A Lonely Death (8 page)

“There’s that,” Walker answered, considering the matter. “Although for the life of me I can’t see how they’re connected.”

“It may only be in the murderer’s mind,” Rutledge said.

Walker turned to him in surprise. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“It’s possible that whoever it is uses a garrote because the face of the victim isn’t important,” Rutledge said.

But that would indicate random killings.

7

I
n the morning, Inspector Norman in Hastings sent a man to Eastfield with the message. He was held up first by the heavy rain and then having to wait for Walker.

Constable Petty, standing in the window of the police station, finally saw his fellow constable coming down the street. Walker, just returning from another round of the village, in an effort to reassure himself that indeed nothing had happened in the night, came through the doorway, nodded, and began to strip off his rain gear.

“A cup of tea, Petty?”

“Much as I could use one, I don’t think there’s time,” the man replied, and he said what he’d been told to say, refusing to answer any of Walker’s questions.

Walker, growling in frustration, pulled on his gear again and set out for the hotel.

When he began his rounds the night before, he had had no way of knowing that Rutledge, awake at two and again at three o’clock, had also gone quietly out of the hotel and with only Hamish for company, had also walked through the darkness, pausing now and again to listen to the night sounds around him. It was amazing, he thought as he moved through the silent streets, that a habitation with so little history to scar it could seem so ominous in the broken moonlight. If there had been rape and pillage and fire and sword here at some time in the distant past, it had not left its mark. Except perhaps during those hours between midnight and dawn.

Hamish observed, “Where there are people, there’s death.”

And it was true. Hopelessness, starvation, plague, disease among the animals, all of these brought death as surely as armies.

As his footsteps echoed on the hard-packed surface of the road then vanished in the soft earth of the churchyard, Rutledge had wondered if he were being watched. He had no feeling on that score, but he considered what he would do in a murderer’s shoes. Would he choose one of the taller buildings along the main street, with a wide sweep of views in either direction? The church tower, tall enough to allow an overview of the village and the surrounding farms? Or the shadows of a dense stand of lilac he’d noticed where the road curved just beyond the brewery buildings on its way out of Eastfield? How had the murderer found his victims, if he hadn’t followed them or watched them walk by themselves in a direction in which he could expect to find his killing ground?

Hamish said into the silence, “Ye ken how Donald MacRae found the snipers?”

Rutledge did remember. They had been plagued for nearly a week by a well-hidden sniper, and no one had caught the muzzle flash, because he chose a time when the British line was too busy. Private MacRae had been detailed to watch for it, and instead, he had scavenged old hay from the horse lines and a few ragged planks from a repaired section of trench wall. That night he had piled the bits and pieces just outside the trench. It sat there for two days, the Germans across No Man’s Land at first amusing themselves by firing into the debris, testing their skills. And then they ignored it. On the third night, MacRae had poked the tip of a rifle under the edge of the hay, barely visible. And early the next morning he had jiggled a helmet on a bayonet just behind the planking, for all the world like a man sighting down the barrel of his weapon. MacRae had set two spotters to watch as the German sniper took his shot at what he believed to be his opposite number, giving himself away in the process. It had been too tempting, and it had been his last. They had caught two other snipers with the same trick, over the span of six months or so.

It could well be the case here, that someone waited under cover until his quarry had walked into his sights.

But that meant he
could
wait for his opportunity. Coldly, precisely, unemotionally. In no hurry to complete whatever task he’d set himself.

Satisfied at last that there was no one else abroad, Rutledge had returned to his room, slept lightly, and when the clock in the church tower struck the next hour, he had arisen and done it all over again. Just as he reached the hotel, the clouds that had been gathering for the past hour or more consolidated over southern Sussex and Kent, and a steady rain began to fall.

Walker had just come through the door of the hotel and was crossing the lobby intent on climbing the stairs in search of Rutledge’s room when his quarry walked out of the dining room after an early breakfast.

