But by the same token, Rutledge reminded himself, a man had died violently, and the person or persons unknown who had killed him had escaped the workings of the law.

He closed the folder and put it aside to be returned to the files where old cases were kept.

Setting his teeth, he reached for the first of the reports awaiting his attention, refusing to think about what was happening in Sussex.

But Hamish’s remark about the murders in Hastings still rankled. And there was nothing he could do about it.

A trial in which Rutledge was to give evidence was unexpectedly returned to the court docket after a long postponement, and he was summoned to Winchester the next morning. Sergeant Gibson brought him word shortly after two o’clock in the afternoon. He left at once to pack and drove through the golden light of late evening to the hotel room reserved for him. There was time after breakfast before he was scheduled to begin his testimony, and he walked in the cathedral precincts for half an hour.

The constable who was sent to fetch him was an older man, gray and stout.

As they walked back to the courts, Rutledge said, “Do you recall the man who was found murdered at Stonehenge in 1905? The case was never solved.”

Constable Gregg frowned. “My good lord, sir, I haven’t thought of it these dozen years or more. How did you come to know about it?”

“I knew the inspector who headed the inquiry. He retired recently.”

“He was a good man. If anyone could have found an answer it was him.”

“The Salisbury police were first on the scene, were they not?” It was a question designed to draw out his companion.