Constable Walker greeted him with some relief. “Constable Petty has been withdrawn, sir. I was told Tommy Summers is out of the country.”

“He took the boat across from Dover to France, it appears. But for how long? He may already be in Sussex again.”

“Damnation.” Walker shook his head. “I’d never given that lad credit for being smart enough to outwit the police, the way he’s done. I don’t know what to make of it, and that’s the truth.”

“He’s had a long time to plan his revenge, if that’s what we’re dealing with. He knew it would be a risky business. He must have considered every contingency.”

“Shall I ask for Constable Petty to come again? An extra pair of eyes won’t come amiss if you’re right and Summers is on the prowl again.”

“With any luck, we’ll find him first,” Rutledge said grimly.

But where to look?

He went to The Fishermen’s Arms and paced his room, thinking.

“If I were Tommy Summers, what would I do?” he said aloud.

But Hamish gave him no answer.

The cottage where the man had lived before as groundskeeper for the Misses Tate School? But surely that would have been given to whoever had taken his place in the position?

Still, it was worth finding out.

Rutledge left the hotel and walked to the school. The property ran deep, backing up to pasturage on the outskirts of Eastfield. To one side of the main door was a small wooden gate leading into a tradesman’s passage to the rear of the house. Here were the kitchen gardens, he saw as he rounded a corner of the building. A path led on between the beds to the barnyard and outbuildings. Behind these was a small walled orchard, apple and pear trees heavy with fruit. To the left of the orchard gate was another that opened into a small plot of ground with a smaller cottage set in it. Empty by the look of it, but all the same, Rutledge went up to the door and opened it after knocking.

There were two rooms and a tiny kitchen with a woodstove. The furnishings were simple and well worn. A table and chairs, a cluster of other chairs, their padded cushions faded with age. He could see the bedroom through an arch without a door. It contained a bed frame with a rolled mattress on it, some chests, another pair of chairs, one of them on rockers, and a cradle.

A patina of dust lay over everything, and as he walked to the bedroom, his own footsteps left faint impressions in the dust on the floor.

It was likely that the present groundskeeper lived not on the property but at his own home in Eastfield.

A wild-goose chase.

He went out and closed the door behind him and then latched the gate.