Rutledge took the shallow stairs that led up from the road two at a time, crossed the terrace, and entered the high-ceilinged lobby filled with chairs and potted plants and an air of style and grace. Reception was to one side of the ornate staircase, and he asked for a telephone. He was directed down a passage to a glass door. Inside was a leather chair and a small table with a telephone, a lamp, and an enameled tray holding a pen and hotel stationery.

He put through a call to Scotland Yard and was relieved when Sergeant Gibson came to the telephone almost at once.

“Sir? Any news?” Gibson asked. In the background, two men carried on a conversation, low-voiced, the words indistinguishable. Rutledge thought they were standing in Gibson’s doorway or just outside.

“Not yet. I need information on a Farrell-Smith who died before the war, leaving a widow who is now in charge of the Misses Tate School in Eastfield. He went to public school in Surrey and was there at the same time as Anthony Pierce and his brother, Daniel. That’s all I can tell you. But you should be able to trace him through the school.”

“Do you know which school it was?”

“No, but you might try Whitefriars first.”

“Indeed, I will. Where am I to find you, sir?”

“Send your reply by post to The Fishermen’s Arms in Eastfield. I don’t want to be overheard taking this call in the brewery office.”

There was a moment of silence. Rutledge had assumed that Gibson was writing down the particulars of his request and also where he could be found.

Instead the sergeant had been waiting for the men outside his door to walk on down the passage, for as the voices in the background faded, Gibson said rapidly, “There’s been a complaint. The Chief Constable spoke to the Chief Superintendent not half an hour ago. Rudeness and unprofessional conduct.”

Rutledge said grimly, “The woman, Mrs. Farrell-Smith. She has not wanted the Yard to take this case away from the Hastings police. Is Bowles viewing this seriously?”

“Early days, sir. But is it wise to be looking into her family’s background, under the circumstances?”

“She’s a suspect. I can’t give her special consideration just because she complains about me. And the best way to protect myself is to find out what it is she’s afraid of and either strike her from the list of suspects or charge her. Go ahead with the queries. I’ll accept the consequences. Just be as discreet as possible.”

He rang off, sitting there in thought for several minutes before opening the door and stepping out into the passage.

As he did, he realized that a man was standing at Reception, waiting for the clerk behind the desk to return. And the man was staring at Rutledge with concentrated interest. Their eyes met.