A Lonely Death ir-13

by Charles Todd

  Rutledge took a deep breath. "Everyone. If he wore a uniform, I want his name on that list."

  Walker pulled a sheet of paper from the side drawer of his desk and picked up his pen.

  Mumbling to himself, he went through the village in his mind, house by house,

  At length he looked up. Rutledge had waited patiently, watching the list grow.

  "Seven," Walker said. He turned the sheet around so that Rutledge could read the names he'd written and their branch of service.

  "Very good," Rutledge said. "How many of these were in school together as boys?"

  "All but this one," he said, pointing to Alistair Nelson. "He came here when his father was brought in to work at the brewery. He was sixteen, at a guess, and he went off to join the Navy as soon as war was declared."

  "Then withdraw his name, if you will. That leaves us with six men. Find them for me, and bring them here to the station. And tell them to be prepared to be away from home for three nights. I may need longer than that, but we'll begin with three."

  "Here, some of these men have families-duties-they can't just walk away."

  "Tell them they have this afternoon to find someone to help them with their work. But I want them here an hour before nightfall."

  "What are you planning on doing with them?" Walker asked. "They'll want to know that as well."

  "They don't need to know. But I intend to lock them up here and hold them without visitors."

  "Incarcerate them? But what have they done? That's a bit harsh-"

  "Murder is harsher. I want them under your eye until I return. And I shall hold you responsible if they're set free for any reason at all."

  "And where will you be?" Walker asked, goaded.

  "I'm going to track down some of the men whose identity discs we have. If I can't find answers here in Eastfield, I can at least make certain no one dies while I'm in another part of the country. I'll leave written orders. You won't be held accountable for my actions."

  Walker studied him for a moment. "You believe the men whose names are on this list may be the next victims? Sir? One of them is my nephew!"

  "All the more reason to keep him safe," Rutledge replied. "One man has already died on my watch. I won't see another killed while I'm away. We can't protect all six of them all of the time, Walker, we don't have the manpower, and I don't think Hastings will agree to lending us men. But if this killer keeps to his schedule, there will in fact be another murder before I return. The solution is to put his victims beyond his reach. It will be inconvenient, I grant you. But the risk is not acceptable."

  It was easier said than done. Walker sought out each of the six men, sent them grumbling to the police station, and even after Rutledge had explained why he was taking this step, there was strong opposition to his plan.

  "I can't be away for three nights," Hector Marshall exclaimed. "I've got cows to milk, vegetables to hoe, chickens to feed."

  Another man added that his wife was pregnant and likely to deliver at any time.

  Two more told Rutledge they could look after themselves and didn't need his help doing it.

  He answered only, "I'm sure Theo Hartle would have said the same. He was a bigger man than any of you. And still he was murdered."

  Walker's nephew, Billy Tuttle, said, "With all due respect, sir, what if it's one of us? The killer, I mean. And we're shut in together?" He looked at the others defiantly. "I'm not saying it is, not by any means, but it bears thinking about."

  The last two to come in asked why they should be punished when they'd done nothing wrong, refusing outright to stay in a cell.

  Rutledge listened patiently to their protests and then said, "Very well. Let's make it simple. We needn't draw straws. Tell me, which of you will volunteer to become the fifth victim? Step forward. I'll release you as a stalking horse, to see if you're on the killer's list. Or not. And if the murderer should be one of you, he will most certainly have to wait until he's free before killing again. He's not a fool, whatever else he may be. He won't kill here."

  They stared at him.

  "It won't work," Marshall told him point-blank. He was a small, compact man with a broken nose and an obvious dislike of authority. "You can't be sure that madman is after one of us. Why not the greengrocer? Or the foreman at the brewery? The rector, or the clerk at the hotel?"

  "Are you volunteering?" Rutledge asked.

  "I'm not volunteering-" Marshall began.

  Rutledge cut him short. "I remind you, each victim was alone after dark. No one saw the killer arrive, no one saw him leave. Think of a better plan, and I'll consider it."

