Standing outside again, Rutledge considered the three murder scenes. All they had in common was their solitude at the time of the killings. But someone had followed each man to his death, and that meant someone had been in Eastfield on each occasion—whether he had been noticed by anyone or not.

Hamish said, “Aye, but he canna’ materialize out of thin air. Where does he keep himsel’ when he’s no’ prowling about in the dark?”

It would lead someone to believe that the killer lived in Eastfield . . .

Rutledge left the thought there and walked briskly toward the door leading to the brewery’s office.

It was a busy room, bright and cluttered with paperwork, with some half dozen clerks dealing with orders for Arrow beers or placing orders for everything from hops to bottle labels, and there was no privacy at all.

The senior clerk, a man named Starret, led him to the telephone on his desk, then stepped away to let Rutledge use it.

He put through a call to London, and after a time was connected to the Yard. It was another five minutes before Sergeant Gibson was found.

“Yes, sir?” he answered warily.

“I’d like to find out what became of the following men after the war, and I’d like to know if there was anything particular in their records that might have an impact on the murders here in Sussex. Did their paths cross that of the Eastfield Company or of any individual in that company?”

He had written the three names, their ranks and regiments, in his notebook, taken from the discs that Dr. Gooding had retrieved during his examinations.

Gibson repeated them, and then said, “It will be a day or two. Shall I ring you at this number when I’ve learned anything?”

Rutledge told Gibson how to reach him, and then was on the point of hanging up when Gibson said, “There’s been a complaint to the Chief Constable in regard to the Yard taking over this case.”

“Indeed?” Rutledge asked in surprise.

“A Mrs. Farrell-Smith, sir.”

He remembered the name. She was the woman Anthony Pierce had been seeing recently. But why would she complain to the Chief Constable? He asked Gibson that, careful to phrase his question in a fashion that half a dozen listening ears couldn’t interpret and gossip about.

“I can’t say, sir. Except that she appears to feel it was unnecessarily complicating matters.”

Rutledge thanked him and hung up.

He thanked the clerk as well, and went out the way he’d come in. There was a private staircase to Pierce’s office as well as a door leading into it from the clerks’ room, and for a moment Rutledge debated speaking to Pierce. He changed his mind and went out into the street.

Constable Walker was surprised when Rutledge walked into the police station and asked directions to Mrs. Farrell-Smith’s house.

“I didn’t interview her—” he began in apology, but Rutledge cut him short

“She might know something that Anthony Pierce didn’t tell his father. It’s a long shot, but worth exploring.”