A Lonely Death

14

R utledge drove to his flat, packed his valise, and shut the door just as the post arrived. He paused on his doorstep to sort through the handful of letters, and found one there from Chief Inspector Cummins.

He put that into his pocket and set the rest of the post inside on the table where he habitually kept it, then turned the key in the lock and walked out to his motorcar.

Hamish had been busy in the back of his mind for some time, and he tried to ignore the voice. But it followed him out of London and most of the way to Kent.

"Ye ken," Hamish was pointing out, "yon inspector kept his eye on the main chance from the start. He was canny enough to study where you'd been before him, to appear he finished what you werena' there to do. And so he got full marks for your work. All because ye let yon headstrong woman draw ye into a personal challenge."

Mickelson had indeed done just that and would receive the coveted promotion. Aside from any personal feelings toward the man, Rutledge knew all too well that he was vindictive and shallow. Chief Inspector Cummins had been neither, and he was respected for leading by example, bringing out the best in the men under him. All the same, Chief Superintendent Bowles would cover any mistakes, if for no other reason than to make certain Mickelson's failings didn't reflect on his own judgment.

As for Mrs. Farrell-Smith, Rutledge hadn't challenged her so much as he'd threatened her in some fashion. What was she so afraid of? Something she didn't want him to know? Or something that she didn't want to become public knowledge?

He couldn't stop dwelling on events in London, and he knew that was because he was still very angry indeed. It was a lovely summer's day in what many called the Garden of England, the road unwinding at what felt like a hideously slow pace, even though he was making good time. He had not telephoned Melinda Crawford. He had intended to surprise her. Now he realized that he should have been more courteous. Too late now. He'd have to rely on her joy at seeing him again. When his sister had gone there for a visit recently, along with his godfather, Rutledge had had his own reasons for not joining them.

The truth was, Melinda, like Meredith Channing, saw too much. Many years and a vast difference in experience separated the two women, but in their own way, they had much in common. Both had lost their husbands at a young age and had had to make peace with that loss.

Was that why he had come here? Because Melinda reminded him of Meredith?

Nonsense, he told himself sharply. Melinda had been friends with his own parents, and he'd known her most of his life. Hers was a story that had appealed to a boy's sense of adventure. As a child she'd survived the Great Indian Mutiny and the bloody, vicious siege of Lucknow. She had married her cousin against all advice, and then after her husband's death she had not led a retiring life. She had visited friends all over India, traveling on her own. Finally she had journeyed back to England by a circuitous route that had been of her own choosing, a shockingly forward thing for a well-brought-up woman to do, disappointing those who had expected her to be murdered in her bed for disregarding their dire warnings. Now she lived with her Indian staff in a house that had been in her family for many years, amidst a collection of treasures that she had readily shared with an inquisitive little boy.

At length he found himself at the foot of her drive, the summer borders rampant with color. Melinda loved color and often said that she had lived too long in the desert stretches of India, where the few trees offered only fragile shade and the land was barely fit for camels and goats.

When the door opened, the Indian woman standing there stared at him in disbelief, and then said, "You are a ghost. Come to bring us terrible tidings." But the smile in her eyes belied her words.

He returned the smile. "I've come to beg a room for a day or two. Do you think Melinda will spare one for me?"

"She will be happy indeed. It's been too long." Leading him into the cool shadows of the hall, she added, "I think you haven't forgotten your way? Or must I come and announce you?"

He said, "I know my way."

"But still I will come with you, if only to see the Memsahib's face when she finds you in the doorway."

He tapped lightly on the first door in the passage across from the broad staircase and heard a voice call testily, "It's about time. I saw you come up the drive. Let me look at you and then give me a kiss."

Laughing, Rutledge did as he was told, crossing the room to kiss the wrinkled cheek of a woman who had kept her youthful beauty into old age, her iron gray hair still framing her face and dark eyes as it had done for as long as he could remember, and giving her a presence that few women possessed.

She held his hand for a long moment and then said, "What's happened?"

"Nothing has happened. I missed you."