  Marshall objected again. "Look, we don't know why those four died. I'm not saying it's something they did. Or didn't do. But my conscience is clear. Why should I run with my tail between my legs, like?"

  There was a silence.

  "Step forward. Who among you feels safe enough to take such a risk? You survived the war, the lot of you. Are you feeling lucky?"

  They talked amongst themselves and then turned back to him.

  "Three days," Walker's nephew said. "Not an hour more."

  "Thank you. But I warn you, if you give Constable Walker here any reason for complaint, I'll have the lot of you in charge for obstructing the police. Is that clear?"

  The man called Henderson said, "Where will you be?"

  "Tracking down connections between the living and the dead. Unless you can tell me what you believe this is all about? Unless you know something that I don't-and Constable Walker doesn't. What happened in France?"

  "Nothing," Henderson replied. "Nothing that would lead to murder, then or now. We served with honor. All of us." There was the ring of truth in his voice.

  But he hadn't been in the company that left Eastfield together. Three years younger than the rest, according to Walker, he'd volunteered on his seventeenth birthday and had served with the new tank corps. Like Anthony Pierce, he was an outsider. Still, Pierce had been murdered anyway.

  No one else spoke up. Rutledge waited, looking each man in the eye, and they dropped their gaze first, even Marshall.

  Hamish said into the silence, "Ye ken, it might not be what they did, but what they failed to do. And they wouldna' remember that."

  Rutledge answered him in his mind. This killer could have moved on to Hastings or Rye or even London. But he hasn't. Because his quarry is still here.

  Half an hour later, he left Eastfield behind.

  Walker's parting words were, "I hope you find something that makes this incarceration worthwhile." There was an undercurrent of doubt in his voice.

  Rutledge's first stop was in Hastings to see if any progress had been made in tracing Hartle's movements before he was killed.

  Inspector Norman said testily, "It's early days. But he was seen in a shop that carries varnish at half past ten in the morning. They didn't have what he needed, and he went to another place of business and found it closed. He came back half an hour later and bought four tins of the varnish. He was to pick them up at two o'clock. At that point, it appears he had lunch in a small pub that fishermen frequent. Apparently he knew the pub's cook in France. He visits the man whenever he's in Hastings. Yesterday the man wasn't there. His wife's mother was being taken to hospital in Eastbourne for suspected appendicitis. We checked, and she was admitted for surgery. Hartle waited for him at the pub, and the cook returned to Hastings at three-fifteen. The two men sat down together for a good twenty minutes, and Hartle asked if the family was able to pay for the mother-in-law's care. Then a little before four o'clock, Hartle left to retrieve his tins, ostensibly on his way home to Eastfield, or so the cook says. He could think of no reason why Hartle would delay returning-he'd got what he'd come for. We know for certain our man left the pub close on to four. Half a dozen people can vouch for that. After that, we lose him."

  "Then that must be when he encountered the killer."

  "You can't be sure of it. It's possible my men will turn up something more by the end of the day."


  "Where is the van he was driving when he arrived in Hastings?"

  "We haven't found it yet. It doesn't mean we won't. I don't fancy the idea that this man, whoever he is, is setting up shop in Hastings. I want him to go back to Eastfield. At least until you've made a little progress toward identifying him."

  "This fellow soldier Hartle visits when he's here in Hastings-is the man in the clear?"

  "Oh yes, he couldn't overpower Hartle if he tried. Consumptive, if you ask me. Thin as a rail."

  Rutledge drew a breath in frustration. "Keep looking. I'm on my way to London to investigate these discs. Call the Yard and ask for Sergeant Gibson, if you need to reach me."

  But he wasn't ready to leave Hastings just yet. He went in search of the pub, The Fisherman's Catch, and saw that it was a small establishment that catered to men who ate hearty in the morning and were in bed well before nine in the evening, to sail with the sand fleet before the sun rose.

  Hamish said, "He wouldna' stay o'er long, if he was to reach home at a reasonable hour."

