He felt a surge of something, he couldn’t have said what, and then returned his attention to the road.

And all the long way, Hamish kept him company, his voice just audible above the rushing of the wind. But it was not a pleasant companionship. As often happened in times when Rutledge’s mind was occupied, the voice found the chinks in Rutledge’s armor and probed them with a sure knowledge of what Rutledge least wished to hear.

It dwelt for a time on Max’s life and then the manner of his death, moving on to the woman who swore she hated her husband, but who had wept, bereft, on Rutledge’s shoulder before she could get herself in hand.

At one point as he drove eastward, Rutledge had stopped along a road in Hampshire to offer a lift to a woman trudging back to her village with her marketing in a basket. He had needed to hear a human voice, someone who knew nothing of him or his past. She was grateful for his kindness, and he set her down in front of her cottage without telling her how she had briefly lightened the darkness in his mind.

It was as if Hume’s death by his own hand had foreshadowed his own.

5

Rutledge spent the night on the road, driving into Eastfield in the early hours of the next morning. A watery sun had risen, and he could see that there had been a heavy rain in the overnight hours. Puddles stood about in spots, and a pair of farmyard geese were noisily bathing in what appeared to be an old horse trough, filled now with rainwater.

He found the police station halfway down the high street, tucked into a small building between an ironmonger’s and a milliner’s shop. He left his motorcar on the street, and went inside.

The constable sitting at the desk across from the door looked up, his attention sharp and questioning, as if dreading to hear what this new arrival had to say.

The look of a man, Hamish was noting, who expected more trouble than he was prepared to deal with.

Rutledge gave his name and added, “Scotland Yard.” The constable’s expression changed to intense relief.

“Constable Walker, sir. I wasn’t expecting you, sir, not for another hour or more,” he responded, coming around the desk to meet him. “The Yard told us you were in Gloucestershire and hoped to leave shortly. You made good time.” A wry grin spread across the man’s plain face. “I’m more than happy to turn this inquiry over to you. In all my experience I’ve seen nothing like it. Nor has Inspector Norman, in Hastings, I’ll be bound. A shocking business. We never expected one murder, sir, much less three. Sergeant Gibson told us he was sending one of the Yard’s most experienced men. Whatever I can do to help, you can count on me, sir.”

Rutledge was surprised to hear Gibson singing his praises. He found himself wondering why. They had always had a guarded relationship, drawn together more because of their mutual dislike of Chief Superintendent Bowles than because of any friendship between them.