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    A Lonely Death: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery
    A Lonely Death: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery
    A Lonely Death: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery
    Ebook405 pages7 hours

    A Lonely Death: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery

    By Charles Todd

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    “Todd’s Ian Rutledge mysteries are among the most intelligent and affecting being written these days.”
    —Washington Post

    Critics have called Charles Todd’s historical mystery series featuring shell-shocked World War One veteran Inspector Ian Rutledge “remarkable” (New York Times Book Review), “heart-breaking” (Chicago Tribune), “fresh and original” (South Florida Sun-Sentinel). In A Lonely Death, the haunted investigator is back in action, trying to solve the murders of three ex-soldiers in a small English village. A true master of evocative and atmospheric British crime fiction, Charles Todd reaches breathtaking new heights with A Lonely Death—a thrilling tale of the darkness in men’s souls that will have fans of Elizabeth George, Martha Grimes, and Anne Perry cheering.

     

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateJan 1, 1985
    ISBN9780062034687
    A Lonely Death: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery
    Author

    Charles Todd

    Charles Todd is the New York Times bestselling author of the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries, the Bess Crawford mysteries, and two stand-alone novels. A mother-and-son writing team, Caroline passed away in August 2021 and Charles lives in Florida.

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    Reviews for A Lonely Death

    4/5

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    • 4/5
      In this 13th novel in the atmospheric Ian Rutledge series, Scotland Yard inspector Rutledge is sent to the small town of Eastfield to investigate the brutal murders of three WWI veterans. Rutledge, a veteran himself who still experiences pain and guilt from the war, is accompanied by the voice of fellow soldier, Hamish MacLeod. There are two mysteries here, the second being a cold case from 15 years earlier. Although some aspects seem to stretch the plausible-meter, I was willing to let them go for the sake of an entertaining read. I enjoyed the historical aspects and appreciated seeing a picture of England shortly after WWI and the lingering effects of the war on the soldiers and their loved ones. I was concerned about reading this one after only having read the first four in the series but I think that only at least reading the first is necessary. There were some gaps in my knowledge but the story didn’t suffer because of it. This is a good solid series and I look forward to going back and catching up with book #5.
    • 4/5
      Rutledge is sent to solve the murders, by garrote of several WW1 veterans from a quiet village in Suffolk. Identity tags left in the mouths of the victims are indicative of a strong link to their military service in France. But is that their only connection. For a countervailing distraction, he is also trying to resolve an earlier crime involving an ancient flint knife. Personal angst and political manipulation distract but never deter the inspector in his search for the perpetrator.
    • 4/5
      Reading Charles Todd’s new Ian Rutledge mystery, "A Lonely Death" is like walking with trepidation down a winding and shadowy country road – and not so lonely! There are enough curves, twists, dark passages, and stumbles to make this story interesting and sometimes suspenseful. A serial killer is on the loose in a small town in England (early 1900s) and the first order of business is to find the connection among the victims. Misdirection and time constraints put pressure on Rutledge to find the killer before more good young men die. Of course, his own career and mortal life are in danger too!Having read several of the earlier Rutledge mysteries, I find this one is not disappointing. A typical good read from Todd. More than merely who-dunnit stories, this series encompasses historical WW I experiences and the post war psychological battles of traumatized soldiers. Suffering guilt feelings of failed leadership and shell shock from his service in the war our hero, Rutledge, is working through personal emotions that bring him to the brink of ending it all. A strong character sensitive to others, Rutledge continues to struggle with romantic love, inner courage, clear thinking, and relationships with co-workers.There are several storylines here – some continuing from previous books in the series. The voice in Rutledge’s head of a dead soldier, Hamish, cannot be ignored and at times creates an edgy state of mind. The strong control Rutledge uses to repress his own powerful emotions is also his defense against Hamish’s mental interference. The relationship between the two seems to have evolved from being antagonistic and hurtful to a more cooperative partnership over the course of the series. A sign, I believe, of slow but steady healing. Rutledge’s desire to pursue a romance is leading him down a rocky path he may have to abandon. He also has a few close friends with grave issues. A natural inclination to respond to their needs diverts his attention and simultaneously helps him to pull all the pieces of his mysterious killer and the past together. A very tidy and complete ending.Recommended.
    • 5/5
      Three murders in a small town....Scotland yard is involved....all the same method of murder, but no weapon and no clues. The townspeople are terrified about who will be next especially since there is really no connection between the men who were murdered. The only similar thread is the victims were alone or in an isolated area and had been officers in the armed forces during WWI, and they all had identification discs in their mouths from other dead soldiers.Scotland Yard's, Ian Rutledge, was coming up short with all clues and interviews. Everything turned up a dead end. Mrs. Saunders, the ever-present lady in the window, can't even help him even though she said she sees everything no matter what time of the day or night. As events begin to unfold, and the characters become alive from all the great detail, the story turns to page-turning status with its twists and turns and sub plots. This was my first Ian Rutledge Mystery....Rutledge is a character you want to know better. The beginning pages were a little confusing trying to get all the characters straight....especially figuring out who Hamish was, but once you had everyone sorted out and the plot continued...wham...it was difficult to put down.I definitely will be reading more of these mysteries....superb author. Ohhhhhhhhhhh....I did enjoy it a lot. 5/5
    • 4/5

