isn’t something only the lower animals experience.”
8
I t was nearly one o’clock. Rutledge and Walker went in search of lunch and found themselves in a small corner shop that catered to workingmen. It was situated on a street where buildings backed up to the shelving land. The lower portion of the room was mainly a counter filled with various cooked meats, cheeses, and an array of sandwiches. On the upper level, reached by a half dozen steps, were bare tables and chairs, set out in front of a bar that dispensed tea, coffee, and cider as well as beer and ale.
They ordered from the smiling young woman who came up to their table and presented a handwritten menu listing what was available.
She was just bringing their sandwiches and glasses of cider when the sun came out. The streets and rooftops began to steam as the air warmed, and the neighboring houses gleamed wetly, giving them a just-washed look. The young woman glanced over her shoulder and said, “There. And about time too.” Turning back to the two men and noting that one was a policeman with rain-darkened shoulders, she added, “Were you there on the headland when they brought that poor soul in?”
“Just caught in the downpour,” Rutledge answered for both of them.
“It’s brave they were, going out to the edge of the headland that way, and in such a storm. Bits crumble, and it’s easy to lose one’s footing and go over. Every summer someone ventures too near the edge and goes over. Never fails. You’d think they’d mind the signs that are put up each year, but they never do. And some of them let their children romp and play up there, as if it were the back garden and safe as houses. Last May it was a little boy flying a kite who fell. I hope this wasn’t a child. It’s a crime the way some parents haven’t the sense they were born with. Even the smugglers knew better!”
And she moved on to another table. Walker said, “There are smugglers’ caves all about Hastings. It was a lucrative enterprise when French goods were banned. And there’s some who say that it goes on still, when nobody is looking.” He bit off the end of his sandwich and added around it, “Do you think Dr. Thompson was right? About our murderer liking the feeling of killing?”
“It’s one other solution. It may even explain the discs—that in his mind these keep the war alive. But where did he come by these? That’s what I need to find out. Whether or not they have any particular significance.”
“Odd that Inspector Norman never mentioned the disc in Hartle’s mouth. Or had the doctor told him?”
“There hadn’t been time.” Rutledge finished his cider and beckoned to the woman who had waited on them. He paid the accounting and waited for Walker to retrieve his helmet and cape from the other chair.
“I’ve put it off as long as I can,” he was saying. “But there’s his sister to tell. She’ll be broken up about this. I doubt her husband will. They never got on together, he and Theo.”
Rutledge stopped on his way to the door. “Do you think he could have done this?”
“His legs are in braces. Poliomyelitis.”
As Walker cranked the motorcar, Rutledge looked out to sea. The heavy gray clouds were far out along the horizon now, making their way to France.
Ahead lay the duty he disliked the most. Breaking news to an anxious family. He could have left it to Walker, but that was not his way.
“How did anyone lure Hartle out onto the headland?” Walker asked as he joined Rutledge in the motorcar. “And after dark. Hartle was a canny man, he wouldn’t have gone there without a plausible reason.”
They drove in silence back to Eastfield, and Constable Walker pointed out where the dead man’s sister lived.
It was a simple bungalow in a street of similar houses, single story, squat roof, and a small garden behind.
Constable Walker broke the silence as they got out of the motorcar. “I’ve done this three times now. Pray God it’s the
8
I t was nearly one o’clock. Rutledge and Walker went in search of lunch and found themselves in a small corner shop that catered to workingmen. It was situated on a street where buildings backed up to the shelving land. The lower portion of the room was mainly a counter filled with various cooked meats, cheeses, and an array of sandwiches. On the upper level, reached by a half dozen steps, were bare tables and chairs, set out in front of a bar that dispensed tea, coffee, and cider as well as beer and ale.
They ordered from the smiling young woman who came up to their table and presented a handwritten menu listing what was available.
She was just bringing their sandwiches and glasses of cider when the sun came out. The streets and rooftops began to steam as the air warmed, and the neighboring houses gleamed wetly, giving them a just-washed look. The young woman glanced over her shoulder and said, “There. And about time too.” Turning back to the two men and noting that one was a policeman with rain-darkened shoulders, she added, “Were you there on the headland when they brought that poor soul in?”
“Just caught in the downpour,” Rutledge answered for both of them.
“It’s brave they were, going out to the edge of the headland that way, and in such a storm. Bits crumble, and it’s easy to lose one’s footing and go over. Every summer someone ventures too near the edge and goes over. Never fails. You’d think they’d mind the signs that are put up each year, but they never do. And some of them let their children romp and play up there, as if it were the back garden and safe as houses. Last May it was a little boy flying a kite who fell. I hope this wasn’t a child. It’s a crime the way some parents haven’t the sense they were born with. Even the smugglers knew better!”
And she moved on to another table. Walker said, “There are smugglers’ caves all about Hastings. It was a lucrative enterprise when French goods were banned. And there’s some who say that it goes on still, when nobody is looking.” He bit off the end of his sandwich and added around it, “Do you think Dr. Thompson was right? About our murderer liking the feeling of killing?”
“It’s one other solution. It may even explain the discs—that in his mind these keep the war alive. But where did he come by these? That’s what I need to find out. Whether or not they have any particular significance.”
“Odd that Inspector Norman never mentioned the disc in Hartle’s mouth. Or had the doctor told him?”
“There hadn’t been time.” Rutledge finished his cider and beckoned to the woman who had waited on them. He paid the accounting and waited for Walker to retrieve his helmet and cape from the other chair.
“I’ve put it off as long as I can,” he was saying. “But there’s his sister to tell. She’ll be broken up about this. I doubt her husband will. They never got on together, he and Theo.”
Rutledge stopped on his way to the door. “Do you think he could have done this?”
“His legs are in braces. Poliomyelitis.”
As Walker cranked the motorcar, Rutledge looked out to sea. The heavy gray clouds were far out along the horizon now, making their way to France.
Ahead lay the duty he disliked the most. Breaking news to an anxious family. He could have left it to Walker, but that was not his way.
“How did anyone lure Hartle out onto the headland?” Walker asked as he joined Rutledge in the motorcar. “And after dark. Hartle was a canny man, he wouldn’t have gone there without a plausible reason.”
They drove in silence back to Eastfield, and Constable Walker pointed out where the dead man’s sister lived.
It was a simple bungalow in a street of similar houses, single story, squat roof, and a small garden behind.
Constable Walker broke the silence as they got out of the motorcar. “I’ve done this three times now. Pray God it’s the
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