A Lonely Death (9 page)

The victim lay on his stomach, his clothing dripping water. It was clear to everyone who could see the back of his neck that he’d been garroted, as Inspector Norman had suspected. The deep line of the wound was black in the gloomy light of the stormy day.

The rocks had also taken their toll, his trousers muddy and ripped, a tear in his shirt, signs on the exposed skin of his hands of scrapes and cuts. Still, it was evident to Rutledge that he hadn’t used them to protect himself when the wire had come around his throat.

With a glance at Rutledge, Norman reached out and turned the body over, and behind him Walker’s sharp intake of breath was audible.

Norman looked up. “Know him?”

Walker said, “Yes, sir—it’s Theo Hartle. He and his father work in the furniture-making firm in Eastfield.”

“Are you sure? His face is rather battered.”

“There’s no doubt in my mind,” Walker told him. “I’ve seen him every day of his life, near enough.”

“Well, then,” Inspector Norman said. “He is in fact one of yours. And on my patch.”

The doctor, conducting a swift inventory of visible injuries, said, “No other wounds apparent, just those consistent with his fall and with the attempt to bring him back from the ledge. And it was damned lucky he struck that ledge, or he’d have been taken out to sea and we’d never have found him.”

“It wasn’t a matter of luck,” Inspector Norman told him. “If you know these cliffs, this was the only place along the rim where it was sure that he would be stopped before he went into the sea.”

Hamish spoke, startling Rutledge. “Aye, and did yon murderer ken the ledge was there?”

Rutledge looked down at the dead face. Hartle appeared to be in his middle twenties like the other three victims, fair, taller than most, and of heavy build, which had made the task of bringing him up from the rocks even harder.

The doctor was turning away.

Norman gestured to his men. “All right. Get him to the doctor’s surgery.” He went over to thank the men of the Life Boat Service for their help, giving them a handful of coins as he spoke. “Get yourselves something to warm you. I’ll have a statement later, when you’re off duty.”

Norman had brought a motorcar to the top of the headland, and as they walked through the rain toward it, he said, “It was sheer chance that he was spotted. The fishing boats coming in reported seeing something on the ledge, a leaper they thought, and when we came up to look, I had a bad feeling about it. We got the lifeboat men up here, and began rescue operations, but the ledge wasn’t wide enough for more than one man to climb down to it. The way the sea was crashing over those rocks, it’s a wonder they weren’t both swept away.”

They had reached the motorcar, and Norman used his hands to wipe the rain from his face before getting in. Rutledge hesitated, his thoughts as always racing to Hamish, and then pushing them aside, he joined Walker in the rear seat.

Norman said as they crested a slight rise to reach the road and his tires fought for a grip, “A damnable day for this. I told you I didn’t want your murders spilling over into Hastings.”

Rutledge had pulled out his handkerchief, cold and damp despite his trench coat. He could feel the heaviness of the cloth weighing across his shoulders, and water inside his shoes. “The question is, what brought Hartle here?”

They wound their way down to the town and headed toward the police station. Norman was saying grimly, “That’s your lookout, isn’t it? But I don’t like this business. Not one whit.”

The interior of the motorcar smelled of wet wool, unpleasant and heavy in the dampness. As they pulled up in front of the police station, Norman turned to ask, “Where did you leave your own vehicle? By the net shops?”

“At the foot of the funicular.”

“I’ll send one of my men back to fetch it. Come inside.”

They got out and went into the station. It seemed dreadfully cold, without the sun to warm it, and Norman spoke to the sergeant at the desk, asking him to see that they were brought tea from the small canteen.

It was a far larger station than the one in Eastfield, and Norman’s office was down a short passage to the left. From the cells to the right, they could hear a man singing in a monotone, at the top of his lungs.

