But as they trooped toward Dr. Gooding’s, carrying Summers on a table the rector brought from the church, the man came round, dazed and at first hardly coherent. And then finally aware of where he was, he started to struggle, only to be forced down by the ungentle hands of the constables carrying him. Subsiding, he lay there with one arm flung over his eyes.

Gooding, roused from sleep, pronounced Summers well enough to be taken to Hastings and charged with multiple counts of murder. Rutledge looked at the men surrounding the patient and said, “Norman, if you’ll contact Dover police, and ask that a former sergeant named Bell bring the witness he has in his keeping to Hastings at his earliest convenience, we’ll have one more piece of our case settled.”

“Who is Bell? And what’s the name of the witness?” Norman asked. “This is Summers, isn’t it?”

“Yes. That’s Summers. Bell will explain. Will you give me five minutes alone with the prisoner?”

After a moment they did as they had been asked, but it was clear that Inspector Norman was not best pleased.

When they had shut the door behind them, Rutledge said to Summers, “Is your wife still alive? It won’t save you from hanging if you tell me. But there is someone very much interested in her condition.”

Summers was staring at him, his eyes intent. “Why should I help the police?”

“Do you hate her as much as you hated the others?”

“I didn’t hate her at all. I needed her money,” he said coldly.

“You can’t inherit any of it, if you’ve killed her. If she’s still alive and you haven’t treated her too badly, she might be induced to pay for your defense.”

“Not bloody likely,” he said harshly. “I killed her confounded little dog. As good as.”

Which told Rutledge that Mrs. Summers was still alive. Where?

“I’ll give you until nine o’clock in the morning to think that over and tell me where she is.”

Summers gingerly touched the side of his head. A red welt marked where Rutledge’s revolver had struck him. “You needn’t have hit me so damned hard.”

There was almost a whining note in his voice.

“Your fault for trying to garrote me,” Rutledge said unfeelingly. “Why didn’t you stop the killing when you could? Why not let Hopkins take the blame? Did your revenge matter so much that it was worth hanging for?”