by Charles Todd
It could well be the case here, that someone waited under cover until his quarry had walked into his sights.
But that meant he could wait for his opportunity. Coldly, precisely, unemotionally. In no hurry to complete whatever task he’d set himself.
Satisfied at last that there was no one else abroad, Rutledge had returned to his room, slept lightly, and when the clock in the church tower struck the next hour, he had arisen and done it all over again. Just as he reached the hotel, the clouds that had been gathering for the past hour or more consolidated over southern Sussex and Kent, and a steady rain began to fall.
Walker had just come through the door of the hotel and was crossing the lobby intent on climbing the stairs in search of Rutledge’s room when his quarry walked out of the dining room after an early breakfast.
The constable passed on the message from Norman, keeping his voice low so that it wouldn’t carry to the man at Reception watching them with interest.
Rutledge was very still for a moment. Then he said, “Damn.”
The fox had outwitted the hounds. While Rutledge had been scouring Eastfield, the killer had moved on.
“I’m afraid, sir, that Inspector Norman isn’t the least bit pleased,” Walker said in some satisfaction. “But I’m not denying I’m pleased it wasn’t someone from my patch.”
“Collect Petty and bring the motorcar around, will you? I’ll be five minutes.”
It was not a long drive. Suddenly the road came to a cleft in the cliffs and then wended down the hillside. Scattered buildings and cottages gave way to a tumble of houses perched above the shoreline. To the left were rows of tall black wooden net shops—drying sheds—and the fishing fleet, already drawn up on the strand. The rain beat against the motorcar as they reached the bottom of the cleft, and they tasted salt on their lips. To the right, the town itself opened up, streets winding into a maze of other streets, and beyond, the increasingly popular waterfront, empty now of holidaymakers. Waves were coming in as gray as the sky, and their froth looked dingy as they crashed into the shale of the strand.
Hastings had once been a tiny fishing village at the mouth of a valley that had spilled down from the cliffs to the narrow strand below. With time, the village had grown east toward the headland, but it never really flourished as a port even in William of Normandy’s day, although later it had been one of the English Cinque Ports, with a castle that overlooked the sea and protected the mouth of the valley. Sea bathing had finally made the coast prosperous, and Hastings had then expanded westward toward St. Leonards. The Old Town, with its sand fishing boats, the tall tarred structures where the nets were dried, and a crowded street of houses and shops reclaimed from the sea, were left as an anachronism as the town built anew for the carriage trade, with prospects, circles, and promenades taking pride of place. This had waned with the war, although sea bathing was picking up again.
Rutledge drove directly to the police station, following Walker’s directions, only to be told that Inspector Norman was still out on the headland above the fishing fleet. They went back the way they had come, and as they reached the strand, through the rain they could just see the top of the cliff where it jutted out into the water. Silhouetted against the gray sky were a dozen or so men, tiny figures at this distance, moving about near the edge just above where part of the cliff face had broken away in the past and tumbled down into the sea. Watching them, Rutledge realized that there was a climber making his way back up to them, struggling against the pull of the wind as he worked ropes that were invisible from this angle.
“I don’t envy that poor bastard,” Walker was saying, watching him. It would have been a dangerous business even in good weather. “What possessed him even to try such a thing?”
Rutledge was silent as he made his way to the funicular that ran up the cliff face just beyond the black net shops.
For a wonder it was working. The two men waited impatiently for the next car to take them to the top. Rutledge could already see a policeman moving toward the upper station, as if coming to meet them.
It was a quick run to the top, and then they were stepping out onto the wet grass, facing the full force of the wind. The policeman, a constable, said to Rutledge, “Inspector? This way, please, sir.” He turned to lead the way toward the rounded knob of the headland, where most of the policemen and several civilians were still busy.
Even in the downpour, Rutledge could see that there was something on the ground where they were standing, although most of their attention was riveted on the climber still inching his way up the cliff face. Rutledge realized that what had appeared to be two bodies actually were two men stretched out on the wet grass anchoring the climber’s ropes, their heads hanging over the precipice. Two more men held their ankles, to keep them from being dragged over. Rutledge could see that the grass was bruised and slippery as hell, and the wind in this unprotected spot was whipping in off the sea, rushing upward to buffet the knot of figures.
He pulled off his hat to keep it from blowing away, and felt the rain driven against his face.
The men didn’t turn as Rutledge came to join the group. He saw that Walker stopped a little to one side, trying to speak to the constable who had come to the funicular to fetch them. He had to shout in the man’s ear to be heard.
Everyone looked thoroughly miserable, but they were intent on the drama unfolding at their very feet. Rutledge heard a shout of pain as the wind slammed the climber into the wall he was trying to ascend, and one of the men on the ropes cried, “Are you all right, Ben?”
If he answered, Rutledge couldn’t hear him. Others, aware now that someone else had come out here, looked up to stare briefly at Rutledge, but Norman waited without turning as more and more rope was hauled up. And still the climber hadn’t crested the top.
Looking out to sea, Rutledge was hard-pressed to tell where the horizon ended and the water began, and he could see heavier clouds forming a line that darkened the sea and sky as it headed his way. He knew without being told that the men here were racing that line.