"Your eyes are angry. Well, you'll tell me when you're ready. I'm just grateful you are here, and I'll make the most of it. Go on, your room is ready for you-it always is-and then come back and tell me about London."

Rutledge did as he was commanded, and brought down with him a book he'd been keeping to give her. She thanked him and set it aside. "I'll read it when you've gone. I've missed your company. Tell me all the news and gossip." T he next two days flew by. Rutledge soon realized that Melinda was making it her business to keep him entertained in an effort to counteract the seething anger that he'd brought to her door.

She knew something about men, and so she asked him no questions. Although she never spoke of it, he thought she'd guessed that he had turned from France with a wound that couldn't be seen or touched or healed. What he didn't know was how much she knew. Certainly not about Hamish, thank God, but possibly about his shell shock. For she had worried about him for the past year or more, and when he had survived and then found a way to live rather than die, she had quietly applauded his courage.

He found himself telling her about the murder that had taken place in 1905, and she had listened attentively, saying only, "On what was his last day at the Yard, why did this man Cummins tell you about such a long-ago crime?"

"I think, to get it off his chest. He isn't the sort of man who accepts failure lightly."

"No, I expect there was another reason. You've told him of your own discoveries? What has he had to say about them?"

"In fact, there was a letter from him in the post before I left London." He patted his pockets, found it, and drew it out.

It was very brief. A matter of a few lines. He read them aloud. My grandfather was Charles Henry Cummins. I visited his home as a child. In East Anglia. His garden was his pride and joy. What the hell is this all about?

"Well, well," Melinda said after a moment. "I wonder why this man chose Hastings to sell his murder weapon?"

Rutledge said slowly, "I don't know. I've asked myself that same question."

"It was deliberate, you must see that." Melinda frowned. "If he went to so much trouble to make sure the knife was carefully documented, then he had a reason. Perhaps it was his name-the murderer's. Or the name of the victim."

He thought, fleetingly, of the Salisbury solicitor who was nowhere to be found. Was it that connection-or Cummins's?

"That's a fascinating idea. I'll have to give it some thought. But why, three years later, would a man who had successfully eluded the police and had nothing to fear, leave clues that could lead to his arrest?"

"A guilty conscience?"

"Murderers seldom have guilty consciences," he told her wryly.

"But if this was a sacrifice, perhaps he did?"

Rutledge smiled. "You should have become a policeman, Melinda. The Yard would have benefitted from your cleverness."

"Oh, no, my dear, the Yard doesn't want women underfoot. We could prove to be too much competition for men set in their ways." Her dark eyes sparkled. "As my late husband could have told you, I have no ambitions."

He left the next morning, reconciled to what lay ahead. Melinda Crawford had kept him too busy to dwell on the Yard-he had an uncomfortable suspicion that it was intentional-that she had seen the tension in him and even without understanding it, she had dealt with it by distracting him. He wished he could have said something to her about Meredith Channing, to hear her opinion there. But if he had, he'd have had to tell Melinda more about his time in France than he could bear to put into words.

Her house was in the most western edge of Kent, and he had just crossed into Surrey when a Kent police vehicle quickly overtook him and waved him to one side.

Rutledge pulled over, assuming that the Yard was searching for him. He waited for the constable sitting beside the driver to get out and come to speak to him.

"Inspector Rutledge?" the constable said, bending his frame a little so as to see Rutledge's face more clearly. He was a tall, angular man with a scar across his chin.

"Yes, I'm Rutledge. What is it?"

Hamish, from the rear seat, said, " 'Ware!"

"You're wanted in Hastings, sir. Straightaway. I've been sent by London to find you and bring you to Sussex as quickly as possible."

Surprised, Rutledge said, "I'm no longer involved with the inquiry there. Didn't London tell you that?"

"Their instructions were to take you directly to Hastings. If you don't object, sir, I'll ride with you to your destination."

Rutledge said, "You aren't a Hastings man. No need to waste your time there."

"No, sir, I'm from Rochester. And we have our instructions, sir."

Rutledge was silent for a moment, weighing that, and then said to the constable, "Get in."

The man nodded and walked around the bonnet to open the passenger door.