      For some time I found this book hard to read and several times almost gave up, finding it in some ways boring but in others fascinating. But I hate to let a book beat me, and I am glad I did persevere and finish it,
    • 4/5
      Once again, Ian Rutledge is a wonder.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 4/5
      This was the first of this series that I've read. I enjoyed it.
    • 4/5
      MUCH better!! Good solid mystery with lots of misdirection. The author did a better job of finishing this one. I'm not interested in having every loose end accounted for and tied off but a few of the previous books have endings so abrupt that it's painful to read.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 4/5
      Yet another fine Ian Rutherford historical mystery [post-WWI] police procedural. This seemed to me more complex than others, which is not a criticism other than I did have to back up the audio tape every now and then! Fortunately the tape's creators anticipate that & it's easy to do. This story had to do with a group of men who apparently are targeted for death in a small town & the race to prevent the killer from striking again. Lots of twists, turns and character development.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 5/5
      The Charles Todd due has done it again! After all the Ian Rutledge books, I was afraid they had worn it out but this one has all the twists and turns expected and still they manage to fill out the character of Rutledge. I say, more please sir!

      1 person found this helpful

    • 4/5
      It’s always tough to come into a series of books in the middle. I imagine it’s hard for an author, as well — to make sure that new readers have enough information to understand the story, without boring your longtime readers. A Lonely Deathby Charles Todd does an excellent job of involving you in the ongoing story. It made me want to seek out the rest of the series and add it to my TBR list.A Lonely Death is part of the Inspector Ian Rutledge mystery series. Rutledge is a war veteran with a ride-along: he has the voice of one of his soldiers, Hamish, in his head. As I’m new to the series, it took me a bit to sort out that Rutledge feels a lot of guilt over Hamish’s death and the voice of his old comrade nags at him, chastises him, scolds him…and occasionally gives him clues.Chief Inspector Cummins, Rutledge’s mentor, is retiring, leaving behind the files on a cold case that has nagged at him for years. Sadly, he does not leave Rutledge his office and position, as much as he would like to. Rutledge has made some enemies at the top of the ladder, and they will plague him throughout the book.Someone is murdering men in Eastfield in a particularly gruesome way, a way that seems connected to the war and the Eastfield Company in which some of the men served. Scotland Yard is called in by the well-to-do father of one of the victims, a Mr. Pierce, whose remaining son may be one of the prime suspects. It’s a complicated and convoluted story with a number of interesting twists. Through it all, Rutledge struggles along with his guilt and the voice of his dead friend for company.I enjoyed this mystery very much and I plan to add some of the earlier books to my reading list. Hamish is an interesting character, but one that I think could become tedious after a time. I’m not sure how I would react to him over the long term, constantly tormenting the inspector. The same goes for Rutledge’s feud with Chief Inspector Bowles, back at Scotland Yard. A little conflict is a good thing, but it could easily get to be too much. The secondary plot involving Cummins’ cold case is a pleasant distraction and a good mix of investigative skill and serendipity.There are 12 other Inspector Rutledge mysteries, so it may take me a while to get caught up. If the library has them on audio, they would make a very pleasant summer’s listening.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 3/5
      Not my favorite of the authors' books - I'm liking the series about the nurse more. I'm getting a little tired of Ian Rutledge's inability or unwillingness to come to terms with his shell-shock and war guilt. He could certainly use a consultation with Maisie Dobbs! However, the things I do like about the series are still there and will probably keep me reading it a while longer.
    • 4/5
      The thirteenth novel to feature Inspector Ian Rutledge of Scotland Yard, who returned from fighting in the first World War with more than his fair share of troubles, is a genuinely gripping and atmospheric historical mystery. Rutledge is sent to Eastfield in Sussex where three men have been killed. Local police are baffled by the case and the father of the third victim, a wealthy brewer, has enough clout to ensure Scotland Yard becomes involved. At the same time Rutledge’s boss and mentor retires and tells Rutledge about the one case of an unsolved murder that still haunts him. Pondering this case and its peculiarities occupies Rutledge’s mind and may turn out to help him solve the current case.

