"There's the groundskeeper at the school," Constable Walker said, suddenly galvanized. "I hadn't thought about him."
"What is his name? Where does he come from?"
"He called himself Ned Browning. Ex-soldier looking for work, never any trouble, kept himself to himself. I saw him once or twice in The Conqueror, but he wasn't a drinking man, as far as I could tell. When I asked Mrs. Farrell-Smith how he was getting on, she told me he knew something about gardening and pruning, and did what he was told without complaint. Deferential, she said, knew his place. He was allowed to live in that tiny cottage behind the stables, where the coachman lived in the Misses Tates' day."
Rutledge could see another cottage, Old Well House, with its long beds of iris and other plantings. He had assumed that Regina was the gardener. Or had she just kept up the work that her brother had begun? He hadn't thought to ask. Landscaping was landscaping, except to admire the results.
"What does he look like?"
Constable Walker said with a shrug, "Not as tall as you are, as I remember. Brown hair, shaggy, falling into his face. Looked like it had been trimmed with his own secateurs. Ordinary features. If he was on the street or at the pub, he'd wet it down and slick it back, making it appear much darker. Rarely looked you in the eye, but not hangdog. More like the life had been sucked out of him. I doubt I heard him speak a dozen words."
"An ex-soldier? But not with the Eastfield Company?"
"No, from the north, I was told. My nephew wondered if he'd been shell-shocked, but I didn't see any signs of that. You'd know, wouldn't you?"
Rutledge felt a frisson of panic at the words shell shock. As if the constable could see in his own eyes the shame that haunted him.
He managed to say, "Where is he now? You used the past tense."
"That's the devil of it. He only stayed a few months and left in late winter, giving Mrs. Farrell-Smith the opportunity to hire someone else before spring. She said it was very considerate of him, and gave him an excellent reference."
"That reference. Where was he going with it?"
"He said he had an offer from one of the large estates in Staffordshire. I didn't know of any, but that's neither here nor there."
Staffordshire. Kenton had had trouble remembering where the elder Summers had taken up his new position. He had dithered between Staffordshire and Shropshire.
Another connection. They had been plain to see, if one had just known where to look.
Rutledge said, "There's Moseley Old Hall at Bushby-Wolseley Hall at Colwich-Pillaton Hall near Penkridge. It's possible. But is it likely?"
"We must speak to Mrs. Farrell-Smith, then."
"There are two tasks I must see to first."
He left directly for Hastings and The White Swans. When he got there, he learned that Sergeant Gibson had returned his telephone call as expected, but he had left no messages.
"And your guests, Mr. and Mrs. Pierce. Are they still here?"
"I'm afraid they left yesterday morning, unexpectedly. The housekeeper told me they were unhappy with their room."
Unhappy with it-or had they learned of Rutledge's intrusion? The maid could have said something.
Hamish was an angry buzz in the back of his mind.
"Never mind," he said far more pleasantly than he felt. "Do you know where they were intending to travel next?"
"He left a message for anyone who asked after him. Mr. Pierce said he was intending to travel to Brighton."
Rutledge thanked the clerk and went to the telephone closet, where he put in a call to the Yard.
Sergeant Gibson was away from his desk.
Rutledge rang off.
He went next to the police station. "Did you know," he asked as he walked through to Inspector Norman's office, "that Daniel Pierce was staying at The White Swans with his bride?"
"Was he, indeed. Well, I'll be damned. Does his father know?"
"I doubt it. The happy couple never came to Eastfield. But that isn't to say that Pierce didn't come here to see them."
"How is he connected with this business? I'd find it easy to believe that he had some part in it."
"Evidence is slowly but inexorably pointing to one Thomas Summers. The problem is, he doesn't appear to be in Sussex. And Pierce is. But in his case, there's the question of motive. Why would Pierce turn to murder?"
"To rid himself of his brother," Norman said unequivocally.
"Then why does he continue to kill?"
Norman shrugged. "The excitement. He couldn't have expected that, could he? The hunt for victims-avoiding the police. He was a sapper, wasn't he? That's perilous work. A man can miss danger."
It was possible. It was also possible that he'd come to his senses, finally, and walked away from temptation. "No word on Mickelson?"
"He appeared to be awake for a quarter of an hour this morning. The doctors sent the constable charged with keeping an eye on the sickroom to alert the local police, but by the time they reached the hospital, Mickelson had slipped into unconsciousness again. Damned incompetence, if you ask me."
"I'm glad to hear there's been some improvement."
"Because you care about the man, or because whatever he can tell the police stands to clear your good name?"
"I'll let you decide." Rutledge hadn't taken a chair. Now he turned to leave the room.
"What are we to do about this Summers person?"
"We must find him first. Constable Walker wonders if your man Petty could be Summers."
Shutting the door behind him, he strode out of the building and to his motorcar. Even the five minutes he'd spent there had forcibly reminded him of his cell. If he never saw the police station again for the remainder of his life, it would still not wipe away the memory.
Back in Eastfield, he went to call on Tyrell Pierce.
"Do you bring me news?" he asked as his clerk showed Rutledge into his office.
"Not at present. I would like to ask you several questions. The first is about your son Anthony's connection with Mrs. Farrell-Smith."
"I had hoped he would look in that direction. I won't lie to you. She comes from an excellent background, and she has money of her own, from her late husband's estate. There was no fear she was after Anthony's inheritance. And she's very attractive. I could see that for myself. Pleasant, well educated, good company at dinner, a fine hostess. She would have been a very good match for Anthony."
Hamish said, "He's verra' attracted to her himsel'."
And it was true. Rutledge, considering him, realized that he was still young enough to marry again and have a second family. Rutledge wondered if Pierce knew anything about the shadow hanging over the late Farrell-Smith's death. Probing, he asked, "What happened to her husband?"
"Yes, a pity he died so young. She told me privately that he drank too much. Anthony mentioned that he'd been at loose ends after he left school. Moody, his temper uncertain. He felt that Farrell-Smith had married before he really knew his own mind about what he was going to do with his life. But young men in love are often impulsive."
Rutledge could see that Mrs. Farrell-Smith had cleverly sown seeds of doubt about her husband's state of mind. If it came to Pierce's ears that the man had killed himself, he would understand why.
He abruptly changed the subject. "Have you met Daniel's wife?"
"Wife? Where did you hear that Daniel had married?"
"He was in Hastings, with his bride and her little dog."
The elder Pierce's face flushed with anger. "It's not true. I can tell you it's not true."
"Why shouldn't he wish to marry? The war is over, he wouldn't be the first man to look for an anchor in his life."
"Because the woman he has been in love with since he was sixteen is already married," Pierce answered, goaded. "And I was glad of that, damn it. She wasn't suitable, and I told him so. I thank God on my knees every night that her husband is still alive. And I pray that he stays amongst the living until whatever passion it is that my son feels for her has burned itself out."