Rutledge had expected the other vehicle to turn back, but when he drove on, it followed him at a distance. It was still there when he headed south to Sussex at the next crossroads. The constable was staring straight ahead with nothing to say for himself.

"What's this about? Do you know?"

"Sir, I'm not at liberty to discuss the matter."

Giving it up, Rutledge fell silent, an uneasy feeling beginning to build in his mind. This was how a suspect was arrested if found on the road. Except that he would be asked to step into the police car, leaving the constable to drive his.

There was the charge of improper conduct against him, but Chief Inspector Hubbard had all but told him that if he took a few days leave voluntarily, it would be ignored.

What else had Mrs. Farrell-Smith found to say about him? He'd have thought she would have been satisfied to see him withdrawn from the case.

Or had she learned that he had uncovered the facts surrounding her husband's death? That was an old case, not something that he had permission to reopen. But did she know that?

It was another hour before Rutledge drove through Eastfield and down the Old London Road into the Old Town. He hadn't expected to return here, now that the inquiry had been successfully concluded.

The morning sun sparkled on the water, touching the tips of the choppy waves with gold and catching the sail of a small private craft tacking down the coast, a white triangle against the blue of the sky.

He reached the police station and pulled in behind another vehicle standing there, and the constable accompanying him got out.

"Thank you for cooperating, sir. It's much appreciated." He gestured to the door. "This way, if you please."

Rutledge led the way inside, and the sergeant on the desk recognized him.

"If you'll wait here, sir, I'll send someone to fetch Inspector Norman."

"I know the way to his office-" Rutledge began, but the sergeant shook his head.

"If you'll wait here," he repeated.

"Yes, all right," Rutledge said, irritated now.

Five minutes later, Inspector Norman strode briskly into the room and said without any greeting of any sort, "Inspector Ian Rutledge, I am arresting you on the charge of attempted murder."

Rutledge stood there, speechless. And then he was being led away, and the constable from Rochester was turning to leave.

"What the devil is this all about, Norman?"

Hamish was warning him not to lose his temper, and he held on to that advice with a tight grip.

Inspector Norman had nothing to say to him, and Rutledge had no choice but to go with the constables, who escorted him to a room in the back of the station.

They asked him to empty his pockets, give them his belt and his tie and his watch, and then they wrote out a careful receipt for him. There were holding cells in the back of the police station, and as he was escorted there, Rutledge had the impression they'd been dug out of the bedrock, because they were windowless, and he could feel the dampness emanating from them. There were four of them, and they looked, in fact, more like a dungeon than prison cells. There was no natural light, no fresh air, and they were too small to contemplate. And before he was quite ready to face it, the iron-barred door was swinging shut behind him, and the two constables were walking away, leaving him there.

He tried to think why he should have been arrested on a charge of attempted murder, and then realized that if anything had happened to Mrs. Farrell-Smith, the Hastings police might wish to question him. But an arrest?

It would have required the approval of the Yard to send the Kent police looking for him. Had they been to Melinda Crawford's house, asking for him? Or had they been scouring the county for him, and had just had the good fortune to spot him on his way to London?

He refused to consider where he was, he refused to look at the dimensions of the cell, the walls, the furnishings. He hated confinement, and this was the ultimate of that. He kept his eyes on the floor, and wished for his watch. It wouldn't be long before someone came for him. He couldn't remain here for very long. He could already feel panic rising.

He waited what he estimated to be half an hour, his temper nearly getting the best of him, before Inspector Norman came back to the holding cells and said, "I'll not handcuff you. Call it professional courtesy, one officer to another. But you'll have to give me your word that you'll not cause me any trouble while I take you to my office for questioning. They're sending someone down from the Yard, but this is my patch, and I'll do my own questioning, thank you very much."

"I give you my word," Rutledge said through clenched teeth, and the cell door was opened. Without looking back, he followed Inspector Norman to his office and took the chair indicated. "What are the charges against me? I've a right to hear them."

