They had reached the motorcar, and Norman used his hands to wipe the rain from his face before getting in. Rutledge hesitated, his thoughts as always racing to Hamish, and then pushing them aside, he joined Walker in the rear seat.
Norman said as they crested a slight rise to reach the road and his tires fought for a grip, "A damnable day for this. I told you I didn't want your murders spilling over into Hastings."
Rutledge had pulled out his handkerchief, cold and damp despite his trench coat. He could feel the heaviness of the cloth weighing across his shoulders, and water inside his shoes. "The question is, what brought Hartle here?"
They wound their way down to the town and headed toward the police station. Norman was saying grimly, "That's your lookout, isn't it? But I don't like this business. Not one whit."
The interior of the motorcar smelled of wet wool, unpleasant and heavy in the dampness. As they pulled up in front of the police station, Norman turned to ask, "Where did you leave your own vehicle? By the net shops?"
"At the foot of the funicular."
"I'll send one of my men back to fetch it. Come inside."
They got out and went into the station. It seemed dreadfully cold, without the sun to warm it, and Norman spoke to the sergeant at the desk, asking him to see that they were brought tea from the small canteen.
It was a far larger station than the one in Eastfield, and Norman's office was down a short passage to the left. From the cells to the right, they could hear a man singing in a monotone, at the top of his lungs.
"He's half mad," Norman said in explanation as he shut his door against the sound. "We bring him in from time to time for his own sake. His sister can't control him." He took the chair behind the desk, thought better of it, wet as he was, and searched in one of the drawers for a sheaf of paper. "Here, use these," he said, passing them across the desk. "Or you'll stick to the wood. God, I don't know when I've been this wet." Opening a cupboard door, he found a towel and began to dry his face and hair. "All right, Walker, tell us what you know about this man Hartle."
"He was in the war, with the others. A likeable man. Never any trouble before or after the war. He went to work at Kenton Chairs carving scrollwork for chair backs and desk fronts. His father always claimed he had a natural talent."
Norman looked across the desk at Rutledge. "Factory is a misnomer. The furniture-making concern turns out desks, chairs, tables, bookcases, and bedsteads using a variety of machines, and then finishing them by hand. There's a market in these new hotels springing up along the south coast for quality furnishings that are durable enough to take the rough handling of holidaymakers. It employs a dozen men, I should think?" He looked at Walker, who nodded. "Fifteen at the most. But they're all skilled men, and for the most part, their fathers worked there before them. A man name of Kenton owns it, and Kenton Chairs have been well known for decades, even though they've expanded their line. There's a cottage industry as well, caning the seats."
"Mr. Kenton's grandfather began the business in a shed on his property," Walker added. "The Hartles have worked there for three generations, at a guess."
"So what brought our man to Hastings?" Inspector Norman wanted to know. "If he's employed at Kenton's?"
"I've no idea," Rutledge answered him. "I'd like a copy of the doctor's report as soon as may be."
"We all know the cause of death. You could see the man's throat. But was he killed out there on the headland? Or taken there after he was dead? What do you think? With this rain, any blood or signs of a struggle have been washed away hours ago."
"The only hope is to backtrack him. If he was here in Hastings for some purpose, why didn't he return to Eastfield the same day-or evening, as may be? What was he doing here late at night? And where was he staying?"
"I'll have my men ask questions in the lodging houses and the pubs."
The door opened and a constable entered, in his hands a painted wooden tray that had seen better days. The edges were worn, and the garland of roses that decorated the center was chipped and scratched. But the china teapot, cups, jug of milk, and bowl of sugar resting on it were spotlessly clean and probably a decade newer. Norman stood up, took it from the man, and proceeded to pour three cups. It was blessedly hot, and there was a silence as they drank a little.
Rutledge could feel the warmth spreading through him and was grateful. Setting his empty cup aside, he said, "We'll exchange what information we've found."
"Ah, but is this my inquiry now-or yours?" Norman asked, smiling.
Rutledge was in no mood to argue jurisdictions. "The Chief Constable handed the inquiry over to the Yard. I believe he would agree that Hartle's death falls into the same case I've been pursuing since I arrived in Sussex."
"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."