"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
I t 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 glanced 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."