      I’ve only read one of the earlier novels in this series but I was easily drawn back into the world that the mother and son team who write as Charles Todd have created. Rutledge is a truly compelling and sympathetic character who struggles with his own (quite real) demons as he doggedly investigates the crimes he encounters even when, as happens in A Lonely Death, he is berated by his colleagues who are willing to accept obvious solutions. The voice in his head belongs to Hamish McLeod, the man who Rutledge shot during the war for disobeying an order, and he is a very real, often highly irritating presence in Rutledge’s life. I’m normally not a big fan of ‘woo woo’ elements in a story but this aspect of the book is handled credibly and as Hamish doesn’t appear too often I can deal with the supernatural element of this particular book. Here Rutledge also has a hint of a personal life although, as seems to be his luck, there is a sadness to this relationship too.

      The historical side to the story is outstanding. You quickly realise how easy modern-day investigators have it in some ways when you consider that Rutledge has to go all the way to the next village to be able to make an important phone call in privacy and it takes several days for even small snippets of information to be found and transmitted from one part of the country to another. As I remember from the other book in the series that I’ve read the time period is also well depicted in terms of the impacts that the war had on everyone including those who served and those who lost loved ones. It’s very clear from several key events in this book that those impacts carried on long after the official end of the conflict.

      Solving the main case in A Lonely Death boils down to careful interviewing of all the players and a genuine understanding of human psychology which Rutledge demonstrates to perfection. When he learns that the victims were all soldiers in the war but that the identity discs inserted into their mouths at their deaths are not their own, he knows he must identify what else links the men together and is the only policeman willing to contemplate that there is something deeper at work than the more accepted ‘crazy man’ theory. I could have done without the unrealistic coincidences of the secondary case but it’s a minor flaw in an otherwise evocative novel with a thoroughly engaging protagonist.
    • 4/5
      When 3 men in the same village in Sussex are garrotted and left with old army tags in their mouths of soldiers in WW1, but there are no witnesses and no weapons, Inspector Rutledge is called in to investigate. Still suffering from PTSD himself and having received news that his best friend had just killed himself, Rutledge isn't long in Sussex before another man is killed in the same fashion, with a similar item left in his mouth too. What could the motive possibly be for killing these men, and can he find the murderer before he kills again?Together with the spirit of Hamish, a soldier he feels responsible for having died in the war, Rutledge tenaciously pieces together whatever clues he can uncover, even when it's clear someone is trying to remove him from the case altogether.
    • 3/5
      I liked the setting (small town England shortly after WW1), but this was a little bit too procedural for my taste. It seemed to plod along at times. Of its kind, I think it was quite decent, but this isn't my favorite kind of mystery.
    • 5/5
      A LONELY DEATH is #13 in the Ian Rutledge series and I am guilty of dipping in and out of the series (see my reviews below). #1, A TEST OF WILLS, was set immediately after the war in 1919 and it does seem that, with A LONELY DEATH, historically we haven't come very far. The story begins in June 1920 and most of the action takes place within a few weeks of that beginning.The Great War is still fresh in people's minds, missing soldiers are still being found in hospitals near the Western Front, and England is still coming to grips with the economic impact of such a terrible loss of manpower. It does seem wrong that soldiers from the Eastland Company, some terribly wounded during the conflict, have survived only to be murdered near their homes. That it is murder can't be doubted. After Rutledge is appointed to the case a fourth murder occurs, but it is only when he begins to toy with the idea of a pre-war connection that progress is made.Even so Rutledge is removed from the case, even gaoled, in mid-stream, by his old enemy, Superintendent Bowles, his superior at Scotland Yard. Bowles dislikes Rutledge, his education, his reputation as a war hero, and his pre-war history as an intuitive clever detective.As with the others from this series that I have read, A LONELY DEATH is a good read, well crafted, with an excellent feeling of authentic detail. There was one thread in particular, the case of a missing elder son, which didn't feel tied off, but maybe I just missed something.Rutledge still has Hamish on his shoulder, the ghost of his court-martialled and executed Corporal, who talks to him and suggests ideas. To Rutledge Hamish is very real, and he often converses with him aloud which must at times be disconcerting for others who can't "see" Hamish. I must admit I was a bit taken aback when Rutledge and other policemen piled into a car to go somewhere and the comment was that there was no room for Hamish in his usual place. I'd be interested to know if a reader, new to the series, perhaps starting with A LONELY DEATH, actually manages to work out who Hamish is.
