“Then that must be when he encountered the killer.”

“You can’t be sure of it. It’s possible my men will turn up something more by the end of the day.”

“Where is the van he was driving when he arrived in Hastings?”

“We haven’t found it yet. It doesn’t mean we won’t. I don’t fancy the idea that this man, whoever he is, is setting up shop in Hastings. I want him to go back to Eastfield. At least until you’ve made a little progress toward identifying him.”

“This fellow soldier Hartle visits when he’s here in Hastings—is the man in the clear?”

“Oh yes, he couldn’t overpower Hartle if he tried. Consumptive, if you ask me. Thin as a rail.”

Rutledge drew a breath in frustration. “Keep looking. I’m on my way to London to investigate these discs. Call the Yard and ask for Sergeant Gibson, if you need to reach me.”

But he wasn’t ready to leave Hastings just yet. He went in search of the pub, The Fisherman’s Catch, and saw that it was a small establishment that catered to men who ate hearty in the morning and were in bed well before nine in the evening, to sail with the sand fleet before the sun rose.

Hamish said, “He wouldna’ stay o’er long, if he was to reach home at a reasonable hour.”

“He must have done this time. Was someone following him? Or did the killer know he was being sent to Hastings yesterday? It’s uncanny how well someone understood the habits of the first three victims and where to find them alone at night. If he’s watching them, he lives in Eastfield. That’s one of the reasons I penned those men in the police station.”

The cook, one Bill Mason, was in the middle of preparing a roast for the evening meal, and Rutledge agreed to interview him in the kitchen.

It was small, crowded, noisy, and almost unbearably hot. Claustrophobic, Rutledge felt the beginnings of a cold sweat.

“I’ve already talked to Inspector Norman’s men,” Mason said, busy basting the roast and then preparing potatoes and onions to add to the pan. Inspector Norman had called him thin, but he was cadaverous, his hands shaking, his cheeks sunken, a nervous tic by one eye.

Rutledge recognized the symptoms. Shell shock, not consumption. He swallowed hard, to keep his own voice from cracking as he said, “They must have asked you about when Hartle came here, and when he left. I want to know if he was afraid of anyone?”

The sunken gray eyes turned to gaze for a moment at Rutledge’s face.

“Afraid?”

“Yes. Of anything. Anyone. Did you serve with him in France?”

“We met in hospital. We never fought together.” Mason turned back to his work, as someone from the bar shouted a request for a ham sandwich with pickle. A helper, who had been listening in to the conversation, reluctantly turned away to fill the order. Mason watched him for a moment, then said quietly, “I don’t know that Theo Hartle was afraid. Not exactly. But he saw someone here in Hastings. Yesterday morning, while he was looking to buy the varnish. He couldn’t put a name to the face, and that worried him. He caught just a glimpse, mind you, but he couldn’t get it out of his head. When I came back from Eastbourne, he was waiting for me here. He wanted me to help him search, and see if I recognized the man. I told him to leave well enough alone.”