It was a common picture of life on farms: girls working under their mothers’ eye, sons learning firsthand the trade of their fathers. Large families helped eke out the needs that slender purses couldn’t meet, though they meant more mouths to feed. As a rule on small holdings, food was more plentiful than money for wages, and the system worked.

“Did anything happen in the Army—before they left—after they were in France—that might lead to this sort of killing?”

The rector shook his head. “I never heard of it, if anything did. But they wouldn’t have told me, would they? They’d have confessed to a chaplain. And whatever it was would have stayed in France.”

Hamish said, “You’ll never uncover the truth, then.”

But he had to. He made one last effort, saying to the rector, “Is there a place to look? I don’t ask you to reveal any secrets. But it will save time—and lives—if I am given a direction to follow.”

“It’s not a conspiracy of silence,” the rector told him. “At least not on my part. It’s just that we don’t recognize whatever it is as the problem. We may be looking in the wrong places. On the other hand, what places ought we to be searching? I don’t know.”

Rutledge found himself suddenly remembering the case that Chief Inspector Cummins had failed to solve.

Was this of the same ilk? He refused to believe it. Somewhere—somewhere—there was a grain of truth to pursue, and one way or another, he would find it.

Hamish said, “Start with the most obvious.”

It was good advice. But not very helpful.

He thanked the rector and went back to find Constable Walker.

Striding into the police station, he said, “Every victim so far fought in the war. Either in the village company or as in Pierce’s case, in another. I need that list of their names, every single one of them.”

Walker frowned. He’d been up most of the night, Rutledge remembered, and had had little time to work on anything else.

“I’ve started it, sir. Do you want the Navy as well?”

Rutledge took a deep breath. “Everyone. If he wore a uniform, I want his name on that list.”

Walker pulled a sheet of paper from the side drawer of his desk and picked up his pen.

Mumbling to himself, he went through the village in his mind, house by house,

At length he looked up. Rutledge had waited patiently, watching the list grow.

“Seven,” Walker said. He turned the sheet around so that Rutledge could read the names he’d written and their branch of service.

“Very good,” Rutledge said. “How many of these were in school together as boys?”

“All but this one,” he said, pointing to Alistair Nelson. “He came here when his father was brought in to work at the brewery. He was sixteen, at a guess, and he went off to join the Navy as soon as war was declared.”

“Then withdraw his name, if you will. That leaves us with six men. Find them for me, and bring them here to the station. And tell them to be prepared to be away from home for three nights. I may need longer than that, but we’ll begin with three.”