. The young woman glan
ced over her shoulder and said, “There. And about time too.” Turning back to the two men and noting that one was a policeman with rain-darkened shoulders, she added, “Were you there on the headland when they brought that poor soul in?”
“Just caught in the downpour,” Rutledge answered for both of them.
“It’s brave they were, going out to the edge of the headland that way, and in such a storm. Bits crumble, and it’s easy to lose one’s footing and go over. Every summer someone ventures too near the edge and goes over. Never fails. You’d think they’d mind the signs that are put up each year, but they never do. And some of them let their children romp and play up there, as if it were the back garden and safe as houses. Last May it was a little boy flying a kite who fell. I hope this wasn’t a child. It’s a crime the way some parents haven’t the sense they were born with. Even the smugglers knew better!”
And she moved on to another table. Walker said, “There are smugglers’ caves all about Hastings. It was a lucrative enterprise when French goods were banned. And there’s some who say that it goes on still, when nobody is looking.” He bit off the end of his sandwich and added around it, “Do you think Dr. Thompson was right? About our murderer liking the feeling of killing?”
“It’s one other solution. It may even explain the discs—that in his mind these keep the war alive. But where did he come by these? That’s what I need to find out. Whether or not they have any particular significance.”
“Odd that Inspector Norman never mentioned the disc in Hartle’s mouth. Or had the doctor told him?”
“There hadn’t been time.” Rutledge finished his cider and beckoned to the woman who had waited on them. He paid the accounting and waited for Walker to retrieve his helmet and cape from the other chair.
“I’ve put it off as long as I can,” he was saying. “But there’s his sister to tell. She’ll be broken up about this. I doubt her husband will. They never got on together, he and Theo.”
Rutledge stopped on his way to the door. “Do you think he could have done this?”
“His legs are in braces. Poliomyelitis.”
As Walker cranked the motorcar, Rutledge looked out to sea. The heavy gray clouds were far out along the horizon now, making their way to France.
Ahead lay the duty he disliked the most. Breaking news to an anxious family. He could have left it to Walker, but that was not his way.
“How did anyone lure Hartle out onto the headland?” Walker asked as he joined Rutledge in the motorcar. “And after dark. Hartle was a canny man, he wouldn’t have gone there without a plausible reason.”
They drove in silence back to Eastfield, and Constable Walker pointed out where the dead man’s sister lived.
It was a simple bungalow in a street of similar houses, single story, squat roof, and a small garden behind.
Constable Walker broke the silence as they got out of the motorcar. “I’ve done this three times now. Pray God it’s the last.”
Together they went up the walk. A curtain twitched in the room to the left of the door.
Even as they reached for the knocker, a woman was opening the door to them, her face anxious, her fair brows drawn together in a frown of uncertainty.
“Constable Walker,” she said, her glance flicking to Rutledge’s face.
She was very unlike her brother, Rutledge noted. Smaller boned, fair hair where his was the color of wheat, her face softer and her eyes a pretty brown. Behind her, just visible in the shadows over her shoulder, was a man in a wheeled chair, his face pinched and sour.
“Mrs. Winslow, this is Inspector Rutledge from London—”
Her face crumpled. “It’s Theo, isn’t it? Oh, my God, I knew it—I knew it when he didn’t stop by last evening—”
“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Winslow. He was found early this morning in Hastings.”
She put her hands to her face and began to cry.
Behind her, her husband put out his hand, as if to offer comfort, and then dropped it.
Rutledge gently led her from the door and into a small sitting room, where he’d seen the curtain twitch earlier, settling her on the stiff horsehair sofa. The man in the invalid chair followed them into the room, saying, “What happened to him then? Tell me what happened?”
Rutledge turned slightly toward him and said, “In due course. Constable, perhaps Mr. Winslow will show you where you could make some tea. I think his wife will be grateful for it.”
At first he thought Walker would refuse, but then the constable realized that getting the husband out of the room was important at this stage. He turned to Winslow and said, “Where’s the kitchen, then?” as if in such a small house it would be hard to find.
Winslow cast a glance at his wife, then looked at Rutledge and saw that the suggestion was, in fact, a command that brooked no argument. He spun his invalid chair and with poor grace led the constable away.
Rutledge found a clean, dry handkerchief in an inner pocket and gave it to the weeping woman. She took it gratefully. He said, his voice pitched not to carry beyond this room, “Was your brother in the war?” It was an attempt to distract her from her immediate grief.
She nodded.
“With the rest of the Eastfield volunteers?”
