In London, Chief Inspector Hubbard had mentioned that Mickelson’s method had been to revisit Rutledge’s progress—or lack thereof—and draw new conclusions.

Under the list he’d already scanned there was a question mark, and then the comment, Kenton says Hopkins is obsessed. Lives alone, no witnesses to his comings or goings. Motive strong enough? Talk to him again.

And a later notation: Gave his permission to search premises. Not surprising, no garrote. Denies making discs. But good with tools. Could have stamped them out after hours, when other employees had left.

On a separate sheet were listed the names of the murder victims, and below that, another of potential victims—all of them the men Rutledge had kept in gaol while he was trying to locate the ex-soldiers whose names had been imprinted on the identity discs shoved into their mouths after death.

Near the bottom of the page was a larger question mark, drawn in heavy strokes.

Doesn’t feel right, Mickelson has scrawled just below it. What if I’m wrong and the killing begins again after we’ve all gone away?

The final line was ambiguous.

Why Hastings? Ask R.

Rutledge set the sheets back inside the drawer and closed it.

Did the second sheet represent uncertainty on Mickelson’s part before or after he’d arrested Carl Hopskins? They weren’t numbered.

Why Hastings? Ask R.

Standing there, looking down at the street below, Rutledge considered that R.

He found it hard to believe that Mickelson would have contacted him about Hastings. Who, then, was the R? The rector?

Opening the door a crack, he listened, but the passage was quiet, and he stepped out of the room, shutting the door again. Glancing at his watch, he could see that he just had time to call on the rector before dinner.

But the rector wasn’t at home, and his housekeeper, an elderly woman with a plain face, informed Rutledge that he was with the elder Roper, the second victim’s father.

“He’s been feeling rather down, since Jimmy’s death. Rector takes a book and goes to sit with him from time to time. Poor soul!”

“Can you tell me if Inspector Mickelson called here at the rectory two nights ago? It may have been rather late.”

“He’s the one they just found in Hastings,” she said, and shook her head. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to. Has he died, then?”

“He’s still unconscious. Was he here, do you know?”

“I leave after setting out Rector’s dinner,” she said. “Unless he’s ill. I live with my sister, and we sew of an evening. So I wouldn’t know who comes to call later than seven.”