“Theo came to me because when he was about ten, he’d frightened another boy to the point that the child almost leaped to his death to get away from him. The story was that Theo had played truant one day, and cadged a ride to Hastings on the back of a hay wain. He’d intended to explore some of the so-called smugglers’ caves, to see if he could find any treasure. This child wanted to go too, and Theo couldn’t get rid of him. He called him an ugly little toad, pushing in where he wasn’t wanted, and still the child clung to him. Theo, who was large for his age, had expected to pass as an older boy, but now he thought that with the other child in tow, someone would take more notice of them and send them home with a flea in their ears. He lured the other boy far out on East Hill, and told him that there was smugglers’ gold below, and if he’d go down and look for it, he’d be given half of all he discovered.”

Ottley walked aimlessly about the room, not looking at the two men listening to his story, and found his way back to the window. “But of course,” he went on, “he lied, there was no pirate gold to divide, the cliff face was extraordinarily dangerous, and Hartle was hoping the other child would walk too close to the edge, and then his weight and gravity would carry him over. I don’t think—I don’t believe—that Hartle understood the consequences. He was frantic to enjoy his day of freedom, and he just wanted the other boy to go away. At any rate, the child found himself out on the very edge, became frightened, and froze. He started to cry, begging Theo to give him a hand to hold so that he could make his way back. But Theo walked away and left him there. The child finally made it to safety by crawling out of danger, and then he was late for his dinner, and his worried father disciplined him to teach him a lesson. He too was a truant, remember.”

“Gentle God. Who was the child?”

Closing the window finally and turning back into the room, the rector said, “Theo Hartle wouldn’t tell me. He said that there was no making amends, and the other boy would probably have begged him to keep his mouth shut. Perhaps he would have. Perhaps not.”

Rutledge said, “And so Hartle, for his sins, was killed there on the headland and his body rolled over the edge.”

The rector said, “I know. It—the circumstances—are too close to Hartle’s death for comfort. I didn’t remember, you see. I don’t think I wanted to remember.”

“Are you certain,” Constable Walker asked, “that the child wasn’t Virgil himself?”