All at once the men stretched out on the ground scrambled back, and the teams heaved on the ropes with all the strength they could muster. Then, like a jack-in-the-box, a man’s head and shoulders popped up, followed by his torso and legs, and he made it to the bruised grass at the edge.
The climber flopped down where he was, flat out, exhausted. His hair was dripping rainwater, his clothes wet through. Someone came forward and draped a tarpaulin over him, but he was sweating from exertion and asked them to pull it away again.
Only then did Inspector Norman turn, as if he’d known Rutledge was there all along. His hair was also plastered to his skull, his face red and raw from the rain and the wind. He shouted to Rutledge, pointing down the cliff face, “One of yours?”
Rutledge made his way to the brink, gripping the shoulder of one of the men who had been pulling in the climber, to keep himself from being blown over.
Below, crumpled on the rocks that were being lashed by the sea, was a body.
The climber had been down there, attaching a sling of sorts to it, with ropes he brought back to the top tied to his belt.
It had been one hell of a climb down there, and even worse conditions trying to work with the body on such a narrow ledge, barely big enough for one man. And then the climb back had been even more hazardous.
Norman, somewhere behind Rutledge, called, “Look out,” and he turned to see four men pulling hard on ropes.
He stepped back from the edge and watched as the men—he learned later that they were from the lifeboat station below—began to haul the dead man to the top.
“What makes you think he’s one of mine?” Rutledge shouted.
Norman grinned at him, his long thin face seeming to split in two, but there was no humor in it. “When the climber got down there, he said the man’s throat had been cut. Took him forever to get those ropes down and attached properly. We didn’t want to drag the body against the rocky face. The sl
ing should offer a little protection. But I have a feeling his throat wasn’t cut. I have a feeling he’s been garroted. That’s when I sent for you.”
“Why?” Rutledge demanded, feeling a surge of anger at the man’s gloating. “Why should it be one of ours? If the killer has moved on, that’s a Hastings man lying down there.”
“Call it instinct,” Norman told him and then turned back to watch the men straining against the dead weight on their ropes. “And these.” He drew a pair of field glasses from his pocket. “We had to know if he was dead or alive. I can tell you, the doctor didn’t relish going down after him. You could almost see him praying it was a corpse.”
He gestured to a middle-aged, balding man with a growing paunch, standing to one side, waiting.
Someone crawled to the end of the cliff and then called over his shoulder, “Easy, lads, easy.” The men on the ropes slacked off, caught their breath, and when the signal was given, this time they brought the body up to the top of the cliff and then with a last effort, pulled it over the edge onto the grassy slope. For an instant, it appeared to be on the point of sliding into the abyss again, teetering there until it was finally pulled to safety. Rutledge heard Norman swear.
Two other men ran forward, caught the rope handles on the sling, and gently urged it back to higher ground while the lines were kept taut. When all was secure, the rescuers squatted where they were, heads down, almost overwhelmed with exhaustion.
Rutledge and Norman reached the body in three long strides, kneeling in the rain to slip the sling back and examine the man. The doctor hurried forward to join them.
“He’s dead,” he said after a cursory examination. “As we thought. I’ll tell you more when I can examine him further. This isn’t the place for it.”
Constable Walker had come up behind them, hands on his knees as he leaned forward to see over Rutledge’s shoulder. Rain had soaked Rutledge’s dark hair, and rainwater was nearly blinding him as it ran down his face. He wiped it with his hands then considered the body.
The victim lay on his stomach, his clothing dripping water. It was clear to everyone who could see the back of his neck that he’d been garroted, as Inspector Norman had suspected. The deep line of the wound was black in the gloomy light of the stormy day.
The rocks had also taken their toll, his trousers muddy and ripped, a tear in his shirt, signs on the exposed skin of his hands of scrapes and cuts. Still, it was evident to Rutledge that he hadn’t used them to protect himself when the wire had come around his throat.
With a glance at Rutledge, Norman reached out and turned the body over, and behind him Walker’s sharp intake of breath was audible.
Norman looked up. “Know him?”
Walker said, “Yes, sir—it’s Theo Hartle. He and his father work in the furniture-making firm in Eastfield.”
“Are you sure? His face is rather battered.”
“There’s no doubt in my mind,” Walker told him. “I’ve seen him every day of his life, near enough.”
“Well, then,” Inspector Norman said. “He is in fact one of yours. And on my patch.”
The doctor, conducting a swift inventory of visible injuries, said, “No other wounds apparent, just those consistent with his fall and with the attempt to bring him back from the ledge. And it was damned lucky he struck that ledge, or he’d have been taken out to sea and we’d never have found him.”
“It wasn’t a matter of luck,” Inspector Norman told him. “If you know these cliffs, this was the only place along the rim where it was sure that he would be stopped before he went into the sea.”
Hamish spoke, startling Rutledge. “Aye, and did yon murderer ken the ledge was there?”
Rutledge looked down at the dead face. Hartle appeared to be in his middle twenties like the other three victims, fair, taller than most, and of heavy build, which had made the task of bringing him up from the rocks even harder.