    • 4/5
      Charles Todd is a pen name used by the American authors Caroline and Charles Todd. As Charles Todd, they have written thirteen books set in post-World War I England and featuring Scotland Yard Inspector Ian Rutledge. Rutledge is secretly suffering from shell shock (inter alia) from the battle of the Somme, and I thought the book provided a perceptive and empathetic look at the agonies of those who participated in that bloodbath. Inspector Rutledge’s shell shock has an interesting twist, however. He lives with the constant taunting ghostly presence of Hamish MacLeod, a young Scots soldier he was forced to have executed for refusing an order. As his psychiatrist explained to Ian:"You couldn’t accept that one man’s death. And so you refused to let him die. He’s every young soldier you tried to keep alive and failed. He’s your expression of guilt for that failure, and he will be in your head as long as that guilt lasts. Or until you die and take Hamish MacLeod with you to the grave.”In A Lonely Death, a captain of artillery whom Rutledge had befriended in the war just killed himself, and it is a struggle for Rutledge not to join him. He often muses that he is glad his pre-war romance never worked out, since he, like so many others who went to the war, came back so damaged, and so unable to communicate what happened to anyone else:"Broken dreams were easier to walk away from than broken lives.”Many women stayed with their men in spite of everything:"[Rutledge] thought how pity, mistaken for love, could ruin lives.”In this particular “episode” (and the first one which I have read), the Inspector is called to investigate the deaths of three men from the village of Eastfield in Sussex. Each was garroted, three days apart, and they all had military ID disks placed in their mouths. Rutledge quickly ascertains that the three served in the war in the same regiment, and is afraid that the others in the town from their company will also be targeted. Discussion: This is an unusual detective procedural for several reasons. One is that, rather than the usual detective foibles, such as alcoholism, Rutledge has a unique condition – PTSD – that is manifested by the constant companionship of a ghost as his “partner.” The second is that this is clearly a historical procedural. The Rutledge stories are all set in post-World War II England, and the authors have taken great pains to portray the physical and emotional devastation wrought by that war. The mystery in the book, although not uninteresting, seems very secondary to that goal. In particular, the authors exercise skill and empathy in depicting the psychological effects of the fighting. Rutledge’s mental struggles are rather heartbreaking, and one finds oneself glad he has someone to understand him, even if it’s only a ghost.Evaluation: This series provides an entertaining way to learn about the devastation wreaked on England and France from World War I and the Great Influenza, which took their toll in unison on the unfortunate populace of Europe. Although this is the thirteenth in the Inspector Rutledge series, I had no trouble picking up who was who and what was going on. Rating: 4/5 Books Featuring Inspector Ian RutledgeA Test of Wills (1996)Wings of Fire (1998) Search the Dark(1999) Legacy of the Dead (2000) Watchers of Time (2001) A Fearsome Doubt (2002) A Cold Treachery (2005) A Long Shadow (2006) A False Mirror (2007) A Pale Horse (2008) A Matter of Justice (2009) The Red Door (2010) A Lonely Death (2011)
    • 4/5
      Charles Todd has written his 13th installment in the Inspector Ian Rutledge series. Set between World War I and II, this latest book is set in Sussex England where Rutledge has been sent to look into the garrotting deaths of 3 former soldiers. Rutledge must deal with locals who want to hinder his investigation; superiors who are worried that he will make them look bad and Hamish, an internal voice of a soldier whose death Rutledge blames on himself. A secondary mystery ties into the first mystery by looking at the ways we treat our fellow man and how that treatment can come back to haunt us. The book is well written with a good hero, though there is a slight disjointedness to the plot.I have several of the books in the Ian Rutledge series and I am now intriqued to go read the rest of the series.
    • 4/5
