He’d added a brief message:

I found this in a shop in Hastings, Sussex. It is said to be old, but I should think anyone who knew how to work flint could make one just like it. Add a handle, wrap it well with rawhide, and it would make a formidable weapon. It would most certainly explain the bit of flint found in your victim’s wound. And it could explain, in some measure, why he was a sacrifice. This may not be as old as Stonehenge, but it could most certainly have been used to kill men as well as animals. What do you think?

At the Yard, Sergeant Gibson had the direction of the three men whose discs had been found before Rutledge had arrived in Sussex.

He had had time, on the long drive, to consider which of the men to call on first. And he’d chosen the man whose name was connected with Anthony Pierce. Pierce the officer, the anomaly.

Corporal Trayner lived in Belton, Yorkshire, and Rutledge drove on late into the night to make up for lost time, finally stopping in Stafford, in a hotel near the railway station. This was industrial country, and the town’s buildings were black from coal smoke. Stafford’s narrow streets and tall church tower had always reminded him of etchings he’d seen of German villages.

Late the next morning he arrived in the little town of Belton and asked at the local police station for directions to the Trayner house. It proved to be one of six Victorian cottages down a lane just past the churchyard: solid houses of no particular distinction except for the gardens that grew rampant in the small space between the gate along the road and the door. Hollyhocks stood tall in the back of the gardens, holding pride of place at this time of year. A rose climbed to the small porch of the fifth house, and a small sign by the walk identified this as SPRING COTTAGE.

Rutledge went to the door and lifted the knocker, a brass dolphin.

A young woman answered the summons, and asked his business.

Rutledge identified himself and asked to speak to Corporal Trayner.

She invited him in, saying over her shoulder, “Dear, there’s a Mr. Rutledge to see you. From Scotland Yard.”

She led the way into the front room. Although the curtains stood open, the room felt dark, closed in, despite its eastern exposure and the brightness of the morning sun. A man sat in one of the chairs, a cushion at his back and a white cane at his side. He rose as Rutledge entered and held out his hand. But his eyes were scarred and blind, and he waited for his visitor to come to him.

Rutledge took the extended hand, and then the chair that Trayner indicated. He was fair, with broad shoulders and a ruddy complexion. He said, “What brings you here, Inspector?” There was only curiosity in his voice, not strain. If he had a guilty conscience, it was well concealed.