Mrs. Winslow misconstrued it. "Should I have asked him about the fighting? Was it important?"
"No," he answered her. "It doesn't matter at all."
And then Constable Walker came in carrying the tea tray, and Mrs. Winslow turned to it as if it were a lifeline. Her husband, following him into the room, looked quickly from Rutledge's face to his wife's, as if he could read in the air between them something of what had been said.
They took their leave shortly afterward, and Walker said harshly as the two men reached the motorcar, "I hope to God we find out who is committing these murders."
Dropping Walker off at the police station, Rutledge changed into dry clothes, then went to find the rector of St. Mary's Church.
The signboard at the gate into the churchyard gave the priest's name as Ottley. As Rutledge was about to decide whether to try the rectory or the church first, he saw the man he was after just closing the rectory door and striding down the walk toward him.
"You're the man from London," the rector said, squinting at his face as Rutledge met him on the flagstone walk. He pulled out his spectacles for a better look. "Yes. Do you want me? I was on my way to see Mrs. Winslow, to offer what comfort I could. The constable left word to look in on her."
"My name is Rutledge. Scotland Yard. I'd like five minutes of your time first. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?"
The rector gestured vaguely in the direction of a bench set under an apple tree growing between the church and the rectory, its gnarled, spreading branches offering good shade as the watery sun strengthened. "Will that do? My housekeeper is mopping floors. I doubt she'd care to have me tracking back inside."
Rutledge led the way, and the vicar dusted the bench with a handkerchief before settling himself in one corner. Rutledge took the other.
"Sad circumstances we're in," the rector said with a sigh. "I can't quite bring my mind around it, you know. Four murders! It's unspeakable. I never dreamed of such a thing here in Eastfield."
Rutledge could hear bees buzzing about over his head, where the tight knots of young green apples were nestled. "I'd like to ask you about Eastfield. You've been rector here for some time?"
"Nearly thirty years, now," he answered. "Twenty of them without the support of my dear wife. But one copes, somehow."
"Indeed. You knew these four men who have been killed. What can you tell me about them? I'm not asking for secrets of the confessional, but for observations you must have made as you watched them grow into manhood."
"They were boys. In and out of scrapes, but no harm done for the most part. A rowdy bunch, excepting of course for Anthony Pierce, who played with them only occasionally. Still, there were one or two more serious incidents, as you'd expect. And then they were strong enough to help out at home, and their childhoods changed. No longer collecting eggs before school or bringing in the cows afterward, they were set to heavier work, mucking out the cowshed or the barn, helping with the planting and the harvest, whatever was needed. Some were able to stay with their schooling, others weren't so fortunate. Hartle, of course, was apprenticed to his father at Kenton's. The Pierce brothers went away to public school. And the nonsense stopped."
It was a common picture of life on farms: girls working under their mothers' eye, sons learning firsthand the trade of their fathers. Large families helped eke out the needs that slender purses couldn't meet, though they meant more mouths to feed. As a rule on small holdings, food was more plentiful than money for wages, and the system worked.
"Did anything happen in the Army-before they left-after they were in France-that might lead to this sort of killing?"
The rector shook his head. "I never heard of it, if anything did. But they wouldn't have told me, would they? They'd have confessed to a chaplain. And whatever it was would have stayed in France."
Hamish said, "You'll never uncover the truth, then."
But he had to. He made one last effort, saying to the rector, "Is there a place to look? I don't ask you to reveal any secrets. But it will save time-and lives-if I am given a direction to follow."
"It's not a conspiracy of silence," the rector told him. "At least not on my part. It's just that we don't recognize whatever it is as the problem. We may be looking in the wrong places. On the other hand, what places ought we to be searching? I don't know."
Rutledge found himself suddenly remembering the case that Chief Inspector Cummins had failed to solve.
Was this of the same ilk? He refused to believe it. Somewhere-somewhere-there was a grain of truth to pursue, and one way or another, he would find it.
Hamish said, "Start with the most obvious."
It was good advice. But not very helpful.
He thanked the rector and went back to find Constable Walker.
Striding into the police station, he said, "Every victim so far fought in the war. Either in the village company or as in Pierce's case, in another. I need that list of their names, every single one of them."
Walker frowned. He'd been up most of the night, Rutledge remembered, and had had little time to work on anything else.
"I've started it, sir. Do you want the Navy as well?"
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.