“I’ve kept a record over the years. I read it sometimes. There was a gilded sword that had belonged to one of Napoleon’s generals. Inscribed as well. I was reluctant to sell it, but money is money.”

He pulled a dog-eared ledger from beneath his counter and opened it at random. Rutledge could see that he had listed each object he’d bought, the date, and the price paid. He’d also drawn a fine sketch of it as well. “Let’s see.” He thumbed through the pages until he’d found what he wanted. “There it is: 1908. Flint knife blade.” He pointed to the clever sketch, filled in with black ink. “Sold to me for fifteen pounds by a Charles Henry. No provenance that it is as old as it appears to be, but it is a fine example of flint workmanship, and I rather liked it. But it never brought in the profit I had anticipated.” He turned more pages, and then pointed out that he had sold a button hook to a man from Kent on holiday in Hastings. “This is the half of the ledger where I keep my sales listed.”

Rutledge thanked the man and was on the point of leaving when he changed his mind and asked the price of the flint knife.

“Sixteen pounds, I’m afraid. Necessary to turn a profit even after all this time.”

Rutledge bought it, and then asked if it could be wrapped and put into a box for mailing.

Ten minutes later, he walked out of the shop and went to find the post office. There he sent the small parcel to Chief Inspector Cummins.

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.