It was wartime, 1915, and spy fever was at its height. But no one tried to infiltrate an Army post or use Robinson’s identity to approach a factory or other vulnerable target. It was as if Robinson’s name and history had died with him.
The Foot Police and other interested departments began to suspect that while wearing Robinson’s uniform, Franklin had approached and killed someone else, with more time to dispose of the body than he’d had in Robinson’s case. Six months later, a decaying corpse was found under a railway bridge in Derbyshire, confirming that theory. It was never identified. But in the pocket of the ill-fitting uniform he was wearing someone had written the name Timothy Robinson. Many soldiers had done just that, in the event they were killed in action and unrecognizable.
Who the dead man was, no one ever discovered.
By early 1916, it was decided that Franklin, whatever name he used now, had probably enlisted somewhere, and used the Army to transport him out of the country and to safety. There had been no German-related incidents, ruling out the earlier questions about a German spy. And as far as anyone knew, there were no further killings. Once he was in France, Franklin could travel to Switzerland or take ship from Portugal to Canada or anywhere else he might choose.
That was where the search for Franklin had stopped.
The war had ended and the British Army came home. Franklin had become a dusty file on someone’s desk.
And then some two months ago, Vermuelen, who had already been looking for him, had come across Franklin—or someone, an Englishman, who fit the vague description and used a knife in his killings—in Picardy. To the police questioning Franklin about a murder, he was simply an ex-soldier who had known the victim. The false name he’d given was cleared as having no record, and he was released.
Michel Vermuelen had arrived in Picardy too late to look at the suspect, but managed to follow someone who might have been him as far as Ypres, where the man was looking for transport to Calais. Certain now that the man must indeed be Franklin, Vermuelen had approached him and told him that he himself was going there and would like company on the road. Vermuelen had wired Haldane before the two men set out, alerting him to the fact that Franklin might be returning to England. Franklin was using the name Tom Barnes, but had no passport in that name, claiming that the Picardy police had kept it. Somewhere outside Calais, either Franklin had grown suspicious or was already covering his movements, and he tried to knife Vermuelen. They fought, and Vermuelen was stabbed several times. He managed to make it back to Langville, but by then he had lost track of Franklin.
The ports were watched for one Tom Barnes. But the man never arrived. It was likely that he hadn’t left France at all. That he had used Vermuelen. The trail had then gone cold.
And Vermuelen’s leg, refusing to heal, had continued to drain. In the end it had turned septic before he could go after Franklin.
Small wonder Vermuelen had feared that Franklin might track him instead.
Had Franklin crossed to England after all? Using another name?
And why would he come to Walmer? A small town where strangers would be noticed?
Unless he had been there once before . . .
Why had Haldane, listening to Rutledge’s request for the names of all the men posted to the airfield, connected that with Franklin? Did he have a reason to think that Franklin had served there during the war? Or was it simply the way Haldane’s mind worked, when Rutledge had said he needed those names in connection with an inquiry?
But there had been that wisp of wool that Dr. Wister had found on Patricia Lowell’s clothes, and the possibility that it had come from a military greatcoat . . .
A down-on-his-luck ex-soldier looking for work? Or a murderer looking for a place to go to ground?
The ferry across to Dover pulled in to the port, and it was time to leave it.
Hamish said, “Aye, it fits together. But is it true?”
“Hamilton will know if someone has come to Walmer recently, or is looking for work. That’s where I’ll begin.”
But when he walked into Hamilton’s office, he was greeted with an angry, “Where the hell have you been?”
“Chasing a possible lead.”
“Yes, well, it might have saved a good deal of aggravation if you’d told me how to find you.”
That hadn’t been possible. Hamilton couldn’t have reached him in Langville, if the police station itself had burned to the ground.
“It wouldn’t have helped if I had. You have no telephones here. What’s happened?” He kept his voice level with an effort. Hamilton had resented having the Yard thrust into an inquiry he’d dismissed. And now he resented not being kept informed.
Hamilton took a deep breath. “For one thing, someone burned down the hut where Mrs. Lowell was killed. There was wind, we were concerned about the house.”
“Had you searched it carefully?”
“Of course I had. There was nothing to be found.”
“I’ll have a look.”
“Too late. You’ll find nothing but ashes. By the time Lady Benton got here and the fire brigade went out, there was nothing left. She’s talking about having a telephone installed. But who would she call? Chelmsford?” he answered sourly.
“Lady Benton is all right?”
“You know how she is. Unflappable. I got an earful from Mrs. Hailey.”
“I’m going out there now.”
“I’m serious, Rutledge, if you leave again, I’ll see the Chief Constable is told.”
“Which reminds me,” Rutledge said, “are there any new people who have come to Walmer recently?”
“New people? As in a family—a man—a woman?”
“It doesn’t matter. Anyone.”
“No. It’s not a village that’s famous or popular. We make salt and Thames barges, hardly a draw for workers. Besides, that sort of work often runs in the family. I can’t think of the last newcomer.”
“What about someone who had served here during the war?”
Hamilton shook his head. “A few men and several grieving families have come from time to time. I don’t know that any of them stayed longer than a day or two.”
Rutledge thanked him and left.
He drove directly to the airfield, and walked down to where the blackened ruins of the hut lay, tiny wisps of smoke still stirring in the sunlight as the wind blew.
Why burn it down? he asked himself as he dropped down on his haunches and gazed at the ashes. The hut had served its purpose, it had been the perfect place to leave the body of Patricia Lowell. And standing there, well within sight of the house, where anyone looking out the Abbey windows in this direction would see it instantly, it was a constant and powerful reminder of what had been done there. From that perspective, it was far more haunting than these black embers.
Why burn it?
The words kept repeating themselves, a litany in his mind.
And then the answer came, like a flash of light.
There was something here the killer didn’t want to be found. Or was afraid that it might be found?
Something he’d left behind? Or lost, and suddenly realized it was missing and where it must be . . .
But Hamilton had searched the hut. Apparently Mrs. Lowell’s killer had as well. And neither of them had had any luck.
Not something of Patricia Lowell’s. Something that belonged to the killer?