Hamish said, against the wail of the wind, “Give it up.”

He was right. The search turned up nothing more than a halfpenny, which could have been lying in the grass for months, if not years. The bearded face of Edward VII stared back at Rutledge as he turned it over.

Retracing his steps to the motorcar, he got in and said to Walker, “Do you know the doctor who was out here this morning?”

“Not well. He’s Dr. Thompson. His surgery is somewhere in Hill Street.”

“Then let’s find it.” Rutledge drove back the way he had come, and after some trouble, they finally saw the small shingle that hung by the doctor’s door.

The doctor’s nurse, a tall, spare woman with a sweet face, answered their knock and showed them into the surgery.

A body lay on a long table, covered now with a sheet. Clothing and other belongings had been set aside in a shallow bin to finish dripping.

Dr. Thompson was just washing his hands, and he turned to greet them. Recognizing them, he said, “You were on the headland, with Inspector Norman. Did he send you? I was just about to ask him to step around.”

Rutledge identified himself and Constable Walker. “I’ve been sent by London to take over the inquiry. Hartle isn’t the first victim of this killer. The others were in Eastfield.”

“Ah, yes, I remember something being said about jurisdiction. I’ll tell you what I’ve learned and confer with Inspector Norman later.” He added, after a moment, “As a courtesy.”

“What do you know so far?”

“That my initial conclusions were correct. There’s the throat, of course. Not manual strangulation but the use of a garrote. Abrasions from the fall over the cliff’s edge, but these occurred shortly after death, not before. He wasn’t alive when he hit the rocky ledge below. How long he’d been dead, I can’t tell you at the moment, but I would make an educated guess of sometime before midnight. Perhaps as early as ten or eleven o’clock. The cold rain hampers any more definitive conclusion. Have a look.” He pointed to the sheet where Hartle lay, and Rutledge walked over to lift it.

He could see the wound very clearly, now, and the cuts and scrapes Dr. Thompson had mentioned. “Any thoughts on what sort of garrote it is?”

“Wire, most likely, to cut that deep. More efficient than a silk cord or even knotted rope.” He pointed to a long jagged wound in the dead man’s abdomen. It had healed, but the scar was still prominent. “Bayonet, I’d say. A miracle he survived the infection that must have followed, never mind the damage done by the blade itself. As you can see, he’s a big man. He would have taken some killing. I daresay your murderer has a few bruises to show for it.” Lifting one of Hartle’s hands, he pointed to the fingers. “Initially I thought this was damage from the fall or the recovery. But I’m of the opinion he tried to pull whatever it was away from his throat. See the broken nails, and there’s some indication of dried blood under the others. I’d put his age at about twenty-eight. From the lines around his mouth, he must have been in some pain from his wound. And large as he is, strong as he no doubt was, he isn’t as filled out as he should be.”