  "He must have done this time. Was someone following him? Or did the killer know he was being sent to Hastings yesterday? It's uncanny how well someone understood the habits of the first three victims and where to find them alone at night. If he's watching them, he lives in Eastfield. That's one of the reasons I penned those men in the police station."

  The cook, one Bill Mason, was in the middle of preparing a roast for the evening meal, and Rutledge agreed to interview him in the kitchen.

  It was small, crowded, noisy, and almost unbearably hot. Claustrophobic, Rutledge felt the beginnings of a cold sweat.

  "I've already talked to Inspector Norman's men," Mason said, busy basting the roast and then preparing potatoes and onions to add to the pan. Inspector Norman had called him thin, but he was cadaverous, his hands shaking, his cheeks sunken, a nervous tic by one eye.

  Rutledge recognized the symptoms. Shell shock, not consumption. He swallowed hard, to keep his own voice from cracking as he said, "They must have asked you about when Hartle came here, and when he left. I want to know if he was afraid of anyone?"

  The sunken gray eyes turned to gaze for a moment at Rutledge's face.

  "Afraid?"

  "Yes. Of anything. Anyone. Did you serve with him in France?"

  "We met in hospital. We never fought together." Mason turned back to his work, as someone from the bar shouted a request for a ham sandwich with pickle. A helper, who had been listening in to the conversation, reluctantly turned away to fill the order. Mason watched him for a moment, then said quietly, "I don't know that Theo Hartle was afraid. Not exactly. But he saw someone here in Hastings. Yesterday morning, while he was looking to buy the varnish. He couldn't put a name to the face, and that worried him. He caught just a glimpse, mind you, but he couldn't get it out of his head. When I came back from Eastbourne, he was waiting for me here. He wanted me to help him search, and see if I recognized the man. I told him to leave well enough alone."

  "Why did he think you might know this man?"

  "When he was in hospital, there were days when Theo was barely conscious. He thought I might be able to put a name to the face. He said it was important to know." He finished peeling the potatoes and set them aside.

  Rutledge said, "He was hoping it was someone from the hospital? Or not?"

  "He was hoping it was. He said he'd feel better if it was."

  "Did the man seem to recognize Hartle?"

  "I don't know. Theo didn't say anything about that. He just didn't want it to be the father."

  "Whose father?"

  The cook's hands were shaking. He put aside the carrot he was trying to scrape and clutched the edge of the table with taut fingers, his head down. "Just go away. Now. I can't-you're pushing too hard. Please."

  Rutledge could hear his own voice saying, "Lives depend on this. Whose father?" But he was watching the color drain from Mason's face, and the way his eyes were blinking, as if he couldn't focus them properly.

  Hamish's voice was loud between them, warning Rutledge to stop. And Rutledge could feel himself losing control, blackness sweeping through his mind, the sound of the guns so loud he wanted to press his hands over his ears and hide from it.

  But he was here for a reason, and he gripped that the way most men would grip sanity, and said again, "Whose?"

  He could hardly hear the reply. It was a whisper lost in the roar of guns that wouldn't stop.

  "He wouldn't tell me. For God's sake, he wouldn't tell me. And I let him go hunting for that man alone, because I'm a coward."

  Rutledge reached out and clapped Mason on the shoulder, a comradely gesture, but the man shrunk from him, cringing until he was lying on the floor in a tight knot, protecting his body.

  "He wouldn't tell me. For God's sake, he wouldn't tell me. And I let him go looking for the man alone."

  Ashamed, Rutledge stumbled out of the kitchen, somehow found his way to the door and into the street. He leaned against the wing of the motorcar, sick. The sounds slowly receded, and after a time, the darkness also withdrew. He straightened up, ignoring Hamish still raving in his mind.

  9

  L eaving the motorcar where it was, Rutledge began walking, heading nowhere, one street after another, left and then right and then left again.

  After a while, he found he was standing in front of a small shop, its black-and-white-striped awning affording a little shade from the now warm sun. Gradually he noticed that he was staring at a display of porcelain figures, jeweled fans, small dolls in colorful costumes, enameled silver snuffboxes, and ornate black lacquerware with scenes from fairy tales fancifully painted across the tops.

