A Lonely Death by Charles Todd

against the motorcar as they reached the bottom of the cleft, and they tasted salt on their lips. To the right, the town itself opened up, streets winding into a maze of other streets, and beyond, the increasingly popular waterfront, empty now of holidaymakers. Waves were coming in as gray as the sky, and their froth looked dingy as they crashed into the shale of the strand.
    Hastings had once been a tiny fishing village at the mouth of a valley that had spilled down from the cliffs to the narrow strand below. With time, the village had grown east toward the headland, but it never really flourished as a port even in William of Normandy’s day, although later it had been one of the English Cinque Ports, with a castle that overlooked the sea and protected the mouth of the valley. Sea bathing had finally made the coast prosperous, and Hastings had then expanded westward toward St. Leonards. The Old Town, with its sand fishing boats, the tall tarred structures where the nets were dried, and a crowded street of houses and shops reclaimed from the sea, were left as an anachronism as the town built anew for the carriage trade, with prospects, circles, and promenades taking pride of place. This had waned with the war, although sea bathing was picking up again.
    Rutledge drove directly to the police station, following Walker’s directions, only to be told that Inspector Norman was still out on the headland above the fishing fleet. They went back the way they had come, and as they reached the strand, through the rain they could just see the top of the cliff where it jutted out into the water. Silhouetted against the gray sky were a dozen or so men, tiny figures at this distance, moving about near the edge just above where part of the cliff face had broken away in the past and tumbled down into the sea. Watching them, Rutledge realized that there was a climber making his way back up to them, struggling against the pull of the wind as he worked ropes that were invisible from this angle.
    “I don’t envy that poor bastard,” Walker was saying, watching him. It would have been a dangerous business even in good weather. “What possessed him even to try such a thing?”
    Rutledge was silent as he made his way to the funicular that ran up the cliff face just beyond the black net shops.
    For a wonder it was working. The two men waited impatiently for the next car to take them to the top. Rutledge could already see a policeman moving toward the upper station, as if coming to meet them.
    It was a quick run to the top, and then they were stepping out onto the wet grass, facing the full force of the wind. The policeman, a constable, said to Rutledge, “Inspector? This way, please, sir.” He turned to lead the way toward the rounded knob of the headland, where most of the policemen and several civilians were still busy.
    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