Norman walked around to his own chair, sat down, and considered Rutledge. "I've told you. Attempted murder. Very likely murder-it's going to be touch and go on that. Dr. Gooding holds out little hope. When we put in a call to London with word of what had happened, Chief Superintendent Bowles ordered us to bring you in. He himself spoke to the Chief Constable in Kent, where you were said to be staying. And the Kent police went looking for you. Now London is sending someone down. Hubbard, I think the name was."

"And who is it I'm said to have attempted to kill?"

Inspector Norman said, "Where were you these past two nights?"

"I was staying with a friend in Kent. Mrs. Crawford." He gave directions for finding her house, and then said again, "Who is it I'm said to have attempted to kill?"

Norman finished his notes and set them aside. "Inspector Mickelson was struck on the head night before last. And as we have one Carl Hopkins in custody for the other murders, we couldn't look in that direction. The finger of guilt seems to be pointing directly at you. I was told there was bad blood between the two of you."

Rutledge stared at him, stunned.

"Why should I wish to kill Inspector Mickelson?" he asked finally.

"I understand he was being considered for a promotion that you wanted."

Rutledge stopped himself from swearing. "That's hardly a reason to commit murder. It defeats the purpose, in fact."

"I told you. When I spoke to London, Chief Superintendent Bowles informed me that you and Inspector Mickelson had had trouble before this. He also said you'd agreed to a short leave after disciplinary action, and walked out of the Yard in something of a temper, telling Sergeant Mitchell to look for you in Kent if he needed to find you. That's to say, practically on our doorstep. And then you dropped out of sight. This wasn't a garroting, mind you. The case is very strong, Rutledge."

It was indeed. "When was he attacked? Where?"

"I can't discuss the murder with you. Those are the instructions I received from Scotland Yard."

"This is nonsense and you know it. Let me drive to London. I'll speak to Chief Superintendent Bowles myself and clear it up." He was angry enough to face the man down.

"You know I'd be in trouble if I allowed you to leave." Norman sat there, studying Rutledge.

The two of them had had their own disagreements.

Was he gloating? Rutledge couldn't tell. Did he agree with the Yard? It was impossible to be sure.

He said after a moment, "What were your views on the arrest of Carl Hopkins? Did you find the garrote when you searched his residence?"

It was Inspector Norman's turn to be caught off guard.

"Hopkins?" he repeated, as if he'd never heard the name before. "I don't know enough about the facts of the case to make a judgment."

"Don't tell me you haven't kept up with events in Eastfield. Especially after one of the victims died right here in Hastings. You know as much about the murders as London does."

Inspector Norman flushed slightly, caught in a lie and handed an uncomfortable truth.

Rutledge went on. "I'd have done the same in your place. I'd consider one death on my patch reason enough."

He sidestepped the question. "There is the fact that the killing stopped after Hopkins was taken into custody."

"Hardly stopped. If you count Inspector Mickelson. And I do. He got in the way, if you think about it. Whoever has been killing these men could well have been afraid that Mickelson was about to change his mind. Blaming Hopkins would have been very convenient if our murderer had finished whatever it is that he'd started." Rutledge didn't believe it was finished. But he wasn't about to weaken his own arguments by adding that.

"Mickelson wasn't garroted. What's more, why didn't our murderer kill you? You thwarted him by locking up those village men-" He broke off. It was an admission that he'd kept up with the inquiry.

Rutledge ignored the opening. At the moment, he wanted Norman on his side. "I hadn't made an arrest. I was useful as long as I didn't-my very presence promoted fear of more deaths, and he got to Hartle. But Mickelson did take Hopkins into custody, and if that's the wrong man in your cell, then we haven't finished with these murders. What we don't know-unless Mickelson took Constable Walker into his confidence-is whether he stumbled on something that either clears Hopkins or brings up serious doubt about his guilt. Either way, Mickelson had to be stopped before he reported that to the Yard. If the killer had used the garrote, we'd have had proof we'd gotten the wrong man. Don't you see?"

"There were no discs in Mickelson's mouth."

And that was interesting.

"I'm not surprised," Rutledge told him, considering the comment. "It means he wasn't one of the chosen."

"Or you didn't have any of them to put there."

