He took a deep breath and said pensively, "Yes, well. I enjoyed the hunt, you see. More than I should have done. All the same, there was one case I never solved. I was a little superstitious about it, if you want the truth. I kept the folder on my desk for years, telling myself I'd get to the bottom of it, sooner or later. I even dreamed about it sometimes, when I was tired. What bothered me most was not knowing whether the dead man was a sacrifice or a victim. And if his murderer had ever killed again."

"A sacrifice?" It was an odd choice of words for a man like Cummins.

Cummins glanced sheepishly at Rutledge. "It was what struck me as soon as I saw the man. That he was left there for a purpose. A warning, if you will. Or a sacrifice of some sort. Not religious, I don't mean that kind of thing…" He broke off, then shrugged, as if to make light of what he'd said. "It was the setting. It made me fanciful, I dare say."

"When was this?"

"Long before your time. It was Midsummer's Eve, 1905." Cummins turned away and walked to the window, where sunlight had just broken through the morning clouds and was turning the wet pavements from a dull gray to bright pewter. "Some fifteen people had come to Stonehenge dressed as Druids. Unbleached muslin, handmade sandals, staffs of peeled oak boughs. Mind you, I doubt they knew much about ancient druidism, but they'd come to watch the sun rise and chant nonsense, and feel something-God knows what. Anyway, they walked to the stones, sang and marched, drank a little homemade mead-honey laced with rum, we were told later-and waited for sunrise."

Cummins paused, staring not at the view outside his window but back into a past he reluctantly remembered, and Rutledge thought, He's not going to finish it. It cuts too deep. Still, he waited quietly, ignoring the dull rumble of Hamish's voice in the back of his mind.

Finally Cummins went on, as if compelled.