Trying to shut out the soft Scots words in his mind, Rutledge tried to settle to the papers on his desk, and after a time he managed to concentrate on them. He knew he would miss Cummins. There were already rumors that Inspector Mickelson would be promoted to fill his place.
3
Eastfield, Sussex, on the Hastings Road, July 1920
Eastfield was neither particularly charming nor particularly important, historically or politically. It had begun as a hamlet where the road out of Hastings climbed the bluffs, leveled out, and turned eastward. A large field at that point had served as grazing for tired oxen and horses either before their descent into the town below or after their ascent from it. This common field had eventually been encircled by the huts of providers of services-a tavern to feed the drovers, a smithy to see to torn hooves, and a brothel to ease a man's other needs. The new-built abbey at Battle had soon taken the hamlet in hand, to save the souls of its inhabitants and to charge a small fee for the hitherto free grazing.
At the dissolution of the monasteries, the tiny village had passed into the keeping of a crony of Henry VIII's, hardly aware of the change in ownership. By 1800, descendants of that crony had fallen on hard times, and the village found itself forgotten, though the field for grazing still served those going to and from Hastings. The fees were now collected by a self-appointed squire, who was no more than a jumped-up yeoman who saw his chance to prosper, and no one thought to formalize the new status of Eastfield in any fashion.
It began to flourish in Victoria's reign, selling its produce and wares to the hungry fishermen and residents of the little port where the valley broke through the ridge and swept down to the water's edge, and as Hastings grew, so did Eastfield.
By 1880, it boasted changes that brought in more revenue-the small firm that had built tackle, fish boxes, and other furnishings for the fishermen found that the newly acquired taste for sea bathing had brought hotels in its wake, and hotels needed a better quality of furniture to serve those who expected fine accommodations. The second stroke of good luck occurred when the Pierce brothers decided to locate their brewery in three buildings at the far end of the Hastings Road. An exiled Frenchman set up a small Latin school in the middle of the village and made a good living educating the sons and daughters of those who could now afford it.
The brewery, the furniture making, and the Latin School gave the village an air of success. The Misses du Toit, thoroughly English daughters of the school's founder, changed their name to Tate on the death of their father, and in 1913 passed charge of the school to a niece, Mrs. Farrell-Smith, a young widow.
By 1900, Eastfield had doubled in population and in 1914 took great pride in furnishing a company of its sons to fight for King and Country in the Great War.
They had received a letter of commendation from the King himself, and the brewery produced a beer it called The Rose of Picardy, which unexpectedly became very popular among soldiers and then ex-soldiers, making the Pierce Brothers Brewery, under its Arrow label, famous throughout Kent, Sussex, and Surrey.
Content with their ordinary lives, the villagers of Eastfield saw no reason why their future shouldn't be as peaceful as their past.
And then on a Friday night, in July 1920, that illusion was shattered.
William Jeffers had no inkling of his fate when he walked into The Conqueror Pub in a back street of Eastfield.
The sign was swinging gently in the late evening breeze, squeaking a little in its iron frame. On one side of it, a vast, painted armada of Norman ships was shown anchored in an English bay-there was debate as to whether it was intended to portray Hastings or Pevensey-and on the other side, a victorious William raised his painted sword high to celebrate his famous victory over King Harold at Senlac Hill.
The haze of tobacco smoke was already thick as the barkeep hailed the newcomer with a smiling greeting. Jeffers rarely came to drink in the pub. He was a farmer and had little time in the evenings and less money to waste in conviviality. But it had become a regular thing each year for him to mark the anniversary of the wound that had ended his military career and nearly cost him his life.
Jeffers settled himself at a corner table with his first pint, and for the rest of the evening proceeded to drink as much as he could hold.
He left half an hour before closing, making his way toward the church.
The light was fading, and he sat on the low stone wall surrounding the churchyard until he had watched the sun set and the long shadows deepen into night. He was not a praying man, but he found himself saying a prayer for the dead. Most of the dead on his mind weren't lying here in St. Mary's, they were in France, but it would do.
At length he stood up and made his way to the outskirts of the village, where Abbey Street met the Hastings Road. He was only slightly tipsy, he told himself. He had to rise at half past four in the morning to milk the cows, but this anniversary was more important than duty. The hole in his chest was just a rough and ugly scar now, but it sometimes ached, as if it hadn't healed. Four years. The flesh had surely forgot the pain and the terror and the weakness from loss of blood. But the mind hadn't. The mind never forgot. And so he tried to drink himself into oblivion.
He never quite got there.
He tripped on a stone, recovered his balance, and walked on. The farm was barely a mile away, but tonight the road seemed twice as long. Overhead the stars were so bright he felt he could hear them. His grandfather always said to him when he was a lad, "Listen to the stars, Willie. Can you hear them? Just listen."
And he would listen, over the ordinary night sounds of rats in the feed bins or a stoat hunting in the hedgerow, a horse moving in its stall. He could have sworn he heard them.
A stone rattled on the road behind him, and he turned to see what was there. Nothing but his imagination. At this hour of the night, he had the road to himself.
His mind was clouded with the beer he'd drunk. His wife would have something to say about that. He shook his head to clear it, but it was no use.
He tripped again, and swore.
A voice quietly called his name. Jeffers whirled to see who it was, peering through the darkness, but for the life of him he couldn't bring the pale face into focus.
"Do I know you?" he asked after a moment.
"You did. Once."
"Sorry. I don't remember."
"Never mind. It doesn't matter."
Jeffers nodded. "Coming this way?"
"No. Good night."
He turned and plodded on, leaving the man standing there. He wanted his bed, now. The beer was making him sick.
Something flashed briefly in the starlight, seeming to fly over his head. And then it had him by the throat, and he was fighting for breath, twisting and shifting furiously, but the thing at his throat bit all the harder, and in the end it was no use.
William Jeffers was the first man to die. T hree nights later, Jimmy Roper was in his barn, sitting up with a colicky cow. Dandelion had always been prone to the ailment, with a temperament that was easily unsettled, but she was his best milker and worth the trouble to keep her healthy. Her calves carried that trait, and she had done much to improve the quality of the dairy herd.
He was tired. It had been a long day, and it would be longer still before he could seek his bed. But he had learned patience after taking over the farm from his ailing father. One waited for cattle and for crops and for time to shear. One waited for sun and for rain and for a still day to harvest. If he'd had a choice he would have worked at the brewery, but as an only son, he had had to fill his father's shoes.