Wary after his last encounter with the Kent Constabulary, Rutledge left his motorcar where it was and followed the man.

Inside one of the dock buildings stood former Sergeant Bell. He looked at Rutledge and then smiled. “Yes, that’s him, all right,” he told the constable standing to one side. He added for Rutledge’s benefit, “You’d said to watch for certain names on ships’ manifests. When yours showed up, we weren’t precisely sure who was coming in from France. The constable here sent for me because I knew you by sight.”

“Yes, good work,” he told the two men. It was, in fact, reassuring that someone had taken him at his word. As he and Bell walked toward the motorcar, he added, “How is the Summers’s dog?”

“Muffin?” Bell made a face. “Silly name for a dog, but he answers to it right enough. Still, he looks for someone every time I take him outside. And he sleeps by the door, as if to be ready if anyone knocks. Sad, really. He’s devoted to someone. We manage well enough, mind you, but I can see where his heart is.”

“Can I give you a lift?” Rutledge asked.

“Yes, thank you, sir. Have any luck in France?”

Rutledge realized Bell believed he’d gone there on police business. “No luck,” he replied simply.

“And where are you off to now?”

“Sussex. I’ll look in at Eastfield and at Hastings. Then back to London.” As he ran down the road along the water, he said, “You know this coast, Bell. Where would you come in, if you didn’t wish to attract attention to yourself?”

“There must be a thousand coves and inlets from the Scots border to the Welsh, rounding this part of England. And none of them requires more than a boat sufficiently sturdy to cross the Channel—the smaller the better—and some knowledge of where one is heading. I doubt your man knows this coast. And so he’d have to ask some Frenchie to bring him over. During the war, we worried about the Germans setting spies ashore in the dark of night, sneaking in, like, where nobody was looking. The coast watch was all very well and good, but there was no way to prevent them if they got past the Navy. A good fog works wonders, if you know your landing.”

“Our man could be here already.”

“Very possible, if you ask me.”

Rutledge left Bell at his door and continued down the coast toward Hastings. Vast stretches of marsh interspersed with habitation and villages that had been part of the old Cinque Ports trusted with the defense of England marked this road. He ran through Winchelsea and tiny Dymchurch, then detoured to St. Mary’s in the Marsh, desolate and isolated, with its scatter of cottages. He went into the church itself and found it empty. At Rye, he turned inland and came eventually to Eastfield.