“We all know the cause of death. You could see the man’s throat. But was he killed out there on the headland? Or taken there after he was dead? What do you think? With this rain, any blood or signs of a struggle have been washed away hours ago.”

“The only hope is to backtrack him. If he was here in Hastings for some purpose, why didn’t he return to Eastfield the same day—or evening, as may be? What was he doing here late at night? And where was he staying?”

“I’ll have my men ask questions in the lodging houses and the pubs.”

The door opened and a constable entered, in his hands a painted wooden tray that had seen better days. The edges were worn, and the garland of roses that decorated the center was chipped and scratched. But the china teapot, cups, jug of milk, and bowl of sugar resting on it were spotlessly clean and probably a decade newer. Norman stood up, took it from the man, and proceeded to pour three cups. It was blessedly hot, and there was a silence as they drank a little.

Rutledge could feel the warmth spreading through him and was grateful. Setting his empty cup aside, he said, “We’ll exchange what information we’ve found.”

“Ah, but is this my inquiry now—or yours?” Norman asked, smiling.

Rutledge was in no mood to argue jurisdictions. “The Chief Constable handed the inquiry over to the Yard. I believe he would agree that Hartle’s death falls into the same case I’ve been pursuing since I arrived in Sussex.”

“If I have any say in the matter, the inquest will be held here.”

Rutledge said, “He died here. It will be held here. But you said yourself, he’s one of ours.”

Norman didn’t answer. Finishing his tea, he said, “We’ll see about that in due course. For the moment, leave me to my work and I’ll not interfere with yours. We’ll see if we can trace his movements in Hastings. If you learn anything in Eastfield that will help with that—why he was here in the first place—I’ll thank you to make life easier for us.”

“I’ll speak to his employer.” Rutledge rose. “My motorcar should have been brought in by now. Thank you for the tea. I’ll be in touch.”

Walker hastily swallowed the contents of his cup and rose to follow Rutledge from Norman’s office.

Norman let them go without saying anything more, and Rutledge was glad to see that his motorcar was in truth waiting in front of the police station.

He and Walker stepped out in the rain, and Walker said, “Back to Eastfield?”

Rutledge answered, “I’d like to go back to that headland.”

Walker’s groan was almost audible. Rutledge turned to him. “You needn’t get out.”

There, Rutledge crisscrossed the headland, looking for clues. It was nearly hopeless, given the conditions, but his eyes were good, and he knew that there was only this one chance to find anything at all.