Something had been said about an airfield.

Rutledge walked on past his office and went to find Constable Greene, who had served with a squadron based near Caen.

Greene, a spare, affable man with unruly fair hair that to his chagrin curled when the weather was damp, was thirty-three, coming late to police work. After the Armistice, he had decided to join the Metropolitan Police, and it wasn’t long before he had come to the attention of the Yard. Before the war he had owned a bicycle shop in Reading that had just begun to cater to motorcars when hostilities broke out. He had been mad to fly, but heights had made him ill, and so he had maintained and repaired the machines he loved. In the constant struggle to find parts to keep his pilots flying, he knew most of the other airfields in France. He might well know one in Essex.

Looking up as Rutledge came toward his desk, he smiled. “Afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to borrow your memory. From the war.” He described what little Russell had told him about the airfield and asked, “Can you possibly place it?”

Greene frowned. After a moment he said, “There were several out there. At a guess, I’d say you’re looking at Furnham. On the River Hawking. They had a good deal of trouble there. Not the least from locals wanting them out.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Wind, for one thing, and low-lying mists on the water. And then there was the burning of hay ricks, sending smoke across the field. Petty theft. Quarrels among the men posted there and their neighbors. Mind you, many of the local girls didn’t object to the newcomers. That may’ve had something to do with it. From what I was told, Furnham is fairly isolated. Change wouldn’t be welcomed.”

“What became of the airfield when the war ended?”

“I expect it was turned back to the farmer who owned it.”