Cummins set the books down on a corner of his cluttered desk and looked around the office. The shelves were nearly empty, the desk as well, and the photographs had been removed from the walls. He took a deep breath and said pensively, “Yes, well. I enjoyed the hunt, you see. More than I should have done. All the same, there was one case I never solved. I was a little superstitious about it, if you want the truth. I kept the folder on my desk for years, telling myself I’d get to the bottom of it, sooner or later. I even dreamed about it sometimes, when I was tired. What bothered me most was not knowing whether the dead man was a sacrifice or a victim. And if his murderer had ever killed again.”

“A sacrifice?” It was an odd choice of words for a man like Cummins.

Cummins glanced sheepishly at Rutledge. “It was what struck me as soon as I saw the man. That he was left there for a purpose. A warning, if you will. Or a sacrifice of some sort. Not religious, I don’t mean that kind of thing . . .” He broke off, then shrugged, as if to make light of what he’d said. “It was the setting. It made me fanciful, I dare say.”

“When was this?”

“Long before your time. It was Midsummer’s Eve, 1905.” Cummins turned away and walked to the window, where sunlight had just broken through the morning clouds and was turning the wet pavements from a dull gray to bright pewter. “Some fifteen people had come to Stonehenge dressed as Druids. Unbleached muslin, handmade sandals, staffs of peeled oak boughs. Mind you, I doubt they knew much about ancient druidism, but they’d come to watch the sun rise and chant nonsense, and feel something—God knows what. Anyway, they walked to the stones, sang and marched, drank a little homemade mead—honey laced with rum, we were told later—and waited for sunrise.”

Cummins paused, staring not at the view outside his window but back into a past he reluctantly remembered, and Rutledge thought, He’s not going to finish it. It cuts too deep. Still, he waited quietly, ignoring the dull rumble of Hamish’s voice in the back of his mind.

Finally Cummins went on, as if compelled. “They were misguided, playing at something they didn’t understand. But harmless enough, I suppose. At length the sun rose. One of the women told me later that it was magnificent. Her word. She said the dark sky turned to opal and rose, then purest gold. As they watched, the rim of the sun appeared on the eastern horizon. She said that what followed was unbelievable—a shaft of light came spilling across the dark earth and touched her face. She said she could feel it. Just as the schoolmaster had told them. He was the one who talked them into this silliness. But even he was taken by surprise.”

Losing his train of thought, Cummins turned and said, “Where was I? Oh, yes. This young woman—her name was Sarah Harmon—was still staring at what she called the stone of sacrifice. That’s what the schoolmaster had told them it was called. It stands along the eastern avenue between the main section of Stonehenge and the horizon. Do you know it?”