      I received this book as part of the Early Reviewers program.I have been following the adventures of Inspector Ian Rutledge since the beginning of the series. This book, like the rest of the series, takes place in the years following the Great War. Todd weaves the stories of those who fought and died in that war into the entire series. In fact, Inspector Rutledge lives with the voice of one of his men in his mind. The voice of Hamish is still important, but I have watched it diminish over the course of the books, as I think it should, because the war continues to move further into the past and those who survived become less consumed by the events of the war. That being said, "A Lonely Death" deals directly and indirectly with the aftermath of the war in its plot--a series of murders in Sussex of men who served together in the war, each found with the identity disc (dog tag) of a different soldier stuffed into his mouth. At the same time there is another murder mystery playing out in the background, a cold case that belonged to Rutledge's friend and mentor at the Yard. Todd weaves this second murder into the story well enough, but I found the conclusion to be a bit contrived and disappointing. At the same time, the twists and turns of the primary storyline is what I expect from Charles Todd. I would recommend this book (or the entire series)to anyone who enjoys British murder mysteries, the inter-war period in England, or just a good page turner. I look forward to continue reading about Inspector Rutledge and the personal/interpersonal issues he has to deal with while attempting to solve tough cases for Scotland Yard.
    • 4/5
      In this 13th novel in the atmospheric Ian Rutledge series, Scotland Yard inspector Rutledge is sent to the small town of Eastfield to investigate the brutal murders of three WWI veterans. Rutledge, a veteran himself who still experiences pain and guilt from the war, is accompanied by the voice of fellow soldier, Hamish MacLeod. There are two mysteries here, the second being a cold case from 15 years earlier. Although some aspects seem to stretch the plausible-meter, I was willing to let them go for the sake of an entertaining read. I enjoyed the historical aspects and appreciated seeing a picture of England shortly after WWI and the lingering effects of the war on the soldiers and their loved ones. I was concerned about reading this one after only having read the first four in the series but I think that only at least reading the first is necessary. There were some gaps in my knowledge but the story didn?t suffer because of it. This is a good solid series and I look forward to going back and catching up with book #5.
    • 4/5
      A Lonely Death is the 13th Inspector Ian Rutledge book put out by the mother and son author team Charles Todd. I had heard about Rutledge before but this was the first one I’ve been able to read and I have to say I wish I had started sooner! It took me a little while to get into this one because I had no idea who Rutledge was or anything else about him, but by the 4th chapter I was hooked. I think the authors did a good job of balancing cluing in a new reader vs. boring a fan with repetitive back story. Not all series writers do that well. I think this was an excellent mystery/thriller and I highly recommend it.In a sleepy little town of Eastfield near Hastings where nothing has happened since Henry VIII, 3 men who survived the Great War were garroted and an identity disk is left in their mouths. When the son of an influential business man becomes one of the victims, Scotland Yard is called in. It appears someone is exacting revenge for some past wrong, but what that wrong is and who could harbor such hate has everyone baffled and worried.While Rutledge is running around southern England interviewing the men whose names where on the tags a woman in Eastfield had a complaint about his behavior so when he arrived back to continue his investigation he finds he’s been replaced and told to go back to London. Ian is pretty sure the recall is more political maneuvering to ruin his chances of promotion and less to do with the actual complaint. More smoke clouds the issue as more attacks occur and Ian takes matters into his own hands to find the murderer, and clear his own reputation.
    • 3/5
      This isn't my usual genre, as I'm not a big fan of police drama, mysteries, or historical fiction. This story is about a Scotland Yard police inspector, trying to solve a murder mystery, shortly after WWI. Not my usual, but still an interesting, well written story that I'm glad I read.Inspector Ian Rutledge works for Scotland Yard, and seems to have a slight problem with authority. Despite being good at his job, I got the impression that he didn't indulge in office politics or 'play the game' in order to get ahead. Reminded me a little bit of John Rebus, but they inhabit different worlds.Because of the time period, this struck me as more of a gentle read. There were cars and phones, but the cars had to be hand cranked and there was only one phone in the entire village where the murders took place. Every reminder of the time period sort of took me by surprise, as I'm not used to stories set in the past. Every now and again I'd wonder why he didn't just call such-and-such on his cell. Well, duh! Makes me think I either need to pay better attention or read more historical fiction!This was a good, old-fashioned story where the crime had to be solved without all of the modern CSI advantages. I liked Inspector Rutledge, but the mystery didn't really grab me and I was more interested in the characters than finding out the whodunnit. Gave it a 3/5 as I liked it, but didn't love it. Think mystery lovers would enjoy this more than I did, and most of the reviews I've seen have given it 4/5 and 5/5 ratings.
    • 1/5