"True." He didn't argue. After a moment he went on, "I have witnesses, you know, that I never left Kent until this morning. Very reliable ones, in fact. Someone should have asked about that before having me stopped and brought here. It smacks of leaping to conclusions."

"Unless your witnesses were sleeping in the same room with you, it doesn't preclude leaving in the middle of the night. You could have slipped out and back in again, with no one the wiser," Inspector Norman countered.

Rutledge said only, "We'll see. Can Mickelson be questioned yet?"

"I don't think he's regained his senses. You'd better pray he doesn't die." Norman rose, preparing to take Rutledge to his cell when there was a flurry of voices from the sergeant's desk in the front of the police station.

They paused where they were, Norman undoubtedly believing that Chief Inspector Hubbard had arrived.

But it was not Hubbard.

The flustered sergeant on the desk came to the door, saying, "I tried to stop her, sir. But she insists she has information on Inspector Mickelson's murderer."

And they looked beyond him to see Mrs. Farrell-Smith coming through the doorway behind him. She took in Rutledge standing there in the passage with Inspector Norman and said, "That's the man I saw in Eastfield the night Inspector Mickelson was attacked. I saw him drive up, speak to that poor man, and then drive away with him. They were in front of the church, and my bedroom window looks out toward the gate to the rectory." For emphasis, she pointed directly at Rutledge, as if she were already in the witness box.

Rutledge's mouth tightened. And then he said, "Are you so certain that Daniel Pierce is the man we're after, that you are willing to lie to shield him?"

She retorted, "I know nothing about Daniel Pierce."

Rutledge turned to Inspector Norman. "This is Mrs. Farrell-Smith, headmistress at the Misses Tate Latin School. If she really wanted to protect someone, she could have looked back into the school's records to see if anything happened in the past that could have some bearing on these murders. All the victims were together there for at least two or three years. If it isn't the war, and it isn't the present that caused someone to start killing, it could very likely lie in the distant past. I'd prefer to be escorted to my cell now."

She opened her mouth, and then shut it again.

Inspector Norman nodded to the sergeant, and Rutledge went with him, already regretting his impatient request.

He said to the sergeant, trying to delay entering his cell, "Am I the only prisoner here?"

"No, sir. There's another man at the end of the row. We were preparing for the inquest to be held this very week, but it must wait now for the Inspector to recover."

This must be where Carl Hopkins was also being kept, as he'd thought, and he said under his breath, "Poor devil."

He went into his cell and watched the door swing shut with a clang and the large key turn in the ancient lock. It sounded like a death knell.

This time he couldn't ignore his surroundings. He had no idea how long it would be before Hubbard arrived, and he was faced with the possibility that he would remain in this place for several days, at least until it was certain whether the charge was going to be attempted murder or murder. He wasn't sure he could manage it.

The cell contained a narrow cot, a bucket, and a basin on a shelf with a pitcher standing in it. Near the flat, ugly pillow, a tin cup lay on the blanket that covered the cot. What little light there was came through the barred square in the door. The walls were painted a dreary dun color that had faded into a shade like cream gone off. Although the cell was clean enough, and the water in the pitcher fresh, there was a lingering odor of urine that rose from the floor, and the smell of fear that seemed to cling to the walls. He hadn't noticed it before. He'd been too intent on matters being set straight in a hurry. Now-now, his fate lay in the hands of Inspector Mickelson.

Hamish said derisively, "Ye've been inside a cell before this."

But always knowing that he wasn't the occupant, that when he was ready to leave, the door would open and there would be a reprieve from the panic. Now Rutledge was battling his claustrophobia, fighting the urge to promise anything if they would leave that door unlocked. He thought about the night to come and shuddered, then began to pace. In the dark, the walls would begin to close in.

Hamish cautioned, "There's no help for it, ye ken. Sit doon and close your eyes. Ye willna' see the door, then."

I'm going to make a fool of myself, he thought, when I start screaming. And then they'll know. But after a time, he sat down and shut his eyes, as Hamish had counseled, imagining the room to be as long as the drawing room in Melinda Crawford's house, counting first one and then another of the furnishings and treasured objects that filled the space. It helped, but only a little against the rising tide of dread.

