“How did the body come here? Any signs that he’s been moved?”
“We’d scouted about the entrance when we got here,” Henderson said. “Best we could in the circumstances. If there were any tracks, we couldn’t find them. Not even Downing’s. From the state of the corpse’s boots, my guess is that he was caught out in the open when the rain started, and he took shelter here. There’s a hole in one of them.”
“How did he know there was a chamber here? A dry place? Unless he was local?”
Henderson shook his head. “There’s no other shelter out here.” He gestured toward the shrouded plain beyond—isolated, empty. Very wet. “Hard to say just where he might’ve come from, or even where he might be going. For all we know, he didn’t want to show his face in Avebury or West Kennet.”
“Have you gone into the chamber?”
It was Mason who answered him. “Only into the entrance. We hadn’t thought to bring a torch. Not with this mist. From what we could see, he hadn’t been living there.”
The dead man wasn’t tall. Five foot eight, perhaps? He himself had carried men of that size over his shoulder, across No Man’s Land, or to the connecting trench, the dead sometimes left unceremoniously where no one could see them. Bad for morale if they were underfoot or propped against the trench wall to wait for the stretcher bearers.
“Is there a road nearby? I can’t remember.”
“A track of sorts. If you knew where to find it. If you’re thinking he might have come that way, it makes sense.”
“A motorcar might come that far?”
Mason said, “You needn’t worry about that. We can get him into the carriage, I think.” He pulled his coat tighter around him. “If you’re finished, I’ll fetch the sheet.”
Rutledge glanced at Henderson, who said, “I’m satisfied.”
Mason disappeared in the mist. Henderson was looking over his shoulder, as if half expecting someone to come out of the inner chamber.
When he saw that Rutledge had noticed his unease, he said, “I came here once as a lad. On a dare. It was at the September equinox. I was never so frightened as I was that night. There’s something odd about what’s inside there. I could feel it in my bones, and I slipped out, slept rough, rather than stay there. Just before sunup, I went a step or two back inside, before the others came to see if I’d spent the night in the chamber. I was shivering, wishing they’d hurry, when a spear of light came in through a crack over there, with the rising sun.”
He gestured over his shoulder. “It started here, just inside. And it moved slowly around the wall until it reached the chamber at the rear. Then it moved down the other side, so bright I had to look away. When I opened my eyes, it was just about to vanish. As if it had never been. I couldn’t have sworn what I saw was real. And I couldn’t tell anyone, for fear they’d laugh at me. I’d never been afraid of the stones or the hills or the barrows before, but then I was. Took me years to get over it.”
“I daresay the builders planned the opening that way.”
“I didn’t know that at ten, did I? It was a wonder I didn’t lose my wits. The other lads thought I was brave. I never told them.”
Mason came back into the forecourt, a bundle of canvas under his arm. He handed one end to Henderson, and they set about rolling the body onto it. That took some doing. Rigor had long since passed off, and they finally had to grip the shoulders of the greatcoat and ankles of his boots in order to shift him. The head lolled to one side and one arm dragged until Rutledge caught the sleeve and lifted it across the body.
Working the body out of the forecourt through the narrow, uneven opening was the next problem, but they finally managed to get clear of the stones and carry the dead man to the carriage. The final hurdle was setting it on the floorboards. While Mason was catching his breath, Rutledge went back to the chamber and retrieved the empty gin bottle. He scanned the ground where the body had lain, but it was as if the dead man had left no trace in the place where he’d died.
When he got back to the carriage, Henderson had already taken his place and Mason was just climbing in. Rutledge handed them the bottle, then took up his own reins and mounted.
The rest of the way to the doctor’s surgery, Rutledge considered the dead man.
Was he the ex-soldier whom Leslie claimed had broken into his house on the night that the unknown woman had died? Rutledge had almost been convinced he hadn’t existed.
But why was he still in the area now? If he was a thief, why had he lingered, in constant danger of being seen and taken up by a local Constable?
Hamish said, breaking the silence, “Unless he wasna’ here at all, and it took his killer time to find a likely ex-soldier?”
Henderson and Rutledge stood to one side of the table as Dr. Mason began to cut away the dead man’s clothes. The room was cold, but the smell of rotting flesh rose from the sodden clothing, with a strong odor of gin and wet wool. There was also a pervasive smell of chalky soil, where the back of his clothing had rested so long against the ground.
Mason worked at the seams, so as to destroy nothing that might prove useful, slowly removing the greatcoat, then the uniform beneath. It bore Corporal’s stripes, and the insignia of the Royal Engineers. Mason, looking up, said, “The outer coat might have been given him when the weather changed. Or come from a charity?”
After a while, the thin white body lay on the table, exposed, oddly vulnerable.
“Poorly nourished,” he went on. “He’s been out of work for some time, I think. I’d put his age at early thirties. A young man. No recent wounds on the body to indicate foul play. But those scars—” He pointed to a long, badly healed one on the man’s right leg, then to more across his shoulders, puckered and ugly. “War wounds. Shrapnel, on the shoulders.” They helped him turn the remains over, and then he scanned the back. “Nothing new here, either. And there’s not enough left of his fingers to judge whether he was in a fight, but the lack of bruising tells me there are no internal injuries that might have killed him. He didn’t sustain a beating.” He nodded, and they restored the body to its original position, faceup, damaged eyes staring at nothing. “I’ll have to look inside later. So far I can’t find anything that would call for more than the briefest of inquests.”
“We still don’t know who he is,” Rutledge commented.
“There’ll be something here.” Mason moved on to the pile of clothing on a nearby table. The uniform yielded only his rank, the insignia of the Royal Engineers, two shillings, tuppence, and a farthing.
Rutledge, impatient now, said, “Try the coat pockets.”
Mason picked up the greatcoat, reaching into the right-hand pocket first. “Something here . . .”
He pulled out the crumpled wrappings of a packet of biscuits. Rutledge stared at it but said nothing. It was a popular enough name.
Setting that half of the greatcoat aside, Mason took up the other half, reaching into the pocket. “You’d think he’d carry some identification. If he fell ill—no, this pocket is empty as well. Wait—” He withdrew his hand, opened the palm, and in it lay a pair of earrings.
Frowning, he looked down at them. “Earbobs,” he said. “My wife has a similar pair—a rather nice pearl set in gold. Rather expensive for a down-on-his-luck ex-soldier. He could have sold them for enough food to see him through what’s left of the winter.”