But after shaving and drinking his tea, Rutledge was restless, unable to settle, and he left The Nancy Bell and went out to walk.
Dover sat at the foot of chalk cliffs and was divided into two parts. Beneath the towering bulk of the castle was the port with the residential area south of it. The war had not dealt well with the town, for it had seen thousands of men and ships coming and going, expanding almost faster than the town could absorb the dramatically increasing population, and then the war had ended after four hard years, and Dover had had to shrink into itself again, finding the fit difficult.
Eventually he reached the strand and walked down on the shingle hard packed from the heavy rains of the day before. There were others doing much the same, enjoying the morning air, fresh and cool off the water. This was not a bathing center, like the towns along the southern coast, but he, like the others out this morning, enjoyed the smell of the sea, the wind buffeting his face, and the sun just warming his skin. He thought that Darwin had not been too far off the mark-men must remember coming from the sea, whether they realized it or not.
He noticed a dog racing along the strand far ahead, running to greet the handful of hardy souls walking just above the tide line. He watched it for a time, and then it began to strike him as odd that the dog showed no interest in chasing the gulls scavenging for food and starting up in a fluster of wings as humans approached. Instead, the little dog seemed frantic, dashing up to someone, racing around, then moving on to the next walker.
Rutledge started to jog toward it, feeling a growing certainty that he recognized it. And as he grew nearer, and the dog looked his way, he realized that it was trailing a lead.
What was the name on the dog bed he's seen in The White Swans Hotel, in the room occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Pierce?
Muffin.
He whistled, and the dog stopped, ears pricked, listening. He whistled again and called its name. The dog stared at him uncertainly, and then came bounding toward him, only to stop, puzzled, as he drew close enough to pick up Rutledge's scent on the errant breeze.
Rutledge called to him again, and the dog came forward slowly, warily, as if half afraid. Head down, it begged for assurance and had no reason to feel any.
Rutledge stopped, letting the animal come to him, and when finally it did, whimpering, belly dragging, he bent down to fondle its ears.
It was the same dog he'd seen in the photograph of the bride and groom, nestling among the folds of the woman's skirts. He was prepared to stake his life on it.
After a moment the dog rolled on its back, and Rutledge scratched the animal's chest. And then it leapt up, half afraid again, and looked past him down the beach toward another couple strolling some twenty yards behind.
It had been abandoned here on the strand, he was almost certain of it, and he reached down to pick up the end of the lead.
If this was the same animal, where was Mrs. Summers?
21
T he dog refused to leave the shoreline. He struggled against his lead, and even growled as Rutledge lifted him into his arms.
It took half an hour to make any progress with the animal, and even then he thought it was more a reflection of the dog's growing despair than his own blandishments. The fact that Rutledge knew the animal's name seemed to weigh, because when Rutledge made to move back toward the road, the dog stood there whining, torn between waiting and going, and finally he came forward, head down, and let Rutledge pet him again.
Still, it was an uphill battle back to The Nancy Bell, and when Rutledge arrived on Sergeant Bell's doorstep, both he and the dog were out of breath.
Bell, staring at the two of them, said, "And what's this?"
Rutledge explained, and Bell got down on one knee, ruffling the dog's ears, then led it to the kitchen, where there was a little roast beef left from the night before.
But the dog was back at the door after wolfing down the beef, scratching the wood paneling and crying to be let out.
"That's pitiful," Bell said, watching it. "It's known only the one mistress, you can see, and wants none other."
"She may be dead," Rutledge answered. "I don't think he would have left her side otherwise. If she were alive, she'd have fought to keep him with her."
The sergeant scratched his chin. "If they took the boat over to France," he said thoughtfully, "your man could have told her that the dog had to stay below. And she wouldn't know, would she, until she landed and went for him that he was not there."
"Dear God, that's precisely what he did. I need to speak to the port authorities, and ask them to contact France."
He left the dog with Bell and could hear it barking frantically as he drove away.
After three hours at the port, being passed from office to office, he learned that Mr. and Mrs. Summers had indeed embarked for France on the channel crossing the preceding day. At first he was surprised that Summers had used their real names, and then it was clear why: there had to be a record of Mrs. Summers leaving England for France, for her solicitors to see later that all was aboveboard, the couple happy and still enjoying their wedding journey.
The harbormaster said, "It was a rough passage, right in the teeth of the storm." Grinning, he added, "There'd be decks to swab after that one made landfall."
"While you're at it, ask the French if there was a small dog with them. Long haired, black and gray, with some white," Rutledge added.
The harbormaster got in touch with the French authorities, and was told that Mr. and Mrs. Summers had landed safely, although both were the worse for wear from seasickness.
The message ended, "Madame was very ill. Monsieur had given her something to help the nausea, and it was not working. We recommended an hotel in Honfleur, and he told us he felt he could drive there. No dog accompanied them."
Rutledge left the office, still worried. The fact that Mrs. Summers had landed in France surprised him-a seasick woman leaning over the rail needed only a small push to send her into the sea as the boat tossed and twisted in the storm.
Something was wrong with the picture painted by the French authorities.
"They didna' see her," Hamish pointed out. "They saw a verra' distressed woman."
And that was true, Rutledge thought as he drove back to The Nancy Bell. She could have been drugged. Or she could have been anyone wearing Mrs. Summers's clothing.
But there was nothing he could do without authority from the Yard to have the couple taken into French custody. They had left the port by now, and were no longer under its jurisdiction. And they had broken no laws. There was not sufficient evidence to hold Summers at all.
Misdirection. Summers was a master at it.
Rutledge went back again to the Dover police and used their telephone to call the Yard. Explaining the situation to Sergeant Gibson, he added, "I want a watch on all ports for someone coming in under the name Summers or Pierce, or any other on this list." And from the sheet of paper he'd made out, he read the names of anyone who was associated with this case. "He may return as a single person or as a couple-it will depend on how safe he thinks he may be with an ill wife."
"That's a tall order," Gibson pointed out. "Something will be said about the number of men required for that."
"Clear it with the Chief Superintendent. This man hasn't finished. He'll kill again."
"I'll do my best," Gibson said, doubt heavy in his voice. He cleared his throat and asked, "Have you heard what Inspector Mickelson had to say? He regained his senses."
"There hasn't been an opportunity to ask anyone," Rutledge responded. "If he got into a motorcar with his killer, he ought to be able to provide a description."
"You'd best ask Inspector Norman," Gibson answered cryptically, and Rutledge had to be satisfied with that.