J. A. S. Jones lived above his father’s greengrocer’s shop. A stair to one side of the shop door led up to another door at the top, and here Rutledge knocked several times before anyone came to answer the summons.

Jones was a small, dark man, with thinning hair and a short beard. He looked at Rutledge quizzically and said, “If you’re wanting your money, I don’t have it. Not this week.”

“My name is Rutledge. From Scotland Yard in London—”

“Good God, I know I’m overdawn at the bank. They needn’t have sent the Yard!”

“I know nothing about your banking arrangements,” Rutledge said. “I’m here to ask a question about the war, to do with a murder inquiry in Sussex.”

“Sussex? I don’t think I’ve ever been there.” His frown appeared to be genuine. “What is it you want of me?”

“Can you tell me what became of your identity discs?”

Jones stared at him. “I—I don’t really know. Is it important?”

“Very. If they are here, will you look for them, please?”

“Come inside, then.” Jones stepped back from the door. “I’m a bachelor. There’s nothing tidy about the place.”

It was true. Half-eaten meals littered the tabletop in the long single room, and clothes had been dropped helter-skelter on the floor, the two or three chairs, and the posts of a bed. Rutledge could see the tiny kitchen at the far end opposite the door.

“I’m out of work at present,” Jones told him, dragging a small battered trunk out from under the high, old-fashioned bed. “My family does what it can to keep me out of the poorhouse, but it’s been a close-run thing.” Unlocking and then lifting the lid, he considered the contents, mostly the uniforms. “Why would you want my discs? I served out my time, there’s been no problem with the Army.” He began to delve into a corner, fingers poking here and there.

Rutledge said, “There have been several murders in a village where all the men served together. In each case, a disc was found in the dead man’s mouth. The names on the discs appeared to be random—Yorkshire, Cheshire, Wales. We’re trying to find out what connection the discs could have with events in the war.”

Jones looked up from his search. “You’re saying one of these men had my disc in his mouth? But that’s not possible, I have my discs here. There must be some mistake.”

“If you have your own discs, then I shall have to agree with you there,” Rutledge responded.

Jones went back to searching and finally brought out a thin strand of rope, from which two fiberboard discs dangled. “Here they are, then,” he said triumphantly.