Walker spoke for the first time. “Twenty-eight his last birthday.” He was about to ask a question, but Rutledge forestalled him

“Did you find anything else of interest?” he asked.

Dr. Thompson said, “I was just coming to that. Nothing to do with the cause of death or the state of the body, you understand. Inside the man’s mouth was an identity disc. From the war, you know. I didn’t quite—I was told this victim was Theo Hartle—I believe it was you, Constable, who identified him? From Eastfield. But the disc would say that this was a man named French from Herefordshire. I don’t quite understand why the disc was there—the war has been over for two years, after all—or why there is some question about the name of the victim.”

He passed the disc to Rutledge. It was clear that he was curious and wanted an answer to his question.

It was also apparent that the police hadn’t made such details public, and Dr. Gooding had examined the other three victims, not Dr. Thompson.

Rutledge said, looking at the name on the disc, “Please treat what I’m about to tell you as confidential. Only a handful of people know that this appears to be the—shall I call it the signature?—or the hallmark of this murderer? Identity discs from another man and another regiment left in the corpse’s mouth. If Walker tells us that this man is Theo Hartle, I believe him. Why the disc of one Corporal French should be there we haven’t yet determined. Which is why we aren’t making this information public.”

Dr. Thompson stared at him. “Your murderer must be a little mad to do such a thing.”

“We don’t know,” Rutledge answered, “whether he’s mad or clever or just vengeful. Not yet.”

Thompson shook his head. “At a guess, there’s something buried so deep in him—whoever he is—that he uses unnecessary force to kill with the garrote. The wound in Hartle’s throat is obscenely deep. The sea washed away most of the blood, but it must have been a ghastly sight to begin with. And it’s personal satisfaction he’s after, your murderer, not simply the man’s death. He could accomplish that far more easily.”

A fascinating point. Rutledge looked at Thompson, reassessing this portly, backwater doctor who had such insight into a killer’s mind.

Thompson, who must have guessed what Rutledge was thinking, smiled grimly. “I was in the war myself. I know what men are capable of doing to each other. I have no illusions on that score. I also discovered that some of them enjoyed it. That may be what you’re facing here, someone who misses the thrill of stalking and killing. Someone who has discovered he can’t live without it. Blood lust, Inspector, isn’t something only the lower animals experience.”

8

It was nearly one o’clock. Rutledge and Walker went in search of lunch and found themselves in a small corner shop that catered to workingmen. It was situated on a street where buildings backed up to the shelving land. The lower portion of the room was mainly a counter filled with various cooked meats, cheeses, and an array of sandwiches. On the upper level, reached by a half dozen steps, were bare tables and chairs, set out in front of a bar that dispensed tea, coffee, and cider as well as beer and ale.