But there was new information since he had summoned them, and so he asked, “Do you recall a village child called Summers? He and his sister attended school with you.”

They stared at him.

“His father moved north when the boy was about ten, I should think—not all that many years ago. Tommy Summers.”

Tuttle turned to Bullock. “I don’t think there was a Summers lad, do you?” Looking back to Rutledge, he added, “He must have been younger. Or older, even.”

Marshall said, “Summers. There was a girl by that name. My sister’s age. Long blond plaits down her back.”

“Was she the Summers girl? I thought she was dark.”

They argued amongst themselves, but the upshot was, they had no recollection of Tommy Summers at all.

Rutledge said, “You tried once to drown him as a witch.”

Something stirred in Marshall’s eyes, but he shook his head.

Tuttle shrugged. Bullock looked at the far wall, as if expecting more to follow, and this was somehow a trick to lull them. They were more interested in the present than the past.

Rutledge said, “Someone fought with Daniel Pierce for defending the boy.”

Walker said, “I remember that. Was Summers his name?” He pulled out his watch and added, “It’s growing late.”

“Yes, all right. Take them home, Constable.” There was no use pushing the issue. He watched them go, grumbling amongst themselves at the waste of time. As Hamish was pointing out, it was high summer and their busiest months.

And as if he’d overheard the remark, Marshall said in a voice intended to carry to Rutledge’s ears, “He hasn’t volunteered to milk the bloody cows, now has he? Londoner.” But there was bravado in the words.

Walker admonished him and followed the men into the street.

They had gone no more than twenty yards when Tuttle turned and glanced at Rutledge, as if of half a mind to call to him or go back, but Walker said, “Come along, then, it’s getting dark,” as if he were all too aware of Inspector Mickelson’s fate. The sanctity and authority of a policeman had been shattered. He was taking no chances being out in the night alone.

Rutledge waited until he’d returned, reluctant to leave the police station until he was sure Walker was all right.

The constable came in after Rutledge had lit the lamps, and shut the door with undue haste, as if he were shutting out the shadows waiting in the street.

“You’re still here, then.”

“I waited to ask you the same question I’d asked the others. You told me once, I think, about a boy being bullied. Do you remember any other details?”

“Not bullied, exactly. He was just one who never quite fit in. I’d have intervened if they’d done any real harm,” he said dismissively. “They were young lads. It happens.”