“He’s half mad,” Norman said in explanation as he shut his door against the sound. “We bring him in from time to time for his own sake. His sister can’t control him.” He took the chair behind the desk, thought better of it, wet as he was, and searched in one of the drawers for a sheaf of paper. “Here, use these,” he said, passing them across the desk. “Or you’ll stick to the wood. God, I don’t know when I’ve been this wet.” Opening a cupboard door, he found a towel and began to dry his face and hair. “All right, Walker, tell us what you know about this man Hartle.”

“He was in the war, with the others. A likeable man. Never any trouble before or after the war. He went to work at Kenton Chairs carving scrollwork for chair backs and desk fronts. His father always claimed he had a natural talent.”

Norman looked across the desk at Rutledge. “Factory is a misnomer. The furniture-making concern turns out desks, chairs, tables, bookcases, and bedsteads using a variety of machines, and then finishing them by hand. There’s a market in these new hotels springing up along the south coast for quality furnishings that are durable enough to take the rough handling of holidaymakers. It employs a dozen men, I should think?” He looked at Walker, who nodded. “Fifteen at the most. But they’re all skilled men, and for the most part, their fathers worked there before them. A man name of Kenton owns it, and Kenton Chairs have been well known for decades, even though they’ve expanded their line. There’s a cottage industry as well, caning the seats.”

“Mr. Kenton’s grandfather began the business in a shed on his property,” Walker added. “The Hartles have worked there for three generations, at a guess.”

“So what brought our man to Hastings?” Inspector Norman wanted to know. “If he’s employed at Kenton’s?”

“I’ve no idea,” Rutledge answered him. “I’d like a copy of the doctor’s report as soon as may be.”

“We all know the cause of death. You could see the man’s throat. But was he killed out there on the headland? Or taken there after he was dead? What do you think? With this rain, any blood or signs of a struggle have been washed away hours ago.”

“The only hope is to backtrack him. If he was here in Hastings for some purpose, why didn’t he return to Eastfield the same day—or evening, as may be? What was he doing here late at night? And where was he staying?”

“I’ll have my men ask questions in the lodging houses and the pubs.”

The door opened and a constable entered, in his hands a painted wooden tray that had seen better days. The edges were worn, and the garland of roses that decorated the center was chipped and scratched. But the china teapot, cups, jug of milk, and bowl of sugar resting on it were spotlessly clean and probably a decade newer. Norman stood up, took it from the man, and proceeded to pour three cups. It was blessedly hot, and there was a silence as they drank a little.

Rutledge could feel the warmth spreading through him and was grateful. Setting his empty cup aside, he said, “We’ll exchange what information we’ve found.”

“Ah, but is this my inquiry now—or yours?” Norman asked, smiling.

Rutledge was in no mood to argue jurisdictions. “The Chief Constable handed the inquiry over to the Yard. I believe he would agree that Hartle’s death falls into the same case I’ve been pursuing since I arrived in Sussex.”

“If I have any say in the matter, the inquest will be held here.”

Rutledge said, “He died here. It will be held here. But you said yourself, he’s one of ours.”

Norman didn’t answer. Finishing his tea, he said, “We’ll see about that in due course. For the moment, leave me to my work and I’ll not interfere with yours. We’ll see if we can trace his movements in Hastings. If you learn anything in Eastfield that will help with that—why he was here in the first place—I’ll thank you to make life easier for us.”

“I’ll speak to his employer.” Rutledge rose. “My motorcar should have been brought in by now. Thank you for the tea. I’ll be in touch.”

Walker hastily swallowed the contents of his cup and rose to follow Rutledge from Norman’s office.

Norman let them go without saying anything more, and Rutledge was glad to see that his motorcar was in truth waiting in front of the police station.

He and Walker stepped out in the rain, and Walker said, “Back to Eastfield?”

Rutledge answered, “I’d like to go back to that headland.”

Walker’s groan was almost audible. Rutledge turned to him. “You needn’t get out.”

There, Rutledge crisscrossed the headland, looking for clues. It was nearly hopeless, given the conditions, but his eyes were good, and he knew that there was only this one chance to find anything at all.

Hamish said, against the wail of the wind, “Give it up.”

