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relationship, drawn together more because of their mutual dislike of Chief Superintendent Bowles than because of any friendship between them.
    “Thank you, Constable,” Rutledge began, hoping to cut short Walker’s effusive welcome, but the man was already moving past him to the door.
    “If you’ll just follow me, sir? I promised to take you to Mr. Pierce as soon as you arrived. He’ll tell you what you need to know. His son was the third victim.”
    “I don’t think it’s wise to speak to Mr. Pierce until you’ve given me a picture of what’s happened, why I’m here.” Rutledge followed him as far as his motorcar and stopped there, facing Walker.
    The man turned to him, uncertain. “They didn’t tell you anything at the Yard? But I explained to the sergeant I spoke with—”
    “That may well be. But as you say, I was in Gloucestershire, and I was ordered to come here directly.”
    Walker stared at him. “I thought—” He recovered quickly and said, “It was Mr. Pierce who asked the Chief Constable if he would bring in the Yard. The Hastings police wanted to take over the inquiry, you see, and Mr. Pierce felt they wouldn’t address his son’s death as he would have wanted it done. It was cold-blooded murder, sir. It has turned Eastfield on its ear. Three men in nine days. All three of them garroted, and no sign of the murder weapon. William Jeffers, then Jimmy Roper three nights later, and three nights after that, Anthony Pierce. A farmer, a dairyman, the son of a brewer. One walking home, minding his own business and left dead in the road. One sitting with a sick cow in his own barn. And one at the brewery looking to repair a faulty gauge.” He went on earnestly, “Who is killing these men? How does he know where to find them alone? And why these three? Worst of all, who is next? Me? My neighbor’s son? The man who hires out for harvesting crops?”
    Rutledge had listened closely, a frown on his face.
    “Three dead. And no apparent connection among them? Except that they were alone at the time of their murder? And killed with the same type of weapon?”
    “Well, there’s the war, sir,” Walker admitted. “And they’re of an age, having fought in France together. Please, if you will, sir, speak to Mr. Pierce.”
    Rutledge agreed, although with reluctance. It was not usual to have a civilian passing on the details of an inquiry. But he could see, from Walker’s anxious face, that Pierce was a man to be reckoned with in Eastfield, and until he knew just exactly what he was dealing with, it might be as well to see what Pierce had to say.
    Leaving the motorcar where it was, they walked to Drum Street and the tall, mellowed brick facade of the brewery buildings. A large gold arrow had been affixed to the front of the main building under the name PIERCE BROTHERS , and Rutledge realized that this was the beer famous in three counties for its Rose of Picardy label.
    They found the senior Pierce in his office, an old-fashioned but elegantly styled room in oak, with paintings of the founders on the walls and a large marble hearth that held pride of place to one side of the partners’ desk by the windows.
    A tall man stood up as Rutledge and Walker were admitted by an elderly clerk.
    Scanning Rutledge’s face, he came forward and said to Walker, “Good morning, Constable.”
    “This is Inspector Rutledge, Mr. Pierce. From Scotland Yard, as you requested.”
    Pierce held out his hand, and Rutledge shook it, saying, “I’m told you would prefer to tell me what’s been happening here in Eastfield.” He had kept his voice neutral, neither accepting Pierce’s authority to do any such thing, nor disputing it.
    Pierce led them to the chairs set out before the empty hearth. “I apologize for that, Mr. Rutledge. Constable Walker here has handled events so far with his usual skill, and I am grateful for that. It’s just that I have a very personal stake in finding this madman. Two days ago my own son was