He’d been outfoxed, and it angered him. Hamish, pointing out his failure, was like a demon at his shoulder.

Could Summers still be in Hastings New Town, in another fine hotel? Or had he turned east instead of west? Or north? It was impossible to guess.

And what was the man telling his bride, how could he explain cutting their wedding journey short—or flying off in an entirely different direction?

Would he suggest that now his friends had caught up with them, they’d play a trick of their own?

Hamish said, “Ye ken, he left her alone at night. He used a false name at yon hotel. Would she no’ grow suspicious after a while?”

Rutledge felt a surge of apprehension.

Is that what had happened? Had there been unexpected difficulties over his behavior? What had prompted that marriage in the first place? Was it a love match—or was it the fact that Summers needed his new wife’s money? He hadn’t held a job in months, and The White Swans was one of the most elegant—and expensive—hotels along this stretch of seaside towns.

Rutledge reached the Regency Hotel and slowed his pace, striding into Reception and waiting impatiently as an elderly couple spoke to the woman behind the desk about the availability of rooms.

Yes, they had a telephone, the woman told him when the couple had left. For the use of their guests. “This is an urgent police matter,” he told her curtly, and reluctantly she pointed to a door just past the desk.

He put in a call to the Yard, silently cursing the delay as someone went in search of Sergeant Gibson. While he waited, Rutledge was already scanning the map of Sussex and of Kent in his head.

There was an isolated church, St. Mary’s, out in the marshes near Dymchurch. One could hide a body there. But of course in time it would be found, and if it was identified, then the police would begin to look for Summers.

That was true almost anywhere else. Corpses had a way of returning at the most inconvenient of times, whether left in marshes or the sea. Besides, if the man wanted his wife’s money, he’d have to keep her alive until he could persuade her to make a will in his favor.

But what if Summers had already worked out a contingency plan? Leave his work unfinished until the hue and cry had died down, disappear into France meanwhile, and return at a later date? The southern parts of France along the Mediterranean Sea had been untouched by war, though strongly affected by the state of the French economy in general. Still, it was warm, lovely, expensive, and increasingly popular. And his wife might find such a suggestion exceptionally attractive.

Dover, then, and the ferry across the Channel. And he, Rutledge, was already six hours too late.