He was right. The search turned up nothing more than a halfpenny, which could have been lying in the grass for months, if not years. The bearded face of Edward VII stared back at Rutledge as he turned it over.

Retracing his steps to the motorcar, he got in and said to Walker, “Do you know the doctor who was out here this morning?”

“Not well. He’s Dr. Thompson. His surgery is somewhere in Hill Street.”

“Then let’s find it.” Rutledge drove back the way he had come, and after some trouble, they finally saw the small shingle that hung by the doctor’s door.

The doctor’s nurse, a tall, spare woman with a sweet face, answered their knock and showed them into the surgery.

A body lay on a long table, covered now with a sheet. Clothing and other belongings had been set aside in a shallow bin to finish dripping.

Dr. Thompson was just washing his hands, and he turned to greet them. Recognizing them, he said, “You were on the headland, with Inspector Norman. Did he send you? I was just about to ask him to step around.”

Rutledge identified himself and Constable Walker. “I’ve been sent by London to take over the inquiry. Hartle isn’t the first victim of this killer. The others were in Eastfield.”

“Ah, yes, I remember something being said about jurisdiction. I’ll tell you what I’ve learned and confer with Inspector Norman later.” He added, after a moment, “As a courtesy.”

“What do you know so far?”

“That my initial conclusions were correct. There’s the throat, of course. Not manual strangulation but the use of a garrote. Abrasions from the fall over the cliff’s edge, but these occurred shortly after death, not before. He wasn’t alive when he hit the rocky ledge below. How long he’d been dead, I can’t tell you at the moment, but I would make an educated guess of sometime before midnight. Perhaps as early as ten or eleven o’clock. The cold rain hampers any more definitive conclusion. Have a look.” He pointed to the sheet where Hartle lay, and Rutledge walked over to lift it.

He could see the wound very clearly, now, and the cuts and scrapes Dr. Thompson had mentioned. “Any thoughts on what sort of garrote it is?”

“Wire, most likely, to cut that deep. More efficient than a silk cord or even knotted rope.” He pointed to a long jagged wound in the dead man’s abdomen. It had healed, but the scar was still prominent. “Bayonet, I’d say. A miracle he survived the infection that must have followed, never mind the damage done by the blade itself. As you can see, he’s a big man. He would have taken some killing. I daresay your murderer has a few bruises to show for it.” Lifting one of Hartle’s hands, he pointed to the fingers. “Initially I thought this was damage from the fall or the recovery. But I’m of the opinion he tried to pull whatever it was away from his throat. See the broken nails, and there’s some indication of dried blood under the others. I’d put his age at about twenty-eight. From the lines around his mouth, he must have been in some pain from his wound. And large as he is, strong as he no doubt was, he isn’t as filled out as he should be.”

Walker spoke for the first time. “Twenty-eight his last birthday.” He was about to ask a question, but Rutledge forestalled him

“Did you find anything else of interest?” he asked.

Dr. Thompson said, “I was just coming to that. Nothing to do with the cause of death or the state of the body, you understand. Inside the man’s mouth was an identity disc. From the war, you know. I didn’t quite—I was told this victim was Theo Hartle—I believe it was you, Constable, who identified him? From Eastfield. But the disc would say that this was a man named French from Herefordshire. I don’t quite understand why the disc was there—the war has been over for two years, after all—or why there is some question about the name of the victim.”

He passed the disc to Rutledge. It was clear that he was curious and wanted an answer to his question.

It was also apparent that the police hadn’t made such details public, and Dr. Gooding had examined the other three victims, not Dr. Thompson.

Rutledge said, looking at the name on the disc, “Please treat what I’m about to tell you as confidential. Only a handful of people know that this appears to be the—shall I call it the signature?—or the hallmark of this murderer? Identity discs from another man and another regiment left in the corpse’s mouth. If Walker tells us that this man is Theo Hartle, I believe him. Why the disc of one Corporal French should be there we haven’t yet determined. Which is why we aren’t making this information public.”