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.