A constable brought him a meal later, as well as fresh water, and he realized it must be noon, or possibly one o'clock. The food was hot, plentiful-fried fish, roasted potatoes, fresh bread and peas. He wondered if Inspector Norman was hedging his bets by treating his thorny prisoner with some care in the event the Yard had to eat its words.

The afternoon dragged by, and Rutledge set himself the puzzle of why there was murder being done in Eastfield.

If Inspector Mickelson had taken the wrong man into custody, the murderer had only to bide his time, and then kill again. It would have made Mickelson look a fool. Why then had he targeted Mickelson?

What had the man done that had angered the killer? From the time that Scotland Yard had arrived in the village, whoever was behind these murders knew he was risking being unmasked. He must also have known that dispatching one inspector would only bring another in his place, someone even more determined to search him out.

What had made it necessary to rid himself of Mickelson before the inquest? Rutledge had told Norman that it was what Mickelson knew-or was about to do. But was that true?

Or had Kenton, trying to persuade Mickelson he was wrong about Hopkins, lost his temper and acted rashly? Something as simple as that?

He went to the door and raised his voice, but only loud enough to reach to the last cell down the passage. He had heard the door being unlocked and a lunch tray passed to the prisoner there. But the man had been quiet. If he had spoken at all, it was so softly that the words hadn't carried.

"Carl Hopkins?"

There was no answer.

Rutledge tried again. "Mr. Hopkins. I'm a policeman. I was in Eastfield before Inspector Mickelson."

"I remember." There was a pause. "Why are you in a cell?"

"Inspector Mickelson was attacked. For lack of a better idea, they think I'm involved. I didn't like the man. The feeling was mutual. Meanwhile, I'm waiting for my movements to be cleared up." He hoped that was true.

"It's a trick of some sort. Well, it won't do you much good. I didn't kill anyone. I have nothing to confess."

"It's no trick."

But Hopkins wouldn't say anything else and Rutledge let it go.

I didn't kill anyone…

Rutledge sat down on the cot, staring at the walls, hearing in the back of his mind the distant French guns, and then the artillery from the English lines. Before very long, he knew he'd begin shouting commands to his men, and then he would be lost.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed. He had even lost track of where he was, the tramp of men's boots as they formed a line in the trench, waiting their turn to go up the ladder and follow their officers into battle, had seemed so real he could smell the stench of the water in the bottom of their trench and hear the whispered prayers of men who knew they could die in the next five minutes. He was preparing to blow his whistle for the charge when the present intruded.

The sound of voices drifted down the passage and then grew louder. After a moment the constable appeared to unlock Rutledge's door. The relief that swept over him as the door swung wide was almost physical, and for a moment he had to struggle with the images fading into the back of his mind.

"You're wanted in Inspector Norman's office," the man said and stepped aside.

Rutledge got up from the cot and walked out the door. He knew that Hubbard must have arrived, and when he stepped into Inspector Norman's office, the first person he saw was the Chief Inspector.

"A mistake has been made," the Chief Inspector was saying to him. "I'm sorry."

Rutledge stood by the doorway, waiting.

Inspector Norman said to Rutledge, "Come in." He pointed to the other chair.

Rutledge joined them. But still he said nothing.

Chief Inspector Hubbard turned to Inspector Norman. "Chief Superintendent Bowles was misinformed. Inspector Rutledge was visiting friends in Kent when the murder occurred. We've spoken to Mrs. Crawford. She was quite clear. Inspector Rutledge couldn't have left her house, driven to Eastfield, and returned without the staff or she herself being aware of his absence. What's more, his leave had been requested before the subject of Mrs. Farrell-Smith's complaint had been brought up with him."

It was an outright lie, blandly told.

"She's made a second statement this morning. She claims she saw Rutledge speaking to Mickelson and then taking him up in his motorcar the night before the attack was discovered. How do you answer that?"

Hubbard was clearly unprepared for this information. He recovered quickly. "She reported this to Constable Walker?"

