“What makes you think he’s one of mine?” Rutledge shouted.

Norman grinned at him, his long thin face seeming to split in two, but there was no humor in it. “When the climber got down there, he said the man’s throat had been cut. Took him forever to get those ropes down and attached properly. We didn’t want to drag the body against the rocky face. The sling should offer a little protection. But I have a feeling his throat wasn’t cut. I have a feeling he’s been garroted. That’s when I sent for you.”

“Why?” Rutledge demanded, feeling a surge of anger at the man’s gloating. “Why should it be one of ours? If the killer has moved on, that’s a Hastings man lying down there.”

“Call it instinct,” Norman told him and then turned back to watch the men straining against the dead weight on their ropes. “And these.” He drew a pair of field glasses from his pocket. “We had to know if he was dead or alive. I can tell you, the doctor didn’t relish going down after him. You could almost see him praying it was a corpse.”

He gestured to a middle-aged, balding man with a growing paunch, standing to one side, waiting.

Someone crawled to the end of the cliff and then called over his shoulder, “Easy, lads, easy.” The men on the ropes slacked off, caught their breath, and when the signal was given, this time they brought the body up to the top of the cliff and then with a last effort, pulled it over the edge onto the grassy slope. For an instant, it appeared to be on the point of sliding into the abyss again, teetering there until it was finally pulled to safety. Rutledge heard Norman swear.

Two other men ran forward, caught the rope handles on the sling, and gently urged it back to higher ground while the lines were kept taut. When all was secure, the rescuers squatted where they were, heads down, almost overwhelmed with exhaustion.

Rutledge and Norman reached the body in three long strides, kneeling in the rain to slip the sling back and examine the man. The doctor hurried forward to join them.

“He’s dead,” he said after a cursory examination. “As we thought. I’ll tell you more when I can examine him further. This isn’t the place for it.”

Constable Walker had come up behind them, hands on his knees as he leaned forward to see over Rutledge’s shoulder. Rain had soaked Rutledge’s dark hair, and rainwater was nearly blinding him as it ran down his face. He wiped it with his hands then considered the body.

The victim lay on his stomach, his clothing dripping water. It was clear to everyone who could see the back of his neck that he’d been garroted, as Inspector Norman had suspected. The deep line of the wound was black in the gloomy light of the stormy day.

The rocks had also taken their toll, his trousers muddy and ripped, a tear in his shirt, signs on the exposed skin of his hands of scrapes and cuts. Still, it was evident to Rutledge that he hadn’t used them to protect himself when the wire had come around his throat.