      This is a perfectly reasonable book that I just couldn't get into. I've always liked PD James' books with their village sort of crimes, but in general I don't like these kinds of books all that much. This is not the fault of this book (which is definitely well-written), just a mismatch between reader and author.
    • 3/5
      The latest in the Ian Rutledge series and a return to what makes the series worth the read. He's sent to a small town to try to find a serial killer while dealing with the higher-ups, Hamish and his past. We learn a little more about Ian the man, it's not just all crime-solve crime.
    • 5/5
      This is the one in which it is revealed that "Rutledge's hearing was acute, but Hamish's had always been far sharper," on the occasion when Hamish tells Rutledge where the bad guy is, thereby saving Rutledge's life again. O angst! And this is the one in which a lone child inadvertently kills an evil adult, thereby preventing that adult from ever harming anyone again, while a bunch of children harm a lonely child, and no one stops them, causing the lonely child to grow up and coldly murder several people in revenge. Also, a dog conducts an interrogation. And finally, we infer that the authors read their Sayers. Too bad their policeman did not employ the Sayers technique earlier in this story, and widely, thereby preventing a bunch of murders and catching the bad guy sooner. Let's blame that on the interfering Inspector Mickelson, and keep reading the series.
    • 3/5
      Another great entry in the Charles Todd Inspector Rutledge series. I did feel the secondary story line of the long unsolved murder was not really as well done as others have been, but still an enjoyable read.
    • 4/5
      Sometimes you discover a series that you really love and as the number of books increase you hold your breath afraid that the next book will be a disappointment. I'm happy to say that in this 13th book in the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries that hasn't happened. Charles Todd has written another intriguing story accompanied by his engaging characters of Ian and Hamish. Ian is actually dealing with two mysteries....murders in a village in Sussex and a cold case murder at an archaelogical site. The cold case seems a bit stretched and unnecessary to the plot, but it is interesting in its way. I recommend this book and the entire series to mystery lovers especially if you like historical mysteries.
    • 4/5
      Reading Charles Todd’s new Ian Rutledge mystery, "A Lonely Death" is like walking with trepidation down a winding and shadowy country road – and not so lonely! There are enough curves, twists, dark passages, and stumbles to make this story interesting and sometimes suspenseful. A serial killer is on the loose in a small town in England (early 1900s) and the first order of business is to find the connection among the victims. Misdirection and time constraints put pressure on Rutledge to find the killer before more good young men die. Of course, his own career and mortal life are in danger too!Having read several of the earlier Rutledge mysteries, I find this one is not disappointing. A typical good read from Todd. More than merely who-dunnit stories, this series encompasses historical WW I experiences and the post war psychological battles of traumatized soldiers. Suffering guilt feelings of failed leadership and shell shock from his service in the war our hero, Rutledge, is working through personal emotions that bring him to the brink of ending it all. A strong character sensitive to others, Rutledge continues to struggle with romantic love, inner courage, clear thinking, and relationships with co-workers.There are several storylines here – some continuing from previous books in the series. The voice in Rutledge’s head of a dead soldier, Hamish, cannot be ignored and at times creates an edgy state of mind. The strong control Rutledge uses to repress his own powerful emotions is also his defense against Hamish’s mental interference. The relationship between the two seems to have evolved from being antagonistic and hurtful to a more cooperative partnership over the course of the series. A sign, I believe, of slow but steady healing. Rutledge’s desire to pursue a romance is leading him down a rocky path he may have to abandon. He also has a few close friends with grave issues. A natural inclination to respond to their needs diverts his attention and simultaneously helps him to pull all the pieces of his mysterious killer and the past together. A very tidy and complete ending.Recommended.
    • 5/5
      An excellent sense of place and the characters are strong and compelling. Set in the aftermath of WWI, the authors have captured the drama and sense of loss of both the character and the country
    • 3/5
      Ian Rutledge must go to a Sussex village to investigate several deaths of men who served in WWI. The Todds provide many undercurrents such as an old case for a retiring chief inspector, Ian's hopes of love and promotion, and childhood pranks. Ex soldiers are being garroted by a lone killer, and the police cannot find the killer. When a fellow policeman is almost killed, Ian is arrested and spends time in jail. But Ian's problems are not only the murders. Ian loses two friends: one to suicide and one to an early death. The mother and son team do a superb job with characters and setting.

