“Who survives Jeffers and Roper?”

“Mrs. Jeffers, his wife. And Roper’s father—he’s old, frail.”

Rutledge turned to Pierce. “Your son Anthony wasn’t married?”

“The young woman he would have married at the end of the war died in the Spanish flu epidemic in 1918. Of late, Anthony had been friends with Mrs. Farrell-Smith. She’s head mistress at the Misses Tate School. It’s a well-established institution here in Eastfield. A good many people from outside the village—Battle, Hastings, as far away as Rye—send their children here. Anthony attended it himself until he was twelve. The Tate sisters were still alive then.”

“Have you seen any strangers here in Eastfield? Has anyone asked for Jeffers, Roper, or Pierce?”

“I spoke to any number of people—in the hotel, the shops, the pubs, the restaurants,” Walker said, shaking his head. “And there hasn’t been anyone here that we didn’t know. And that’s what’s most worrisome. I’d always thought of a garrote as being a French weapon. But the only Frenchman in Eastfield is in the churchyard, and he’s been there these thirty years and more.”

Ten minutes later, when Rutledge and Constable Walker had taken their leave of Pierce, Rutledge waited until they were well out of earshot of the brewery and any of its workers before asking, “What do you think became of Daniel Pierce?”

“Daniel?” Walker repeated, and then looked away. “I don’t know. He just—left. In the middle of the night. If you want to know what I think, he didn’t wish to be a burden on his father. The Pierces have enjoyed a fine reputation all through the years. And Anthony was a good man, best suited to being the heir in temperament. Not one to carouse and come home drunk in the middle of the night, singing bawdy songs as he walked down the street.”

“Pierce seems to believe his son changed.”

“Yes, well, a father would, wouldn’t he? But I’ve made inquiries from time to time—on my own, sir, not officially. And there’s been no word of him in the towns where I know the police. So perhaps he has.”

“Why should you search for him?” Rutledge asked, his curiosity aroused.

Walker flushed, the question catching him unprepared. After a moment he said, “I’ve always had a soft spot for young Daniel, sir. I was not my father’s favorite child either.”

And yet Rutledge had gathered the impression that Daniel was his father’s favorite. Something in the timbre of his voice had betrayed the elder Pierce. “Still, the question that has to be asked is, was he jealous enough of his brother that in the end, he would kill two innocent men in order to cover his tracks when he killed Anthony Pierce?”

Walker sighed. “I don’t think Daniel was the sort to want to be tied to a brewery for the rest of his life. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d made a career of the Army. I remember how excited he was just before the war about Shackleton’s journey to the Antarctic, and how pleased he was that the King encouraged Shackleton to go on with his plans even after war was declared.” Changing the subject without appearing to, he pointed toward an ornate four-story building ahead. “That’s The Fisherman’s Arms Hotel. A little grand to call it that, but it’s comfortable. They’re keeping a room for you. I took the liberty of asking them, after I was told the Yard was sending someone to Eastfield.”