At the mouth of one such cave, a man had set up a sideshow to accommodate the curiosity of holidaymakers looking for something to do on a rainy day. A painted donkey, crudely made from wood and plaster of Paris, was harnessed to a wooden cart laden with packets of silk and tobacco, kegs of whisky, and other contraband. On the wall behind was a painted canvas drop showing smugglers off-loading an array of goods from the decks of a French fishing boat drawn up close into the shore. Goods were passed from hand to hand by men standing knee-deep in water, then shouldered to carry to similar carts waiting to take the contraband to the caves.

Norman led Rutledge quickly past the other exhibits, continued beyond a barricade blocking the way, and soon came to a small offshoot of the main cave where a constable stood guard over a lamp-lit scene.

A small camp bed, a flat-topped chest bearing a lantern, and a chair stood out against the surrounding gloom. The smell of damp mixed with the cave odors of stale air.

Norman stepped forward into the shallow area and opened the chest. It was obvious as he shone his torch at the contents that he’d seen them earlier, before summoning Rutledge. Dark workmen’s clothing, a pot of what appeared to be black grease paint, rags, and a Thermos of water lay inside. A pair of chimney sweep brooms stood in a corner, and a workman’s lunch pail hung beside it.

“He could come here, change his clothes, and go out again as a different person,” Norman was saying. “A laborer on his way home, a sweep with brooms over his shoulder, whatever little vignette he chose. Not a very clever disguise.”

But effective. Rutledge could feel his claustrophobia mounting, but he held up a shirt, gauging the size. “Yes, it could be the man I saw. Medium height, medium build. How does he come and go?”

“I shouldn’t think it would be too difficult after dark to get through the lock the showman has put on the grille across the entrance. This exhibit isn’t officially allowed, but the man does no harm, and his presence here deters others from using these tunnels for more nefarious pastimes.”

Rutledge turned to leave, fighting down rising panic. “Summers could hardly walk into The White Swans in these garbs. But he’d be equally suspicious wandering about Eastfield in a gentleman’s clothing. Did you find the garrote?”

“No, damn it. He’d be a fool to leave it in plain sight.”

“More importantly, he probably has it with him.”

“For that matter,” Norman pointed out, “there are no identity discs here. Blank or otherwise.”