And all the long way, Hamish kept him company, his voice just audible above the rushing of the wind. But it was not a pleasant companionship. As often happened in times when Rutledge's mind was occupied, the voice found the chinks in Rutledge's armor and probed them with a sure knowledge of what Rutledge least wished to hear.
It dwelt for a time on Max's life and then the manner of his death, moving on to the woman who swore she hated her husband, but who had wept, bereft, on Rutledge's shoulder before she could get herself in hand.
At one point as he drove eastward, Rutledge had stopped along a road in Hampshire to offer a lift to a woman trudging back to her village with her marketing in a basket. He had needed to hear a human voice, someone who knew nothing of him or his past. She was grateful for his kindness, and he set her down in front of her cottage without telling her how she had briefly lightened the darkness in his mind.
It was as if Hume's death by his own hand had foreshadowed his own.
5
Rutledge spent the night on the road, driving into Eastfield in the early hours of the next morning. A watery sun had risen, and he could see that there had been a heavy rain in the overnight hours. Puddles stood about in spots, and a pair of farmyard geese were noisily bathing in what appeared to be an old horse trough, filled now with rainwater.
He found the police station halfway down the high street, tucked into a small building between an ironmonger's and a milliner's shop. He left his motorcar on the street, and went inside.
The constable sitting at the desk across from the door looked up, his attention sharp and questioning, as if dreading to hear what this new arrival had to say.
The look of a man, Hamish was noting, who expected more trouble than he was prepared to deal with.
Rutledge gave his name and added, "Scotland Yard." The constable's expression changed to intense relief.
"Constable Walker, sir. I wasn't expecting you, sir, not for another hour or more," he responded, coming around the desk to meet him. "The Yard told us you were in Gloucestershire and hoped to leave shortly. You made good time." A wry grin spread across the man's plain face. "I'm more than happy to turn this inquiry over to you. In all my experience I've seen nothing like it. Nor has Inspector Norman, in Hastings, I'll be bound. A shocking business. We never expected one murder, sir, much less three. Sergeant Gibson told us he was sending one of the Yard's most experienced men. Whatever I can do to help, you can count on me, sir."
Rutledge was surprised to hear Gibson singing his praises. He found himself wondering why. They had always had a guarded relationship, drawn together more because of their mutual dislike of Chief Superintendent Bowles than because of any friendship between them.
"Thank you, Constable," Rutledge began, hoping to cut short Walker's effusive welcome, but the man was already moving past him to the door.
"If you'll just follow me, sir? I promised to take you to Mr. Pierce as soon as you arrived. He'll tell you what you need to know. His son was the third victim."
"I don't think it's wise to speak to Mr. Pierce until you've given me a picture of what's happened, why I'm here." Rutledge followed him as far as his motorcar and stopped there, facing Walker.
The man turned to him, uncertain. "They didn't tell you anything at the Yard? But I explained to the sergeant I spoke with-"
"That may well be. But as you say, I was in Gloucestershire, and I was ordered to come here directly."
Walker stared at him. "I thought-" He recovered quickly and said, "It was Mr. Pierce who asked the Chief Constable if he would bring in the Yard. The Hastings police wanted to take over the inquiry, you see, and Mr. Pierce felt they wouldn't address his son's death as he would have wanted it done. It was cold-blooded murder, sir. It has turned Eastfield on its ear. Three men in nine days. All three of them garroted, and no sign of the murder weapon. William Jeffers, then Jimmy Roper three nights later, and three nights after that, Anthony Pierce. A farmer, a dairyman, the son of a brewer. One walking home, minding his own business and left dead in the road. One sitting with a sick cow in his own barn. And one at the brewery looking to repair a faulty gauge." He went on earnestly, "Who is killing these men? How does he know where to find them alone? And why these three? Worst of all, who is next? Me? My neighbor's son? The man who hires out for harvesting crops?"
Rutledge had listened closely, a frown on his face.
"Three dead. And no apparent connection among them? Except that they were alone at the time of their murder? And killed with the same type of weapon?"
"Well, there's the war, sir," Walker admitted. "And they're of an age, having fought in France together. Please, if you will, sir, speak to Mr. Pierce."
Rutledge agreed, although with reluctance. It was not usual to have a civilian passing on the details of an inquiry. But he could see, from Walker's anxious face, that Pierce was a man to be reckoned with in Eastfield, and until he knew just exactly what he was dealing with, it might be as well to see what Pierce had to say.
Leaving the motorcar where it was, they walked to Drum Street and the tall, mellowed brick facade of the brewery buildings. A large gold arrow had been affixed to the front of the main building under the name PIERCE BROTHERS, and Rutledge realized that this was the beer famous in three counties for its Rose of Picardy label.
They found the senior Pierce in his office, an old-fashioned but elegantly styled room in oak, with paintings of the founders on the walls and a large marble hearth that held pride of place to one side of the partners' desk by the windows.
A tall man stood up as Rutledge and Walker were admitted by an elderly clerk.
Scanning Rutledge's face, he came forward and said to Walker, "Good morning, Constable."
"This is Inspector Rutledge, Mr. Pierce. From Scotland Yard, as you requested."
Pierce held out his hand, and Rutledge shook it, saying, "I'm told you would prefer to tell me what's been happening here in Eastfield." He had kept his voice neutral, neither accepting Pierce's authority to do any such thing, nor disputing it.
Pierce led them to the chairs set out before the empty hearth. "I apologize for that, Mr. Rutledge. Constable Walker here has handled events so far with his usual skill, and I am grateful for that. It's just that I have a very personal stake in finding this madman. Two days ago my own son was his third victim. That doesn't make Anthony any more important than the other two victims, but William Jeffers's wife and Jimmy Roper's father aren't able to speak for themselves at this time. Their loss was as devastating as mine, but they are alone in their grief, and I have a staff at my disposal to see me through the next few weeks."
"I understand," Rutledge answered, without committing himself. Pierce was a man used to giving orders, and it was possible that Mrs. Jeffers and Jimmy Roper's father were grateful that he was taking charge.
Clearing his throat, as if to dispose of all emotion before he began, Pierce said, "The first Constable Walker, here, knew of Jeffers's death was sometime after midnight when a goods van, driven by one Sammy Black, came through Eastfield on his way to Hastings. He'd had a problem with his van and was several hours late as it was. Soon after passing the church, he saw something in the middle of the road. To use his own words, he said that it looked like a bundle of old rags lost off a dustman's cart. But he slowed, because there wasn't sufficient room to pass on either side, and he was wary about driving straight over the rags. He'd served as a driver in the war and was accustomed to watching out for unexploded ordnance in his path. By that time his headlamps had reached the bundle and he could see it more clearly. He realized it was someone lying in the road, and he stopped to see if it was a drunkard or if the man had been struck by another vehicle.