by Charles Todd
Rutledge could hear his own voice saying, “Lives depend on this. Whose father?” But he was watching the color drain from Mason’s face, and the way his eyes were blinking, as if he couldn’t focus them properly.
Hamish’s voice was loud between them, warning Rutledge to stop. And Rutledge could feel himself losing control, blackness sweeping through his mind, the sound of the guns so loud he wanted to press his hands over his ears and hide from it.
But he was here for a reason, and he gripped that the way most men would grip sanity, and said again, “Whose?”
He could hardly hear the reply. It was a whisper lost in the roar of guns that wouldn’t stop.
“He wouldn’t tell me. For God’s sake, he wouldn’t tell me. And I let him go hunting for that man alone, because I’m a coward.”
Rutledge reached out and clapped Mason on the shoulder, a comradely gesture, but the man shrunk from him, cringing until he was lying on the floor in a tight knot, protecting his body.
“He wouldn’t tell me. For God’s sake, he wouldn’t tell me. And I let him go looking for the man alone.”
Ashamed, Rutledge stumbled out of the kitchen, somehow found his way to the door and into the street. He leaned against the wing of the motorcar, sick. The sounds slowly receded, and after a time, the darkness also withdrew. He straightened up, ignoring Hamish still raving in his mind.
9
Leaving the motorcar where it was, Rutledge began walking, heading nowhere, one street after another, left and then right and then left again.
After a while, he found he was standing in front of a small shop, its black-and-white-striped awning affording a little shade from the now warm sun. Gradually he noticed that he was staring at a display of porcelain figures, jeweled fans, small dolls in colorful costumes, enameled silver snuffboxes, and ornate black lacquerware with scenes from fairy tales fancifully painted across the tops.
He had no idea where he was. Looking up at the scrolled letters on the shop window, he realized that this was where Russian émigrés had put their personal belongings up for sale.
Turning away, he tried to get his bearings. There was the distant headland, green now in the sunlight, where Hartle’s body had been found. Using that as his guide, he walked in an easterly direction until he realized that he was coming out of a side street that ended near the water.
The pub was several streets over. Glancing at his watch, he realized that he’d been walking for more than an hour. He swore and was about to turn up toward the pub and his motorcar when another shop window caught his eye.
The display was of all things military. Gold braided tricorns, an assortment of swords, and a polished table where tiny lead soldiers fought pitched battles. There was a rusty halberd, books on military tactics from wars long past, a pistol with a split barrel, and even a well-used Kaiser Wilhelm helmet with its pointed spike, and a long spear that appeared to be East African.
On the spur of the moment, he went inside. The proprietor was an elderly man with streaks of gray in his fair hair, and bright blue eyes. He glanced up from a sock he was mending as the bell over the door jingled, and smiled at Rutledge. “Looking for anything in particular?” he asked in a deep, gruff voice.
“Identity discs from the war. Do you ever see them? Or have them for sale?”
The crinkles around the blue eyes deepened. “There’s no market for that sort of thing. They were rather flimsily made, as a rule. Buttons, now, and uniforms—they turn up. I have a button hook, from the Grenadier Guards. Any number of shell casings, some of them with trench art, others plain. An officer’s whistle, well-polished riding boots with gilt spurs—even several pairs of field glasses.”
Hamish had subsided in his mind, and Rutledge was about to turn away when something caught his eye in the glass display case where he was standing. It contained smaller and more expensive objects kept under lock and key. There were an ivory pipe, a cigarette case made from what appeared to be tortoiseshell, a flint knife, a few American Civil War lead soldiers, and assorted buttons, watches, rings, and other pieces of jewelry inscribed with military insignia.
He pointed to the knife. “What can you tell me about that?”
“It’s said to be quite old. Struck from a single large flint. The gentleman who brought it in told me his grandfather had turned it up while working in his garden. It set him off on a search for an ancient burial site, thinking there might be funeral goods. But to no end.” The proprietor took the object out of the case. “You can see how the blows were struck to shape the blade. Careful,” he added as he passed it to Rutledge. “It’s sharp enough to cut hide.”
Rutledge took the blade. “How was it used?”