The constable passed on the message from Norman, keeping his voice low so that it wouldn’t carry to the man at Reception watching them with interest.

Rutledge was very still for a moment. Then he said, “Damn.”

The fox had outwitted the hounds. While Rutledge had been scouring Eastfield, the killer had moved on.

“I’m afraid, sir, that Inspector Norman isn’t the least bit pleased,” Walker said in some satisfaction. “But I’m not denying I’m pleased it wasn’t someone from my patch.”

“Collect Petty and bring the motorcar around, will you? I’ll be five minutes.”

It was not a long drive. Suddenly the road came to a cleft in the cliffs and then wended down the hillside. Scattered buildings and cottages gave way to a tumble of houses perched above the shoreline. To the left were rows of tall black wooden net shops—drying sheds—and the fishing fleet, already drawn up on the strand. The rain beat against the motorcar as they reached the bottom of the cleft, and they tasted salt on their lips. To the right, the town itself opened up, streets winding into a maze of other streets, and beyond, the increasingly popular waterfront, empty now of holidaymakers. Waves were coming in as gray as the sky, and their froth looked dingy as they crashed into the shale of the strand.

Hastings had once been a tiny fishing village at the mouth of a valley that had spilled down from the cliffs to the narrow strand below. With time, the village had grown east toward the headland, but it never really flourished as a port even in William of Normandy’s day, although later it had been one of the English Cinque Ports, with a castle that overlooked the sea and protected the mouth of the valley. Sea bathing had finally made the coast prosperous, and Hastings had then expanded westward toward St. Leonards. The Old Town, with its sand fishing boats, the tall tarred structures where the nets were dried, and a crowded street of houses and shops reclaimed from the sea, were left as an anachronism as the town built anew for the carriage trade, with prospects, circles, and promenades taking pride of place. This had waned with the war, although sea bathing was picking up again.

Rutledge drove directly to the police station, following Walker’s directions, only to be told that Inspector Norman was still out on the headland above the fishing fleet. They went back the way they had come, and as they reached the strand, through the rain they could just see the top of the cliff where it jutted out into the water. Silhouetted against the gray sky were a dozen or so men, tiny figures at this distance, moving about near the edge just above where part of the cliff face had broken away in the past and tumbled down into the sea. Watching them, Rutledge realized that there was a climber making his way back up to them, struggling against the pull of the wind as he worked ropes that were invisible from this angle.

“I don’t envy that poor bastard,” Walker was saying, watching him. It would have been a dangerous business even in good weather. “What possessed him even to try such a thing?”

Rutledge was silent as he made his way to the funicular that ran up the cliff face just beyond the black net shops.

For a wonder it was working. The two men waited impatiently for the next car to take them to the top. Rutledge could already see a policeman moving toward the upper station, as if coming to meet them.

It was a quick run to the top, and then they were stepping out onto the wet grass, facing the full force of the wind. The policeman, a constable, said to Rutledge, “Inspector? This way, please, sir.” He turned to lead the way toward the rounded knob of the headland, where most of the policemen and several civilians were still busy.

Even in the downpour, Rutledge could see that there was something on the ground where they were standing, although most of their attention was riveted on the climber still inching his way up the cliff face. Rutledge realized that what had appeared to be two bodies actually were two men stretched out on the wet grass anchoring the climber’s ropes, their heads hanging over the precipice. Two more men held their ankles, to keep them from being dragged over. Rutledge could see that the grass was bruised and slippery as hell, and the wind in this unprotected spot was whipping in off the sea, rushing upward to buffet the knot of figures.

He pulled off his hat to keep it from blowing away, and felt the rain driven against his face.

The men didn’t turn as Rutledge came to join the group. He saw that Walker stopped a little to one side, trying to speak to the constable who had come to the funicular to fetch them. He had to shout in the man’s ear to be heard.

Everyone looked thoroughly miserable, but they were intent on the drama unfolding at their very feet. Rutledge heard a shout of pain as the wind slammed the climber into the wall he was trying to ascend, and one of the men on the ropes cried, “Are you all right, Ben?”

