Free A Lonely Death by Charles Todd Page B

midnight and dawn.
    Hamish observed, “Where there are people, there’s death.”
    And it was true. Hopelessness, starvation, plague, disease among the animals, all of these brought death as surely as armies.
    As his footsteps echoed on the hard-packed surface of the road then vanished in the soft earth of the churchyard, Rutledge had wondered if he were being watched. He had no feeling on that score, but he considered what he would do in a murderer’s shoes. Would he choose one of the taller buildings along the main street, with a wide sweep of views in either direction? The church tower, tall enough to allow an overview of the village and the surrounding farms? Or the shadows of a dense stand of lilac he’d noticed where the road curved just beyond the brewery buildings on its way out of Eastfield? How had the murderer found his victims, if he hadn’t followed them or watched them walk by themselves in a direction in which he could expect to find his killing ground?
    Hamish said into the silence, “Ye ken how Donald MacRae found the snipers?”
    Rutledge did remember. They had been plagued for nearly a week by a well-hidden sniper, and no one had caught the muzzle flash, because he chose a time when the British line was too busy. Private MacRae had been detailed to watch for it, and instead, he had scavenged old hay from the horse lines and a few ragged planks from a repaired section of trench wall. That night he had piled the bits and pieces just outside the trench. It sat there for two days, the Germans across No Man’s Land at first amusing themselves by firing into the debris, testing their skills. And then they ignored it. On the third night, MacRae had poked the tip of a rifle under the edge of the hay, barely visible. And early the next morning he had jiggled a helmet on a bayonet just behind the planking, for all the world like a man sighting down the barrel of his weapon. MacRae had set two spotters to watch as the German sniper took his shot at what he believed to be his opposite number, giving himself away in the process. It had been too tempting, and it had been his last. They had caught two other snipers with the same trick, over the span of six months or so.
    It could well be the case here, that someone waited under cover until his quarry had walked into his sights.
    But that meant he could wait for his opportunity. Coldly, precisely, unemotionally. In no hurry to complete whatever task he’d set himself.
    Satisfied at last that there was no one else abroad, Rutledge had returned to his room, slept lightly, and when the clock in the church tower struck the next hour, he had arisen and done it all over again. Just as he reached the hotel, the clouds that had been gathering for the past hour or more consolidated over southern Sussex and Kent, and a steady rain began to fall.
    Walker had just come through the door of the hotel and was crossing the lobby intent on climbing the stairs in search of Rutledge’s room when his quarry walked out of the dining room after an early breakfast.
    The constable passed on the message from Norman, keeping his voice low so that it wouldn’t carry to the man at Reception watching them with interest.
    Rutledge was very still for a moment. Then he said, “Damn.”
    The fox had outwitted the hounds. While Rutledge had been scouring Eastfield, the killer had moved on.
    “I’m afraid, sir, that Inspector Norman isn’t the least bit pleased,” Walker said in some satisfaction. “But I’m not denying I’m pleased it wasn’t someone from my patch.”
    “Collect Petty and bring the motorcar around, will you? I’ll be five minutes.”
    It was not a long drive. Suddenly the road came to a cleft in the cliffs and then wended down the hillside. Scattered buildings and cottages gave way to a tumble of houses perched above the shoreline. To the left were rows of tall black wooden net shops—drying sheds—and the fishing fleet, already drawn up on the strand. The rain beat