“According to a Dr. Butler who comes in from time to time, it would have had a handle, a length of wood with a fork at one end, into which the blade would have been inserted.” He pointed to the blunt end. “See how it’s notched? Rawhide would be wrapped tightly around wood and blade, and perhaps soaked, for a tight fit. If you knew what you were about, you could flense a hide just with the blade, but if you were of a mind to stab a woolly mammoth, you’d need the handle for a sure grip. Short handle for jabbing, longer piece of wood for throwing. Of course, if this is as old as it’s said to be, the wood and the rawhide have long since rotted away. A pity, but there you are.”
“Yes, I see.” Rutledge gingerly tested an edge, and could see that it was quite remarkably sharp still. “Where did you say it was found?”
“I didn’t. But from what I was told, the old grandfather lived in East Anglia. There’s flint there, along the north coast.” He reached into the case again and drew out two or three unprepossessing round gray stones, and with them half of a stone, showing the shiny black surface of the flint inside. Rutledge was well aware of what flint looked like. But he let the proprietor continue his explanation of how flint tools could be made. “Stone Age or not, but whoever discovered how to do this sort of work must have had a monopoly in his day. Everyone came to him for their blades. Until someone else learned how to do it a little better or a little faster. Striking the blow in the right place to make a sharp edge rather than break the edge off—that’s the skill right there.”
Rutledge said after a moment, “A long way to come, to sell you this find.”
“I was of the same opinion.” The man shrugged. “But it’s a fine piece of its kind. Only it never sold. There’s not much call for something this old. I’ve kept it more as a curiosity than anything else. What’s a military shop without what must have been one of the first tools of war?”
“How do you remember who brought you each item?” Rutledge asked.
“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 off
ice. 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.
Corporal Trayner lived in Belton, Yorkshire, and Rutledge drove on late into the night to make up for lost time, finally stopping in Stafford, in a hotel near the railway station. This was industrial country, and the town’s buildings were black from coal smoke. Stafford’s narrow streets and tall church tower had always reminded him of etchings he’d seen of German villages.
Late the next morning he arrived in the little town of Belton and asked at the local police station for directions to the Trayner house. It proved to be one of six Victorian cottages down a lane just past the churchyard: solid houses of no particular distinction except for the gardens that grew rampant in the small space between the gate along the road and the door. Hollyhocks stood tall in the back of the gardens, holding pride of place at this time of year. A rose climbed to the small porch of the fifth house, and a small sign by the walk identified this as SPRING COTTAGE.
Rutledge went to the door and lifted the knocker, a brass dolphin.
A young woman answered the summons, and asked his business.
Rutledge identified himself and asked to speak to Corporal Trayner.
She invited him in, saying over her shoulder, “Dear, there’s a Mr. Rutledge to see you. From Scotland Yard.”
She led the way into the front room. Although the curtains stood open, the room felt dark, closed in, despite its eastern exposure and the brightness of the morning sun. A man sat in one of the chairs, a cushion at his back and a white cane at his side. He rose as Rutledge entered and held out his hand. But his eyes were scarred and blind, and he waited for his visitor to come to him.
Rutledge took the extended hand, and then the chair that Trayner indicated. He was fair, with broad shoulders and a ruddy complexion. He said, “What brings you here, Inspector?” There was only curiosity in his voice, not strain. If he had a guilty conscience, it was well concealed.
Rutledge briefly explained his reason for driving to Belton, and added, “Can you tell me if you are still in possession of your identity discs?”
“I don’t think I ever had any. Not of the sort you describe. I know what they are. I just sewed labels in my uniforms, mostly in the pockets, and that was that.”
It was an unexpected response.
Rutledge said, “You’re quite sure about this? It’s rather important.”
“Yes, I’m sure. To tell you the truth, most of the men in my company were not impressed with the fiberboard discs. We were regular Army, you see. Or I was, until this.” He gestured in the direction of his eyes.
“Did you know an officer by the name of Pierce? Anthony Pierce?”
Trayner shook his head. “No, the name means nothing to me. Should it?”
“Does Eastfield, Sussex, mean anything to you? Or these names: William Jeffers, James Roper? Theo Hartle?”
Trayner frowned but said only, “I’m afraid I can’t help. You must be mistaken.”
“Your name was on the disc I saw. I can’t be wrong on that.”
“And you say that this must have something to do with me? But what?”
