“To reach Peru, he’d have had to take passage on a ship going out there. Did he?”

“Yes. Apparently he did. Someone did.”

“Well, then, he isn’t our William Norman, is he?”

Rutledge signaled the waiter to bring their menu. “The report said that the captain of the S.S. Navigator had described Norman as the worst sailor in Christendom. He never left his cabin throughout the voyage, he was as green as anyone the captain had ever seen, and when he stepped off the ship, his legs would barely hold him upright. But he insisted that he was all right.”

“A great disguise, seasickness,” Cummins said dryly.

“You forget, the ship’s captain had never seen Norman. He was nothing more than a name on the manifest, and the few glimpses anyone had had of him.”

“Hmmm. Who then took his place? The killer?”

Rutledge said, “I expect we’ll never know. But if it was the killer, then he’s dead.” He paused. “He was a schoolmaster in a prestigious public school in Dorset. Norman. Not so very far from Stonehenge.”

“What was his field?”

“History.”

“Was his journey to Peru carefully planned or spur of the moment?”

“It was apparently arranged some months before his departure.”

Cummins shook his head.

“Where did the schoolmaster who planned the Druids’ trip to Stonehenge teach?”

“You’ve seen the file. At a public school in Dorset.”

“Coincidence?”

“He was cleared. He couldn’t have killed the man nor roped him to that bloody stone. He was within sight of his fellow Druids at all times.”

“No, possibly not. But perhaps someone knew about his adventure to Stonehenge and thought it a very good idea to take an inconvenient body there.”

“But what about Wheeler? He was identified.”

“You know how uncertain identifications can be. At a guess, the Edinburgh police were happy to see the end of Wheeler. I’ve done some research. There was a Wheeler from Orkney killed at Gallipoli. He’d immigrated to Australia from Belfast in 1904.”

“Did he, by God!”

“Where is your schoolmaster, now? Do you know?”

Cummins made a wry face. “Dead of cholera in India. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, Rutledge, but it doesn’t solve crimes.”

He himself had said much the same, one day in Eastfield.

Cummins took up his menu. Without opening it, he said, “I was so sure about Wheeler. Even so, we could find no motive to explain why he’d been killed. And without the identity of the victim, we were still stymied as to motive. It was a vicious circle. That’s what bothered me all these years. In spite of the loopholes in your arguments, I expect you’ve come closer to finding answers than I ever did.”

“How do you suppose someone discovered your grandfather’s name was Charles Henry?”