Norman hesitated. "Not straightaway. No."

"Had you sent your men to look for Rutledge in Eastfield, after you spoke to the Yard?"

"I saw no harm in sending Constable Petty to keep an eye on things. Until someone arrived from London." He shot a glance in Rutledge's direction, then returned his attention to Hubbard.

"And Mrs. Farrell-Smith didn't speak to Constable Petty about what she'd seen?"

"He's still in Eastfield," Norman said, grudgingly. "I don't know. She didn't mention having spoken to him."

Chief Inspector Hubbard said, "I must wonder why she felt it necessary to leave the school and come directly here to you, when there were other avenues in Eastfield open to her. Mrs. Farrell-Smith, it appears, prefers not to deal with underlings."

Norman said, "You haven't read her statement. But you're convinced her evidence is flawed."

Hubbard took a deep breath. "Inspector, I shall be speaking with Mrs. Farrell-Smith myself in due course. But understand this. If Mrs. Crawford swears that Rutledge did not leave her house, as a witness she is more reliable than Mrs. Farrell-Smith."

"And who is Mrs. Crawford, when she's at home? I know nothing about her."

"Mrs. Crawford's veracity is vouched for by Neville FitzThornton at the Home Office. On the other hand, it's possible that Mrs. Farrell-Smith has lied to the police before this."

Rutledge smiled to himself. The police and the Yard answered to the Home Office. He wondered how Melinda had come to know FitzThornton. But the fact that she did cheered him. The thought of returning to the confinement of that cell left him feeling cold.

Inspector Norman said, "My advice is to leave matters the way they are until someone is able to question Mickelson. Then the veracity of witnesses won't come into it."

"And very good advice it is. But I'm told that the Inspector is on the point of undergoing surgery to relieve the pressure of the swelling on his brain. He may not be able to speak to us at all."

In the end, Hubbard got his way, by rank if not by persuasion. Rutledge's belongings were accounted for and returned to him. As he signed the receipt, Inspector Norman asked, "What am I to do with Carl Hopkins?"

It was a question designed to irritate Hubbard. It failed.

Hubbard said blandly, "He stays where he is until the inquest. And at the moment, that must wait on Mickelson's recovery."

"I'd like five minutes with Hopkins," Rutledge interjected, speaking for the first time as he accepted his watch and his keys from the constable.

Hubbard hesitated. "I don't think that would be wise."

"It isn't a matter of wisdom. Come with me, if you prefer. But if I'm to take over this inquiry again, I need to know where Hopkins stands."

"Take over-it was understood that I should carry out Inspector Mickelson's brief."

Rutledge turned to him. "You know why I was removed from this case. You know why I found myself in these straits today. You owe me a chance to redeem my character."

"This is not the time nor the place to decide this. Propriety-"

"Propriety be damned." He turned and walked to the door, continuing down the passage toward the cells at the rear of the police station, listening for the order to stop. And none came.

He found Carl Hopkins lying on his cot, one arm over his eyes. Rutledge wished he had had the forethought to ask the constable for the cell keys. But it was too late to go back. He looked at Hopkins's cell. It was a mirror of his, and he could feel that frantic sense of being closed in sweeping over him again.

He had been buried alive on the Somme, when their salient had been blown up by a shell falling short of the German lines. The miracle was he had lived through it, but lying in the suffocating darkness, pinned there by the weight of the body under which he lay and the heavier earth above them both, he had known no one could reach him in time. He could hardly breathe, as the minutes turned into what seemed like hours, and then just as the small pocket of air that had sustained him was used up and his mind was beginning to struggle to keep track of where he was in that cold black void, help had finally come. Hands dug frantically, the weight lifted, and as he was pulled out, loose earth cascading from his hair and uniform like water, he had seen the face of the man who had saved him. It was Hamish MacLeod's dead body, and the pocket of air that had been a gift of life had been created by Hamish's clothing. The shock had left him unable to speak, and his rescuers had put that down to near suffocation.

It was not until he'd reached the aid station and was given a few hours of rest that he'd heard Hamish MacLeod's voice in his ear, taunting, reminding him that his men were dead, and he had no excuse for being alive.