If he answered, Rutledge couldn’t hear him. Others, aware now that someone else had come out here, looked up to stare briefly at Rutledge, but Norman waited without turning as more and more rope was hauled up. And still the climber hadn’t crested the top.

Looking out to sea, Rutledge was hard-pressed to tell where the horizon ended and the water began, and he could see heavier clouds forming a line that darkened the sea and sky as it headed his way. He knew without being told that the men here were racing that line.

All at once the men stretched out on the ground scrambled back, and the teams heaved on the ropes with all the strength they could muster. Then, like a jack-in-the-box, a man’s head and shoulders popped up, followed by his torso and legs, and he made it to the bruised grass at the edge.

The climber flopped down where he was, flat out, exhausted. His hair was dripping rainwater, his clothes wet through. Someone came forward and draped a tarpaulin over him, but he was sweating from exertion and asked them to pull it away again.

Only then did Inspector Norman turn, as if he’d known Rutledge was there all along. His hair was also plastered to his skull, his face red and raw from the rain and the wind. He shouted to Rutledge, pointing down the cliff face, “One of yours?”

Rutledge made his way to the brink, gripping the shoulder of one of the men who had been pulling in the climber, to keep himself from being blown over.

Below, crumpled on the rocks that were being lashed by the sea, was a body.

The climber had been down there, attaching a sling of sorts to it, with ropes he brought back to the top tied to his belt.

It had been one hell of a climb down there, and even worse conditions trying to work with the body on such a narrow ledge, barely big enough for one man. And then the climb back had been even more hazardous.

Norman, somewhere behind Rutledge, called, “Look out,” and he turned to see four men pulling hard on ropes.

He stepped back from the edge and watched as the men—he learned later that they were from the lifeboat station below—began to haul the dead man to the top.

“What makes you think he’s one of mine?” Rutledge shouted.

Norman grinned at him, his long thin face seeming to split in two, but there was no humor in it. “When the climber got down there, he said the man’s throat had been cut. Took him forever to get those ropes down and attached properly. We didn’t want to drag the body against the rocky face. The sling should offer a little protection. But I have a feeling his throat wasn’t cut. I have a feeling he’s been garroted. That’s when I sent for you.”

“Why?” Rutledge demanded, feeling a surge of anger at the man’s gloating. “Why should it be one of ours? If the killer has moved on, that’s a Hastings man lying down there.”

“Call it instinct,” Norman told him and then turned back to watch the men straining against the dead weight on their ropes. “And these.” He drew a pair of field glasses from his pocket. “We had to know if he was dead or alive. I can tell you, the doctor didn’t relish going down after him. You could almost see him praying it was a corpse.”

He gestured to a middle-aged, balding man with a growing paunch, standing to one side, waiting.

Someone crawled to the end of the cliff and then called over his shoulder, “Easy, lads, easy.” The men on the ropes slacked off, caught their breath, and when the signal was given, this time they brought the body up to the top of the cliff and then with a last effort, pulled it over the edge onto the grassy slope. For an instant, it appeared to be on the point of sliding into the abyss again, teetering there until it was finally pulled to safety. Rutledge heard Norman swear.

Two other men ran forward, caught the rope handles on the sling, and gently urged it back to higher ground while the lines were kept taut. When all was secure, the rescuers squatted where they were, heads down, almost overwhelmed with exhaustion.

Rutledge and Norman reached the body in three long strides, kneeling in the rain to slip the sling back and examine the man. The doctor hurried forward to join them.

“He’s dead,” he said after a cursory examination. “As we thought. I’ll tell you more when I can examine him further. This isn’t the place for it.”

Constable Walker had come up behind them, hands on his knees as he leaned forward to see over Rutledge’s shoulder. Rain had soaked Rutledge’s dark hair, and rainwater was nearly blinding him as it ran down his face. He wiped it with his hands then considered the body.