Constable Petty, standing in the window of the police station, finally saw his fellow constable coming down the street. Walker, just returning from another round of the village, in an effort to reassure himself that indeed nothing had happened in the night, came through the doorway, nodded, and began to strip off his rain gear.
"A cup of tea, Petty?"
"Much as I could use one, I don't think there's time," the man replied, and he said what he'd been told to say, refusing to answer any of Walker's questions.
Walker, growling in frustration, pulled on his gear again and set out for the hotel.
When he began his rounds the night before, he had had no way of knowing that Rutledge, awake at two and again at three o'clock, had also gone quietly out of the hotel and with only Hamish for company, had also walked through the darkness, pausing now and again to listen to the night sounds around him. It was amazing, he thought as he moved through the silent streets, that a habitation with so little history to scar it could seem so ominous in the broken moonlight. If there had been rape and pillage and fire and sword here at some time in the distant past, it had not left its mark. Except perhaps during those hours between midnight and dawn.
Hamish observed, "Where there are people, there's death."
And it was true. Hopelessness, starvation, plague, disease among the animals, all of these brought death as surely as armies.
As his footsteps echoed on the hard-packed surface of the road then vanished in the soft earth of the churchyard, Rutledge had wondered if he were being watched. He had no feeling on that score, but he considered what he would do in a murderer's shoes. Would he choose one of the taller buildings along the main street, with a wide sweep of views in either direction? The church tower, tall enough to allow an overview of the village and the surrounding farms? Or the shadows of a dense stand of lilac he'd noticed where the road curved just beyond the brewery buildings on its way out of Eastfield? How had the murderer found his victims, if he hadn't followed them or watched them walk by themselves in a direction in which he could expect to find his killing ground?
Hamish said into the silence, "Ye ken how Donald MacRae found the snipers?"
Rutledge did remember. They had been plagued for nearly a week by a well-hidden sniper, and no one had caught the muzzle flash, because he chose a time when the British line was too busy. Private MacRae had been detailed to watch for it, and instead, he had scavenged old hay from the horse lines and a few ragged planks from a repaired section of trench wall. That night he had piled the bits and pieces just outside the trench. It sat there for two days, the Germans across No Man's Land at first amusing themselves by firing into the debris, testing their skills. And then they ignored it. On the third night, MacRae had poked the tip of a rifle under the edge of the hay, barely visible. And early the next morning he had jiggled a helmet on a bayonet just behind the planking, for all the world like a man sighting down the barrel of his weapon. MacRae had set two spotters to watch as the German sniper took his shot at what he believed to be his opposite number, giving himself away in the process. It had been too tempting, and it had been his last. They had caught two other snipers with the same trick, over the span of six months or so.
It could well be the case here, that someone waited under cover until his quarry had walked into his sights.
But that meant he could wait for his opportunity. Coldly, precisely, unemotionally. In no hurry to complete whatever task he'd set himself.
Satisfied at last that there was no one else abroad, Rutledge had returned to his room, slept lightly, and when the clock in the church tower struck the next hour, he had arisen and done it all over again. Just as he reached the hotel, the clouds that had been gathering for the past hour or more consolidated over southern Sussex and Kent, and a steady rain began to fall.
Walker had just come through the door of the hotel and was crossing the lobby intent on climbing the stairs in search of Rutledge's room when his quarry walked out of the dining room after an early breakfast.
The constable passed on the message from Norman, keeping his voice low so that it wouldn't carry to the man at Reception watching them with interest.
Rutledge was very still for a moment. Then he said, "Damn."
The fox had outwitted the hounds. While Rutledge had been scouring Eastfield, the killer had moved on.
"I'm afraid, sir, that Inspector Norman isn't the least bit pleased," Walker said in some satisfaction. "But I'm not denying I'm pleased it wasn't someone from my patch."
"Collect Petty and bring the motorcar around, will you? I'll be five minutes."
It was not a long drive. Suddenly the road came to a cleft in the cliffs and then wended down the hillside. Scattered buildings and cottages gave way to a tumble of houses perched above the shoreline. To the left were rows of tall black wooden net shops-drying sheds-and the fishing fleet, already drawn up on the strand. The rain beat against the motorcar as they reached the bottom of the cleft, and they tasted salt on their lips. To the right, the town itself opened up, streets winding into a maze of other streets, and beyond, the increasingly popular waterfront, empty now of holidaymakers. Waves were coming in as gray as the sky, and their froth looked dingy as they crashed into the shale of the strand.
Hastings had once been a tiny fishing village at the mouth of a valley that had spilled down from the cliffs to the narrow strand below. With time, the village had grown east toward the headland, but it never really flourished as a port even in William of Normandy's day, although later it had been one of the English Cinque Ports, with a castle that overlooked the sea and protected the mouth of the valley. Sea bathing had finally made the coast prosperous, and Hastings had then expanded westward toward St. Leonards. The Old Town, with its sand fishing boats, the tall tarred structures where the nets were dried, and a crowded street of houses and shops reclaimed from the sea, were left as an anachronism as the town built anew for the carriage trade, with prospects, circles, and promenades taking pride of place. This had waned with the war, although sea bathing was picking up again.
Rutledge drove directly to the police station, following Walker's directions, only to be told that Inspector Norman was still out on the headland above the fishing fleet. They went back the way they had come, and as they reached the strand, through the rain they could just see the top of the cliff where it jutted out into the water. Silhouetted against the gray sky were a dozen or so men, tiny figures at this distance, moving about near the edge just above where part of the cliff face had broken away in the past and tumbled down into the sea. Watching them, Rutledge realized that there was a climber making his way back up to them, struggling against the pull of the wind as he worked ropes that were invisible from this angle.
"I don't envy that poor bastard," Walker was saying, watching him. It would have been a dangerous business even in good weather. "What possessed him even to try such a thing?"
Rutledge was silent as he made his way to the funicular that ran up the cliff face just beyond the black net shops.
For a wonder it was working. The two men waited impatiently for the next car to take them to the top. Rutledge could already see a policeman moving toward the upper station, as if coming to meet them.
It was a quick run to the top, and then they were stepping out onto the wet grass, facing the full force of the wind. The policeman, a constable, said to Rutledge, "Inspector? This way, please, sir." He turned to lead the way toward the rounded knob of the headland, where most of the policemen and several civilians were still busy.