They wound their way down to the town and headed toward the police station. Norman was saying grimly, “That’s your lookout, isn’t it? But I don’t like this business. Not one whit.”

The interior of the motorcar smelled of wet wool, unpleasant and heavy in the dampness. As they pulled up in front of the police station, Norman turned to ask, “Where did you leave your own vehicle? By the net shops?”

“At the foot of the funicular.”

“I’ll send one of my men back to fetch it. Come inside.”

They got out and went into the station. It seemed dreadfully cold, without the sun to warm it, and Norman spoke to the sergeant at the desk, asking him to see that they were brought tea from the small canteen.

It was a far larger station than the one in Eastfield, and Norman’s office was down a short passage to the left. From the cells to the right, they could hear a man singing in a monotone, at the top of his lungs.

“He’s half mad,” Norman said in explanation as he shut his door against the sound. “We bring him in from time to time for his own sake. His sister can’t control him.” He took the chair behind the desk, thought better of it, wet as he was, and searched in one of the drawers for a sheaf of paper. “Here, use these,” he said, passing them across the desk. “Or you’ll stick to the wood. God, I don’t know when I’ve been this wet.” Opening a cupboard door, he found a towel and began to dry his face and hair. “All right, Walker, tell us what you know about this man Hartle.”

“He was in the war, with the others. A likeable man. Never any trouble before or after the war. He went to work at Kenton Chairs carving scrollwork for chair backs and desk fronts. His father always claimed he had a natural talent.”

Norman looked across the desk at Rutledge. “Factory is a misnomer. The furniture-making concern turns out desks, chairs, tables, bookcases, and bedsteads using a variety of machines, and then finishing them by hand. There’s a market in these new hotels springing up along the south coast for quality furnishings that are durable enough to take the rough handling of holidaymakers. It employs a dozen men, I should think?” He looked at Walker, who nodded. “Fifteen at the most. But they’re all skilled men, and for the most part, their fathers worked there before them. A man name of Kenton owns it, and Kenton Chairs have been well known for decades, even though they’ve expanded their line. There’s a cottage industry as well, caning the seats.”

“Mr. Kenton’s grandfather began the business in a shed on his property,” Walker added. “The Hartles have worked there for three generations, at a guess.”

“So what brought our man to Hastings?” Inspector Norman wanted to know. “If he’s employed at Kenton’s?”

“I’ve no idea,” Rutledge answered him. “I’d like a copy of the doctor’s report as soon as may be.”