The doctor was turning away.
Norman gestured to his men. “All right. Get him to the doctor’s surgery.” He went over to thank the men of the Life Boat Service for their help, giving them a handful of coins as he spoke. “Get yourselves something to warm you. I’ll have a statement later, when you’re off duty.”
Norman had brought a motorcar to the top of the headland, and as they walked through the rain toward it, he said, “It was sheer chance that he was spotted. The fishing boats coming in reported seeing something on the ledge, a leaper they thought, and when we came up to look, I had a bad feeling about it. We got the lifeboat men up here, and began rescue operations, but the ledge wasn’t wide enough for more than one man to climb down to it. The way the sea was crashing over those rocks, it’s a wonder they weren’t both swept away.”
They had reached the motorcar, and Norman used his hands to wipe the rain from his face before getting in. Rutledge hesitated, his thoughts as always racing to Hamish, and then pushing them aside, he joined Walker in the rear seat.
Norman said as they crested a slight rise to reach the road and his tires fought for a grip, “A damnable day for this. I told you I didn’t want your murders spilling over into Hastings.”
Rutledge had pulled out his handkerchief, cold and damp despite his trench coat. He could feel the heaviness of the cloth weighing across his shoulders, and water inside his shoes. “The question is, what brought Hartle here?”
They wound their way down to the town and headed toward the police station. Norman was saying grimly, “That’s your lookout, isn’t it? But I don’t like this business. Not one whit.”
The interior of the motorcar smelled of wet wool, unpleasant and heavy in the dampness. As they pulled up in front of the police station, Norman turned to ask, “Where did you leave your own vehicle? By the net shops?”
“At the foot of the funicular.”
“I’ll send one of my men back to fetch it. Come inside.”
They got out and went into the station. It seemed dreadfully cold, without the sun to warm it, and Norman spoke to the sergeant at the desk, asking him to see that they were brought tea from the small canteen.
It was a far larger station than the one in Eastfield, and Norman’s office was down a short passage to the left. From the cells to the right, they could hear a man singing in a monotone, at the top of his lungs.
“He’s half mad,” Norman said in explanation as he shut his door against the sound. “We bring him in from time to time for his own sake. His sister can’t control him.” He took the chair behind the desk, thought better of it, wet as he was, and searched in one of the drawers for a sheaf of paper. “Here, use these,” he said, passing them across the desk. “Or you’ll stick to the wood. God, I don’t know when I’ve been this wet.” Opening a cupboard door, he found a towel and began to dry his face and hair. “All right, Walker, tell us what you know about this man Hartle.”
“He was in the war, with the others. A likeable man. Never any trouble before or after the war. He went to work at Kenton Chairs carving scrollwork for chair backs and desk fronts. His father always claimed he had a natural talent.”
Norman looked across the desk at Rutledge. “Factory is a misnomer. The furniture-making concern turns out desks, chairs, tables, bookcases, and bedsteads using a variety of machines, and then finishing them by hand. There’s a market in these new hotels springing up along the south coast for quality furnishings that are durable enough to take the rough handling of holidaymakers. It employs a dozen men, I should think?” He looked at Walker, who nodded. “Fifteen at the most. But they’re all skilled men, and for the most part, their fathers worked there before them. A man name of Kenton owns it, and Kenton Chairs have been well known for decades, even though they’ve expanded their line. There’s a cottage industry as well, caning the seats.”
“Mr. Kenton’s grandfather began the business in a shed on his property,” Walker added. “The Hartles have worked there for three generations, at a guess.”
“So what brought our man to Hastings?” Inspec
tor Norman wanted to know. “If he’s employed at Kenton’s?”
“I’ve no idea,” Rutledge answered him. “I’d like a copy of the doctor’s report as soon as may be.”
“We all know the cause of death. You could see the man’s throat. But was he killed out there on the headland? Or taken there after he was dead? What do you think? With this rain, any blood or signs of a struggle have been washed away hours ago.”
“The only hope is to backtrack him. If he was here in Hastings for some purpose, why didn’t he return to Eastfield the same day—or evening, as may be? What was he doing here late at night? And where was he staying?”
“I’ll have my men ask questions in the lodging houses and the pubs.”
The door opened and a constable entered, in his hands a painted wooden tray that had seen better days. The edges were worn, and the garland of roses that decorated the center was chipped and scratched. But the china teapot, cups, jug of milk, and bowl of sugar resting on it were spotlessly clean and probably a decade newer. Norman stood up, took it from the man, and proceeded to pour three cups. It was blessedly hot, and there was a silence as they drank a little.
Rutledge could feel the warmth spreading through him and was grateful. Setting his empty cup aside, he said, “We’ll exchange what information we’ve found.”
“Ah, but is this my inquiry now—or yours?” Norman asked, smiling.
Rutledge was in no mood to argue jurisdictions. “The Chief Constable handed the inquiry over to the Yard. I believe he would agree that Hartle’s death falls into the same case I’ve been pursuing since I arrived in Sussex.”
