“No. But he’ll have one hell of a headache when he comes to his senses,” Rutledge said with some satisfaction, shoving his revolver back into his pocket.

His tone brought the flashlight upward, so that Ottley could study his face, but it stopped at Rutledge’s throat. “What in God’s name—”

“The garrote. He tried to kill me.”

Ottley was about to say more when they heard shouting from the direction of the Hastings Road and Norman came charging into the churchyard. “What the hell is happening?”

As he reached the small tableau picked out by Ottley’s torch, he added, “We heard the bell, but from where Petty stood, he could see a light in the school. He was certain someone was moving around in that room. Finally I went inside myself. We found a candle lit and a piece of paper on a string, hanging over it. When the candle flickered, the paper moved. We came here—” Norman ran out of words, staring from Rutledge to the rector, and finally noticing the third man lying in the shadows at Rutledge’s feet.

“He left the school before we got there,” Rutledge said. “He’s been following Tuttle. From Eastfield to Hastings and back to Eastfield, I should think. I got in his way.”

Norman stepped across to take the torch from the rector’s hand and shine it down at Summers.

“Hold it steady,” Rutledge said, and stooped to go through Summers’s pockets.

There was no identification in any of them. Only, in a breast pocket, a single identity disc intended for his next victim’s mouth.

Rutledge looked at it, saw the name, and said nothing. He passed it on to Norman, who brought the torch up to see it more clearly. “Well. We needn’t ask if you’re this man. Bertie Grimes, corporal, the Yorkshire Rifles.”

As he handed it back to Rutledge he saw what was around his neck.

“What the hell did he do to you?” Constable Walker asked, stepping forward for a closer look.

Rutledge unwound the garrote and passed it to Inspector Norman. “The murder weapon.”

“Yes, that’s the garrote,” Walker was saying as he took it. “But what’s that around your throat?”

Rutledge reached up and touched the flanged band that encircled his throat. It was what he and the ironmonger’s assistant had spent most of the afternoon devising: the only thing he could think of to protect against a garrote. “A gorget. Of a sort. It’s meant to be similar to the armor a knight wore around his neck and shoulders to protect them. The ironmonger will have to cut it off. And the sooner the better. Meanwhile, we ought to take Summers to Dr. Gooding. In the event I hit him harder than I meant to.”