A Lonely Death by Charles Todd Page B

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 lifeboat 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