“Neither were you,” Inspector Norman retorted. They had reached the police station, and he got out as the motorcar pulled in by the main door. “Well. I don’t know if Mrs. Griffith clarified or clouded the issue. But for what it’s worth, I’ll see you get a copy of her statement, when it’s drawn up and signed.”

And then he was gone, striding into the police station with the intensity of a man who knew he had long hours ahead of him, his mind already busy with the two women killed by the intruder.

As they drove away, Constable Walker said, “He’s wrong,” as if that settled the matter.

Rutledge let it go. Inspector Norman’s remarks had distracted everyone from the subject of Daniel Pierce. And Rutledge was not ready for a witch hunt that muddled the case prematurely.

He said to Walker, “I have a stop to make before we leave Hastings. You can wait in the car, if you will.”

“Yes, sir,” Walker replied, his mind still on Inspector Norman’s charges.

Rutledge found the military shop again and leaving his motorcar just out of sight, walked in to collect more information about the man who had brought in the flint knife.

The proprietor was going through the pockets of an officer’s greatcoat as Rutledge came through the door.

“Hallo. Looking for more flint knives?”

Surprised, Rutledge said, “Do you have any others?”

Smiling, the proprietor hung up the greatcoat and shook his head. “No, more’s the pity. That’s to say if you were looking to buy another one.”

“I’m after information this time. I’m curious about the man who brought them in. I’d like to know whatever you learned from him. Perhaps he kept one or two more such knives, better made than this one.”

The man shrugged. “I doubt he has any more. He’d probably have sold them with the original one. Would you like me to contact him for you?”

“Thanks, but I’d rather write to him myself.” He could feel the man’s reluctance, and added, “I don’t mind paying a finder’s fee, if he’s got other examples.” This was not his inquiry, and Rutledge had no authority to invoke the power of Scotland Yard to ask for the shopkeeper’s cooperation.

The proprietor smiled. “You’re a man after my own heart, Mr. . . .”

He let his voice trail away, hinting.

“My name is Rutledge. I’m from London. I’m here in Hastings on a matter of business.”

“Then, Mr. Rutledge, if you’ll give me five minutes, I’ll look in my books and see what I have that will help you track down the former owner of a fine flint knife. Meanwhile, is there anything else you’d care to see?”

“Not at the moment.”