A Lonely Death ir-13 Read online

  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 sling 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 l
ifeboat 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?" Inspector 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."

  "If I have any say in the matter, the inquest will be held here."

  Rutledge said, "He died here. It will be held here. But you said yourself, he's one of ours."

  Norman didn't answer. Finishing his tea, he said, "We'll see about that in due course. For the moment, leave me to my work and I'll not interfere with yours. We'll see if we can trace his movements in Hastings. If you learn anything in Eastfield that will help with that-why he was here in the first place-I'll thank you to make life easier for us."

  "I'll speak to his employer." Rutledge rose. "My motorcar should have been brought in by now. Thank you for the tea. I'll be in touch."

  Walker hastily swallowed the contents of his cup and rose to follow Rutledge from Norman's office.

  Norman let them go without saying anything more, and Rutledge was glad to see that his motorcar was in truth waiting in front of the police station.

  He and Walker stepped out in the rain, and Walker said, "Back to Eastfield?"

  Rutledge answered, "I'd like to go back to that headland."

  Walker's groan was almost audible. Rutledge turned to him. "You needn't get out."

  There, Rutledge crisscrossed the headland, looking for clues. It was nearly hopeless, given the conditions, but his eyes were good, and he knew that there was only this one chance to find anything at all.

  Hamish said, against the wail of the wind, "Give it up."

  He was right. The search turned up nothing more than a halfpenny, which could have been lying in the grass for months, if not years. The bearded face of Edward VII stared back at Rutledge as he turned it over.

  Retracing his steps to the motorcar, he got in and said to Walker, "Do you know the doctor who was out here this morning?"

  "Not well. He's Dr. Thompson. His surgery is somewhere in Hill Street."

  "Then let's find it." Rutledge drove back the way he had come, and after some trouble, they finally saw the small shingle that hung by the doctor's door.

  The doctor's nurse, a tall, spare woman with a sweet face, answered their knock and showed them into the surgery.

  A body lay on a long table, covered now with a sheet. Clothing and other belongings had been set aside in a shallow bin to finish dripping.

  Dr. Thompson was just washing his hands, and he turned to greet them. Recognizing them, he said, "You were on the headland, with Inspector Norman. Did he send you? I was just about to ask him to step around."

  Rutledge identified himself and Constable Walker. "I've been sent by London to take over the inquiry. Hartle isn't the first victim of this killer. The others were in Eastfield."

  "Ah, yes, I remember something being said about jurisdiction. I'll tell you what I've learned and confer with Inspector Norman later." He added, after a moment, "As a courtesy."

  "What do you know so far?"

  "That my initial conclusions were correct. There's the throat, of course. Not manual strangulation but the use of a garrote. Abrasions from the fall over the cliff's edge, but these occurred shortly after death, not before. He wasn't alive when he hit the r
ocky ledge below. How long he'd been dead, I can't tell you at the moment, but I would make an educated guess of sometime before midnight. Perhaps as early as ten or eleven o'clock. The cold rain hampers any more definitive conclusion. Have a look." He pointed to the sheet where Hartle lay, and Rutledge walked over to lift it.

  He could see the wound very clearly, now, and the cuts and scrapes Dr. Thompson had mentioned. "Any thoughts on what sort of garrote it is?"

  "Wire, most likely, to cut that deep. More efficient than a silk cord or even knotted rope." He pointed to a long jagged wound in the dead man's abdomen. It had healed, but the scar was still prominent. "Bayonet, I'd say. A miracle he survived the infection that must have followed, never mind the damage done by the blade itself. As you can see, he's a big man. He would have taken some killing. I daresay your murderer has a few bruises to show for it." Lifting one of Hartle's hands, he pointed to the fingers. "Initially I thought this was damage from the fall or the recovery. But I'm of the opinion he tried to pull whatever it was away from his throat. See the broken nails, and there's some indication of dried blood under the others. I'd put his age at about twenty-eight. From the lines around his mouth, he must have been in some pain from his wound. And large as he is, strong as he no doubt was, he isn't as filled out as he should be."

  Walker spoke for the first time. "Twenty-eight his last birthday." He was about to ask a question, but Rutledge forestalled him

  "Did you find anything else of interest?" he asked.

  Dr. Thompson said, "I was just coming to that. Nothing to do with the cause of death or the state of the body, you understand. Inside the man's mouth was an identity disc. From the war, you know. I didn't quite-I was told this victim was Theo Hartle-I believe it was you, Constable, who identified him? From Eastfield. But the disc would say that this was a man named French from Herefordshire. I don't quite understand why the disc was there-the war has been over for two years, after all-or why there is some question about the name of the victim."