Taking a deep breath, Kenton met Rutledge’s gaze. “Several weeks ago, he received a letter from someone in Germany. His aunt had hanged herself. Despondent still over the death of her son, according to her priest, and enclosed was a copy of the letter from her doctor, documenting her ill health. An effort, I should think, to convince the church that she was not an intentional suicide, but it made sad reading. Carl showed it to me, asking what to do. I suggested making a small gift to the church, in her name. And that was the end of it for all I knew. Now . . . now I’m betraying a trust.”

He stopped, his face drawn, his eyes reflecting his discomfort and anxiety.

Rutledge said, “I’ll speak to him. Quietly, without making it obvious. Thank you.”

“I’m not saying—I’m not pointing a finger, you understand. But my God, four men are dead, and if I don’t speak up, there may be others. I love Carl like a son, I’ll do anything to help him. But I was fond of Theo as well. I can’t believe Carl could have harmed him. Not Theo.”

“It took a great deal of courage to come here. But you did the right thing.”

Kenton rose from the table. “Have I? He could have been my son, you know. But my mother persuaded me not to marry Hilda. And she was right, in the long term we were much happier with our respective spouses. All the same, I still remember how I felt at the time.”

As he walked away, Rutledge wondered if that last was true. Or if over the years Kenton had convinced himself that it must be true, that his mother had been wise.

He went directly to the police station and found Constable Walker reading a message from Inspector Norman.

He looked up as Rutledge came in.

“There’s a woman in Hastings who saw Theo Hartle at seven o’clock, speaking to a man. The Inspector wants to know if you’ll be interested in interviewing her with him. I told Constable Petty that we’d come as soon as I tracked you down.”

“Let’s go,” Rutledge said, and turned toward the inn to collect his motorcar. He told himself that Carl Hopkins could wait.

But he was wrong.

Chapter 12

12

Inspector Norman was waiting for them, impatient and short tempered. He greeted Rutledge with a sharp, “I was about to go on without you. I’ve got a murder inquiry of my own, two women killed in a house on Brent Street. They walked in on a man ransacking it. There’s an intensive search in progress. I don’t appreciate the distraction of your inquiry.”

“We’ll talk to this person ourselves, Constable Walker and I.”