“I’m sorry, no. He told me repeatedly that he was called Zander Holland, but the only name on his tag when he was brought in was Alexander. Which isn’t surprising, we’ve had men with no name at all. But as he began to improve, the Major was transferred to another hospital. I was told later that he made a full recovery. I was glad to hear it. One of the specialists who came to look at the burn cases had seen him in another hospital.”

“He’d been burned?”

“Oh, yes, it was part of the torture, you see. Systematic burning.”

Poor devil! Rutledge thought. “You have no record of his unit?”

“I told you. Once he began recovering, the Army saw fit to move him.”

“Did Alexander keep in touch with Burns? After he was transferred?”

“I can’t answer that. But I doubt it. Captain Burns would have told me if he’d had news. Whether they met again in London, I can’t say. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the Captain did make a point of finding him. It was the sort of man he was. He cheered up a good many people, ill as he was. It was his nature.”

But that was all she could give Rutledge on the patient named Alexander.

He left his telephone number with her. “If you think of anything else that might be useful, I’d be grateful if you got in touch.”

“I shall, Inspector,” she said, and hung up the receiver.

RUTLEDGE SPENT ANOTHER hour talking to people he knew in the War Office. But he had no luck there. One official told him that he rather thought he remembered the chap Rutledge was asking about and had heard that he went to France after he’d been declared fit for return to duty. “But I’m not sure his name was Holland. And the only Alexander I recall was a sergeant-major in the Fusiliers. Tracking your man down will be well nigh impossible without more information, old boy. I haven’t time to play hunches. And we have a bloody long list of wounded!”

AT THE HOTEL desk, Rutledge said to the young woman on duty, “Could you tell me, please, if there is anyone in Duncarrick by the name of Alexander? He was an officer in the war. I’d like to look him up if he’s here.”

“I don’t believe there’s anyone in town with that name.” She frowned prettily, her hands toying with the pen she’d been using.

Hamish said, “He might not live in the town.”

But Rutledge was already asking that question.

“I’m sorry. Perhaps you could ask Constable Pringle or Inspector Oliver. They’d know. Or Mr. Elliot, perhaps.”