  He had no idea where he was. Looking up at the scrolled letters on the shop window, he realized that this was where Russian emigres had put their personal belongings up for sale.

  Turning away, he tried to get his bearings. There was the distant headland, green now in the sunlight, where Hartle's body had been found. Using that as his guide, he walked in an easterly direction until he realized that he was coming out of a side street that ended near the water.

  The pub was several streets over. Glancing at his watch, he realized that he'd been walking for more than an hour. He swore and was about to turn up toward the pub and his motorcar when another shop window caught his eye.

  The display was of all things military. Gold braided tricorns, an assortment of swords, and a polished table where tiny lead soldiers fought pitched battles. There was a rusty halberd, books on military tactics from wars long past, a pistol with a split barrel, and even a well-used Kaiser Wilhelm helmet with its pointed spike, and a long spear that appeared to be East African.

  On the spur of the moment, he went inside. The proprietor was an elderly man with streaks of gray in his fair hair, and bright blue eyes. He glanced up from a sock he was mending as the bell over the door jingled, and smiled at Rutledge. "Looking for anything in particular?" he asked in a deep, gruff voice.

  "Identity discs from the war. Do you ever see them? Or have them for sale?"

  The crinkles around the blue eyes deepened. "There's no market for that sort of thing. They were rather flimsily made, as a rule. Buttons, now, and uniforms-they turn up. I have a button hook, from the Grenadier Guards. Any number of shell casings, some of them with trench art, others plain. An officer's whistle, well-polished riding boots with gilt spurs-even several pairs of field glasses."

  Hamish had subsided in his mind, and Rutledge was about to turn away when something caught his eye in the glass display case where he was standing. It contained smaller and more expensive objects kept under lock and key. There were an ivory pipe, a cigarette case made from what appeared to be tortoiseshell, a flint knife, a few American Civil War lead soldiers, and assorted buttons, watches, rings, and other pieces of jewelry inscribed with military insignia.

  He pointed to the knife. "What can you tell me about that?"

  "It's said to be quite old. Struck from a single
large flint. The gentleman who brought it in told me his grandfather had turned it up while working in his garden. It set him off on a search for an ancient burial site, thinking there might be funeral goods. But to no end." The proprietor took the object out of the case. "You can see how the blows were struck to shape the blade. Careful," he added as he passed it to Rutledge. "It's sharp enough to cut hide."

  Rutledge took the blade. "How was it used?"

  "According to a Dr. Butler who comes in from time to time, it would have had a handle, a length of wood with a fork at one end, into which the blade would have been inserted." He pointed to the blunt end. "See how it's notched? Rawhide would be wrapped tightly around wood and blade, and perhaps soaked, for a tight fit. If you knew what you were about, you could flense a hide just with the blade, but if you were of a mind to stab a woolly mammoth, you'd need the handle for a sure grip. Short handle for jabbing, longer piece of wood for throwing. Of course, if this is as old as it's said to be, the wood and the rawhide have long since rotted away. A pity, but there you are."

  "Yes, I see." Rutledge gingerly tested an edge, and could see that it was quite remarkably sharp still. "Where did you say it was found?"

  "I didn't. But from what I was told, the old grandfather lived in East Anglia. There's flint there, along the north coast." He reached into the case again and drew out two or three unprepossessing round gray stones, and with them half of a stone, showing the shiny black surface of the flint inside. Rutledge was well aware of what flint looked like. But he let the proprietor continue his explanation of how flint tools could be made. "Stone Age or not, but whoever discovered how to do this sort of work must have had a monopoly in his day. Everyone came to him for their blades. Until someone else learned how to do it a little better or a little faster. Striking the blow in the right place to make a sharp edge rather than break the edge off-that's the skill right there."

  Rutledge said after a moment, "A long way to come, to sell you this find."

  "I was of the same opinion." The man shrugged. "But it's a fine piece of its kind. Only it never sold. There's not much call for something this old. I've kept it more as a curiosity than anything else. What's a military shop without what must have been one of the first tools of war?"