A muffled yes came from behind the handkerchief. And then she raised her eyes to meet his gaze, a slow and awful truth dawning. “He—was he—like the others?”
“I’m sorry. Yes.”
“I thought—I thought perhaps there had been an accident on the road. He wasn’t feeling well, but he went to Hastings anyway yesterday, taking the van. The shipment of varnish from London hadn’t come. Mr. Kenton asked him to see if he could find a few tins to tide them over. He shouldn’t have been driving at all, but he wouldn’t tell Mr. Kenton that. I thought—I thought he might have taken his own life. Trying not to shame us.”
Her voice failed, and Rutledge found himself thinking of Rosemary Hume. Murder was sometimes not the worst news to reach a household.
“Why did you fear he might do himself a harm?” he asked, after giving her a moment to collect herself. In another room he could hear the rattle of cups and low voices as the two banished men talked quietly.
“His stomach. It hasn’t been the same. He was always one to like his food, but now he had to watch what he ate. No cheese or rich sauces, not even an occasional curry. Nothing with spices. And he did like his mulled cider of an evening when it was cold. He had to give it all up. Only the plainest of boiled meats and potatoes and vegetables. His favorite dish was parsnips roasted in goose drippings, but he couldn’t have it. Everything was tasteless, he said, and still his stomach would reject everything sometimes, and he’d be violently ill, you could hear him all over the house. Virgil said it kept him half nauseated as well, but I felt for Theo, and lay there in bed listening to him, and praying he wouldn’t begin those terrible dry heaves that went on for hours.”
“Your brother lived with you?”
“When he first came out of hospital. There was no one else. Mum and Dad were gone, and Mary and the baby died of the Spanish influenza before ever he was wounded. That must have broken his heart, but he never mentioned them when he came home. He went to the churchyard by himself, not even asking me to come and show him where they were. And as soon as he could, he went back to the farm and lived there alone. It wasn’t a working farm anymore, but it was our home. He felt comfortable with his memories. That’s what he said. Comfortable. As if he could talk to them somehow. Mum and Dad, Mary and the baby.”
“How was the relationship between your brother and your husband?”
“Not very good,” she told him with resignation in her voice. “Theo didn’t want me to marry Virgil, you see. He thought it was pity I felt, and not love.” She hesitated, and then asked, “Was it quick? How my brother died?” She waited, braced for his answer.
“Quickly enough,” Rutledge said. “You know about the other deaths?”
“Oh, yes, it’s all over Eastfield, that�
��s all anyone talks about. I expect they’ll be gossiping about poor Theo now. I feel guilty, I’ve done my share of the gossiping, and now I see it wasn’t right.”
“Did your brother have enemies? Did anything that happened in the war seem to worry him?”
“He never talked about the war. Not to me. He just came home, put away his uniform, and got on with his life. I asked him once if it was very bad, being wounded, and all he said was, it was the ticket out.”
“Was he closer to someone in particular? A friend in the Army, someone here in Eastfield?”
“There’s no one I know of who would harm Theo. Why should they? He was a good man, he never was any trouble growing up. He helped his father at Kenton’s and never complained. They liked him there. They did from the beginning . . .” Her voice trailed off as she stared into space, reliving another time and place. “I can’t see any point to killing him. I mean, there’s no money to speak of, although he was never in debt.”
“When he came back from France, was he on good terms with the men he’d served with? Did he have any problems with Anthony Pierce?”
“I don’t know. I mean, he never spoke of trouble. He never went looking for it, for that matter. They’d all changed—they didn’t sit about talking over what they’d done in the trenches. It was as if it hadn’t happened, in a way. But of course it had, hadn’t it?” She frowned. “Theo was given a medal. He must have been brave. But I don’t know what he did.”
It was something Rutledge had heard often enough since his own return to England. Censorship, of course, meant that letters home could say very little about where men were or what they were doing. And many of those at home in England had no means of knowing what war in the trenches—or on board ships for that matter—was really like. The images they had were often so far off the mark in many instances that no one would recognize in them the reality of France. He had spoken to a woman who had told him quite proudly that her dead son had had a good bed and clean sheets every night he was away from home. He’d told her so himself. Rutledge hadn’t disabused her of the notion—one her son had no doubt cultivated for her sake. And to her question about his own situation on the Somme, he had assured her that he too had slept well. He’d been rewarded by a smile and a nod, as if she had been happy for him. Of course many families had known the truth of the savagery their loved ones were caught up in, but even they had sometimes preferred lies.