“He raises pigs out on the road to Battle. He goes about Eastfield with his cart, collecting scraps people save for him, and he takes milk from the dairy herds that they can’t sell. He was on his rounds before first light, and stopped in a copse of trees just north of the turning for Hastings. It appeared his horse was lame, or he thought it was, and he drew up out of the road. Or someone hailed him, we’ll never know. But the horse is indeed lame, a stone in its shoe. We found that out when we tried to turn the cart for a better look at Marshall’s body.”

“My motorcar is still outside. Show me.”

The copse was some hundred yards past the turning to Hastings, just as Constable Walker had described it. On the far side, where the trees began, there was a small grassy opening among the trunks, and Walker pointed to it.

“Just there. The body was still warm. And if you look hard enough, you can see the roof of Marshall’s barn beyond the treetops in that direction. He died within sight of his own farm.”

Rutledge turned. There was indeed a barn roof, nearly hidden by the leaves of a stand of trees.

“Have you notified his family?”

“Not yet. Do you want to deal with that and afterward see the body?”

“They’ll be wondering where he went. We’ll go there first. What sort of family did he have?”

“A mother who lives there with him, his wife, and three small children. He always claimed he made up for the war years as soon as he got home. He was wounded early in 1918, and by the time he was fit to return to active service, the war was over.”

They could smell the pigs as they approached the farm, but the house was tidy and there were flowers along the track that led to the door.

An elderly woman opened the door to their knock, fear in her eyes. And then she clapped a hand to her mouth as she read their faces.

“He’s dead.” It wasn’t a question. “When he didn’t come home with the cart, I knew something must have happened.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper. Ushering them into a front room, she added, “My daughter-in-law is upstairs nursing the little one. Let her finish.” She glanced up the stairs and then shut both doors quietly.

Rutledge identified himself. “I’m afraid we’ve come to confirm your fears, Mrs. Marshall. Your son was found this morning in the copse down the road. He was murdered.”