“I don’t know,” Rutledge said slowly, feeling his fatigue as he spoke. It had been a long drive for nothing. And time was short. He had three days. Not enough time to go elsewhere. And yet now he felt compelled to try.
Finally he asked, “Was there anything that happened in France—anything at all—that might make someone feel he had to avenge your blindness?”
“Revenge is a very strong term. But if any of my men felt that I had been wronged, they’d have taken their anger out on the Germans. Not the British. It was a German shell that did this.”
Rutledge had to leave it there. He asked them to contact the Yard if they could remember any detail that might have been overlooked, and they agreed.
Mrs. Trayner saw Rutledge to the door. He apologized for disturbing them, and she smiled wryly. “I’ve never seen anyone questioned in a murder case before. It breaks the tedium of our days. But my husband is telling the truth, Inspector. He always does.”
Rutledge thanked her and turned away. But Trayner’s voice called to him from inside the house, and Rutledge heard him stumble as he hurried toward the door. Mrs. Trayner went quickly to help him, but her husband brushed her aside impatiently.
“No harm done, Lucy! Don’t fuss.” He came out into the passage and asked, “Are you still there, Inspector Rutledge?”
“Yes, I’m here. What is it?”
“I was right when I told you I didn’t remember your Anthony Pierce. But there was another Pierce—David, I think it was. A lieutenant in the sappers. He was attached to our division for two or three weeks. I don’t think I met him, but I knew of him. Is that any use to you?”
“David?” Rutledge queried.
“No, David isn’t right.” Trayner’s sightless eyes squinted in the direction of the sky as he pondered. “Daniel. That was it, Daniel Pierce.” His eyes came back to where he thought Rutledge was standing. “He had a reputation for being difficult, as I recall. That’s how I came to hear of him. But damned good at his job, from all reports.”
Trayner was pleased with himself, as if this was a small victory over his sightlessness, proving to Scotland Yard that he was a reliable witness, even if he couldn’t see as other men did.
“That’s very helpful,” Rutledge answered, thanking him and moving on to the motorcar.
Just as he was about to drive away, Hamish said, “Is he still there?”
And Rutledge looked back. Trayner was standing in the open door, as if savoring the world beyond his doorstep. His wife hovered in the background, fearful that he might take it into his head to do something that would harm him.
There was a severe thunderstorm as he crossed into Wales, and Rutledge took shelter in a small hotel that was miles short of his destination. The Welsh border had once been as turbulent as the Scottish border, but this hotel catered to day-trippers coming across from Worcester, and the dining room was crowded with those caught out by the weather on their way back to England.
He sat in the bar, looking out at the lightning, and wondered what he would learn from J. A. S. Jones, Welsh sapper. He turned as the man behind the bar asked what he’d have, and gave his order. Noting the man’s limp and a ragged scar down his arm, he asked, “In the war, were you?”
The man smiled grimly. “I was that. And you?”
Rutledge gave his regiment, but not his rank.
“At the Somme, were you? Lost my brother there, I did.”
“Bloody shambles,” Rutledge answered, agreeing with the unspoken condemnation he heard in the Welshman’s voice.
“It was, and all.”
He brought Rutledge’s ale, and said, “I’ve found it hard to settle again. I don’t know if it’s because of my brother or because I can’t see any sense in anything now. We were close.”
“What about your family?”
“That’s what my da asks, over and over again. What about my wife and children. I don’t know the answer. I think I’ve changed. And they haven’t.”
He went away to serve another storm-bound driver, and then came back to where Rutledge
was still standing.
“How’ve you managed, then?”
“I was wise enough not to marry before I went away to fight. Just as well, as it happened.” He regarded the man. “What did you do with your identity discs, when you came back?”
The man gave a bark of laughter. But it was bitter. “Burned them, I did. In the grate. As if I could burn away all that went with them. Sadly, it made no difference.”
More people were coming in, and he was busy. Rutledge took his glass and went to an empty table by the window. He’d hardly finished his ale when the storm moved on almost as suddenly as it had appeared, and the rain changed from downpour to a light drizzle that barely concealed the sun.
Moving on, Rutledge discovered that J. A. S. Jones lived in a town so small it hardly took up space on the map he’d used to bring him this far. The small slate-roofed houses huddled together against a hillside, and the road seemed to help pin them there, preventing them from sliding down into the brisk little stream on the far side.
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?”
