Guilt or not, Hamish’s voice sounded as clear as if it had come from a foot or so behind Rutledge’s shoulder, where Hamish had so often stood and fought. And explanations did nothing to ease the strain of knowing the voice was there, that it would speak or not as it chose, and there was nothing on God’s earth to prevent it or keep others from hearing it, even when Rutledge knew they could not. He could never be certain of anything except that Hamish had never forgiven him, just as he had never forgiven himself—even though he had never been given any choice in the matter. Hamish had taken that away too and left Rutledge to cope alone. And yet never alone.

Trying to shut out the soft Scots words in his mind, Rutledge tried to settle to the papers on his desk, and after a time he managed to concentrate on them. He knew he would miss Cummins. There were already rumors that Inspector Mickelson would be promoted to fill his place.

3

Eastfield, Sussex, on the Hastings Road, July 1920

Eastfield was neither particularly charming nor particularly important, historically or politically. It had begun as a hamlet where the road out of Hastings climbed the bluffs, leveled out, and turned eastward. A large field at that point had served as grazing for tired oxen and horses either before their descent into the town below or after their ascent from it. This common field had eventually been encircled by the huts of providers of services—a tavern to feed the drovers, a smithy to see to torn hooves, and a brothel to ease a man’s other needs. The new-built abbey at Battle had soon taken the hamlet in hand, to save the souls of its inhabitants and to charge a small fee for the hitherto free grazing.

At the dissolution of the monasteries, the tiny village had passed into the keeping of a crony of Henry VIII’s, hardly aware of the change in ownership. By 1800, descendants of that crony had fallen on hard times, and the village found itself forgotten, though the field for grazing still served those going to and from Hastings. The fees were now collected by a self-appointed squire, who was no more than a jumped-up yeoman who saw his chance to prosper, and no one thought to formalize the new status of Eastfield in any fashion.

It began to flourish in Victoria’s reign, selling its produce and wares to the hungry fishermen and residents of the little port where the valley broke through the ridge and swept down to the water’s edge, and as Hastings grew, so did Eastfield.

By 1880, it boasted changes that brought in more revenue—the small firm that had built tackle, fish boxes, and other furnishings for the fishermen found that the newly acquired taste for sea bathing had brought hotels in its wake, and hotels needed a better quality of furniture to serve those who expected fine accommodations. The second stroke of good luck occurred when the Pierce brothers decided to locate their brewery in three buildings at the far end of the Hastings Road. An exiled Frenchman set up a small Latin school in the middle of the village and made a good living educating the sons and daughters of those who could now afford it.