Getting a grip on the memory now, Rutledge called Hopkins's name, and the man dropped his arm, swung his legs to the floor, and looked toward the barred window of his cell. He hadn't been asleep. That was obvious. "What do you want? Is this another trick?"

He was a tall man, slim and very fair, Nordic fair rather than English, with dark blue eyes. But he had broad shoulders and was at second glance a great deal stronger than he first appeared. Deceptively so, Rutledge thought.

"We're keeping you here for a few more days," Rutledge told him. "For your own safety. But I need to know. What was your relationship with the four Eastfield men who have died? Did you go to school with them?"

"I was apprenticed at the furniture works when I was young. We were in school together for perhaps three years. And then my mother taught me in the evening, when I came home with Mr. Kenton at the end of the workday."

"What do you remember most about them?"

Hopkins didn't need to think about his answer. "They were all of an age. Except for the Pierce brothers. And good at sports. Less so in the classroom. I was far better in mathematics, I remember. And better at spelling as well."

"Were they troublemakers?"

"No more so than most boys."

He changed the subject. "I'm told you hated the English for what happened to your family during the war."

Hopkins got up from the cot and crossed to where Rutledge was standing at the door. "It made me ill for a time. I hadn't been able to serve, you see. I wasn't there to help them. I'd try to sleep at night and I'd wonder what their last thoughts were, if they'd called to me and were hurt that I didn't come. I didn't even know when they died until weeks afterward. I'd been living my life, talking with friends or working-even sleeping-as they were struggling for their last breath. When I'd see a British soldier, I'd want to ask, were you there? Did you try to save them? Did you even care? Some would boast of the Germans they had killed. Callous bastards. I wanted to hit them, make them suffer too." He shrugged. "It was stupid of me, but there was so much pain I couldn't think straight. I even considered suicide. But when I spoke to Rector about what comes after, he didn't know. All the words he preached, and he didn't know what was on the other side. What use was it to kill myself, if I couldn't be with them again? The happiest days of my life were spent with those two. My English brother and my German cousin. And when people called my cousin a butcher, a Hun, and hoped he'd gone to hell, I hated them with all my heart."

He stood there, not crying, not cursing, his shoulders slumped.

Rutledge said after a moment, "Did you hate them enough to kill them?"

"I thought about it. If I'd known where to find a gun, I might have tried. But I didn't. I could only curse them all." He looked away. "That takes courage, acting on what you believe. I didn't have it."

Hamish said, "He wouldna' creep up behind a man and garrote him."

But Rutledge silently answered him, Not in the cold light of day. But after a sleepless night?

His intent on coming back here to the cells had been to hear Hopkins defend himself face-to-face. He'd almost believed the man earlier. Now, he was not so sure.

Hamish argued, "Ye were in yon cell yoursel' and no' thinking clearly."

Rutledge considered the prisoner. He looked older than his years, a defeated, sallow figure with nothing to buoy him up and carry him through the loss that was eating him alive. It was possible that Carl had taken his own sense of worth from that brother and the cousin, and was unable to find his way alone. Would killing alleviate some of the pain? Or would it only add to the distressing burden of guilt that Hopkins already shouldered?

"Who do you think attacked Inspector Mickelson?" Rutledge asked.

"The man from Scotland Yard? He badgered Mrs. Winslow, and made old Mr. Roper half ill. Mrs. Jeffers came into Eastfield and told Constable Walker that the Inspector had made her cry, wanting to know about the war. Then he discovered from someone at the hotel that Mr. Kenton had come to speak to you there, and soon enough he badgered me too. I live alone, I didn't have any proof I hadn't killed those men. He was a policeman, and that's what policemen do, when they've got the upper hand. They badger." He looked Rutledge in the eye for the first time. "I didn't like him well enough to mourn when I was told he'd nearly been killed, and I hadn't cared for what I saw of him when he was alive. Maybe I wasn't the only one."

With that he turned his back on Rutledge and went to sit again on his cot, his head in his hands. Rutledge stood there watching him, then walked away.