Rutledge breathed a sign of relief.
She saw him waiting, and at once called, "Did you speak to Tyrell? I thought I could trust you!" She was very angry.
He nodded to Starret, dismissing him, and when Mrs. Farrell-Smith reached him, he took her arm and led her toward the hotel. "Don't say anything more," he commanded in a low voice. "Just come with me."
She stared at him, about to pull away from his grip on her arm, and then something in his face alerted her.
"You've found Daniel," she began, anger fading, hope taken its place.
"I'm afraid not. At least I don't think I have. When I left the school, I saw you standing in the window. There was someone else by the window on the floor above you."
She stopped stock-still, and he urged her on.
"Not here. The hotel. We've drawn enough attention already."
She relented and said nothing more. He took her into the hotel lounge and found a chair for her.
"Are you sure?" she asked, keeping her voice low. "A trick of the light, perhaps? I'd have sworn the school was empty. I'd have heard someone walking around. I know every sound!"
"I'm not mistaken. Are you certain there's no one else in the building? And the greengrocer's son isn't working today?"
"No one should be there. The only reason I was there was to return some papers to my office, and then I decided to spend half an hour working." She shivered. "What if I'd encountered him when I went to Sixth Form for the marks? My God, he knows the school inside and out, doesn't he?"
"How many doors are there in the main building?"
"Let me think. There's the main door, of course. And the side entrance you know about. The door to the kitchen gardens. The terrace, with French doors, where we hold our teas, and of course, one into the coal cellar. That's too many-he'll be out through one as soon as you enter another in force."
"We must wait until dark. It will take that long to collect enough men from Inspector Norman to cover the school."
"Will there be-damage to the school? I answer to the trustees, they'll hold me accountable." She twisted a ring on one finger. "My aunts thought I was too young to have sole responsibility. And I was. But now…"
From Reception came the sound of voices, and he looked up. It was Inspector Norman in search of him.
Rutledge excused himself and went to intercept him.
"We've just finished searching the tunnels beneath the castle ruins, but he's not there. Still, I think you ought to come and see what we've found in one of the caves."
"Yes, give me five minutes." Rutledge returned to Mrs. Farrell-Smith. "I must go. Is there someone you can stay with? Where you'll be safe? I don't think it's a very good idea to go home."
She was frightened, her face pale. "Surely you don't think he was in the school to kill me? I wasn't even there when he was taunted."
Rutledge said, "Under the circumstances, it's best if you come to Hastings with us. If you don't mind sitting in the Inspector's office, you'll be safe if not precisely comfortable."
Relief washed over her face, and she went with him to where Inspector Norman was waiting.
"I'll explain on the way. At the moment, Mrs. Farrell-Smith is in protective custody."
Norman said, "Just hurry, that's all."
They left for Hastings, and after dropping his charge at the police station, Rutledge went with Inspector Norman to the caves that ran under the cliff on which William of Normandy had built his first castle. There was a warren of the caves, spreading out from shorter tunnels, and Rutledge was reminded of what lay under Dover Castle in Kent. Nature had contrived them, but man had made use of them.
At the mouth of one such cave, a man had set up a sideshow to accommodate the curiosity of holidaymakers looking for something to do on a rainy day. A painted donkey, crudely made from wood and plaster of Paris, was harnessed to a wooden cart laden with packets of silk and tobacco, kegs of whisky, and other contraband. On the wall behind was a painted canvas drop showing smugglers off-loading an array of goods from the decks of a French fishing boat drawn up close into the shore. Goods were passed from hand to hand by men standing knee-deep in water, then shouldered to carry to similar carts waiting to take the contraband to the caves.
Norman led Rutledge quickly past the other exhibits, continued beyond a barricade blocking the way, and soon came to a small offshoot of the main cave where a constable stood guard over a lamp-lit scene.
A small camp bed, a flat-topped chest bearing a lantern, and a chair stood out against the surrounding gloom. The smell of damp mixed with the cave odors of stale air.
Norman stepped forward into the shallow area and opened the chest. It was obvious as he shone his torch at the contents that he'd seen them earlier, before summoning Rutledge. Dark workmen's clothing, a pot of what appeared to be black grease paint, rags, and a Thermos of water lay inside. A pair of chimney sweep brooms stood in a corner, and a workman's lunch pail hung beside it.
"He could come here, change his clothes, and go out again as a different person," Norman was saying. "A laborer on his way home, a sweep with brooms over his shoulder, whatever little vignette he chose. Not a very clever disguise."
But effective. Rutledge could feel his claustrophobia mounting, but he held up a shirt, gauging the size. "Yes, it could be the man I saw. Medium height, medium build. How does he come and go?"
"I shouldn't think it would be too difficult after dark to get through the lock the showman has put on the grille across the entrance. This exhibit isn't officially allowed, but the man does no harm, and his presence here deters others from using these tunnels for more nefarious pastimes."
Rutledge turned to leave, fighting down rising panic. "Summers could hardly walk into The White Swans in these garbs. But he'd be equally suspicious wandering about Eastfield in a gentleman's clothing. Did you find the garrote?"
"No, damn it. He'd be a fool to leave it in plain sight."
"More importantly, he probably has it with him."
"For that matter," Norman pointed out, "there are no identity discs here. Blank or otherwise."
"He must have taken those as well. I think he's preparing to kill again. At the end of the war, he was on burial detail. Did you know? He'd have seen enough of the discs then to copy them exactly. As for names, he could have collected them from any soldier he met. He didn't want the names of the dead-ghosts don't kill. And he wanted us to search half of England looking for those men. Dust thrown in our eyes. But I think I know where he is. And I'll need your help getting to him."
Norman nodded to the constable on guard, and the three of them left the shallow depression.
Back into the sunlight again, Rutledge told Norman what he suspected.
"I can bring enough men to cover the entrances. But who's going in? We don't know if he's armed. I wouldn't be surprised if he is."
"I'll go in. I think he wants to garrote me, not shoot me."
"By the way, there's a message for you from the Yard," Norman said after a moment. "Mickelson is feeling better, and he's pushing the doctor to release him. He wants to take the case back from you."
"Wanting is not having," Rutledge answered. "And with any luck at all, if I'm right, we'll catch our elusive friend tonight."
But in the back of his mind, he heard Hamish's words. "What if he's cleverer than you?"
24
R utledge escorted Mrs. Farrell-Smith back to Eastfield, and she sat beside him in the motorcar in pensive silence most of the way.
She had already agreed to take a room at The Fishermen's Arms as a precaution, but now she said, "There must be something else I can do. After all, some of this is my fault."