What had the man done that had angered the killer? From the time that Scotland Yard had arrived in the village, whoever was behind these murders knew he was risking being unmasked. He must also have known that dispatching one inspector would only bring another in his place, someone even more determined to search him out.

What had made it necessary to rid himself of Mickelson before the inquest? Rutledge had told Norman that it was what Mickelson knew—or was about to do. But was that true?

Or had Kenton, trying to persuade Mickelson he was wrong about Hopkins, lost his temper and acted rashly? Something as simple as that?

He went to the door and raised his voice, but only loud enough to reach to the last cell down the passage. He had heard the door being unlocked and a lunch tray passed to the prisoner there. But the man had been quiet. If he had spoken at all, it was so softly that the words hadn’t carried.

“Carl Hopkins?”

There was no answer.

Rutledge tried again. “Mr. Hopkins. I’m a policeman. I was in Eastfield before Inspector Mickelson.”

“I remember.” There was a pause. “Why are you in a cell?”

“Inspector Mickelson was attacked. For lack of a better idea, they think I’m involved. I didn’t like the man. The feeling was mutual. Meanwhile, I’m waiting for my movements to be cleared up.” He hoped that was true.

“It’s a trick of some sort. Well, it won’t do you much good. I didn’t kill anyone. I have nothing to confess.”

“It’s no trick.”

But Hopkins wouldn’t say anything else and Rutledge let it go.

I didn’t kill anyone . . .

Rutledge sat down on the cot, staring at the walls, hearing in the back of his mind the distant French guns, and then the artillery from the English lines. Before very long, he knew he’d begin shouting commands to his men, and then he would be lost.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He had even lost track of where he was, the tramp of men’s boots as they formed a line in the trench, waiting their turn to go up the ladder and follow their officers into battle, had seemed so real he could smell the stench of the water in the bottom of their trench and hear the whispered prayers of men who knew they could die in the next five minutes. He was preparing to blow his whistle for the charge when the present intruded.

The sound of voices drifted down the passage and then grew louder. After a moment the constable appeared to unlock Rutledge’s door. The relief that swept over him as the door swung wide was almost physical, and for a moment he had to struggle with the images fading into the back of his mind.