    Book preview

    A Lonely Death - Charles Todd

    1

    Northern France, Early June 1920

    The sod had grown over the graves, turning the torn earth a soft green, and the rows of white crosses gleamed brightly in the morning sun. Except for the fact that a fallen soldier lay beneath each wooden marker, it was pretty there under the blue bowl of the French sky, peaceful finally after four tumultuous years of war. Even the birds had come back, picking at the grass for seeds, insects, and worms.

    The man watched them, those birds, and was reminded of a line from Hamlet, that somehow had caught a schoolboy’s imagination and then lingered in a corner of his adult mind—that a worm may feed on a king. Had these fed on lesser dead?

    Many had been hastily buried where they fell, others in mass graves. Sorting the dead for proper burial had been gruesome at best. Many had never been identified. Walking down the rows now, looking at names, remembering burial details, broken bodies, bits of them, endless lines of them, he wondered if he was changed by them.

    No, on the whole, he thought not. The war had been a part of the fabric of his life, and he had endured it, survived it, and was still steadfast in his purpose.

    He stopped, his gaze sweeping the crosses. It was the living who concerned him now. A few had escaped him, but there were still eight left. And he was ready.

    Were they?

    Not that the state of their souls troubled him overmuch.

    He turned his back on the cemetery, striding toward the Paris taxi that had brought him out here. And as he did, the slanting June sun warmed his shoulders.

    Listening to the sound of his footfalls, he realized that he hadn’t bargained for the silence here. He wondered if those lying beneath the crosses savored it after the noise of battle. Or was it unnerving?

    There was a train to Calais tonight. Another from Dover to London. But he was in no hurry.

    A good dinner first, if he could find one, a bottle of wine, and then a sound night’s sleep.

    As the taxi turned and drove back the way it had come, he leaned his head against the cracked leather of the seat and closed his eyes.

    2

    London, July 1920

    Chief Inspector Cummins walked into Scotland Yard at half past nine, went directly to his office, and set about finishing packing his books. It was his last day, and he wanted no fanfare. An injury sustained in the line of duty had put an end to his career.

    And not a day too soon, he said to Inspector Ian Rutledge who had stepped in to wish him well. I should have left at the end of the war. But I found one excuse after another to stay on. This case pending, that case passing through the courts. And here I still am, well past my time. He looked up, another stack of books in his hand. No regrets.

    I feel responsible— Rutledge began, but Cummins cut him short.

    Nonsense. I knew what I was doing. I hadn’t reckoned on the toll the years had taken, that’s all. I wasn’t quite fast enough. At fifty-five, one still believes one is thirty until he looks in his mirror as he shaves.

    Will you be content in Scotland, after the bustle of London?

    My God, yes. And if I’m not, my wife will tell me that I am. Cummins reached for the roll of tape to seal that box and then turned to fill another. When do you intend to marry? Don’t leave it too long. I’ll be a grandfather, next month.

    Rutledge laughed, as he was meant to do. You’ve left behind a splendid record. We’ll be living up to it for decades to come.

    Cummins set the books down on a corner of his cluttered desk and looked around the office. The shelves were nearly empty, the desk as well, and the photographs had been removed from the walls. 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. They were misguided, playing at something they didn’t understand. But harmless enough, I suppose. At length the sun rose. One of the women told me later that it was magnificent. Her word. She said the dark sky turned to opal and rose, then purest gold. As they watched, the rim of the sun appeared on the eastern horizon. She said that what followed was unbelievable—a shaft of light came spilling across the dark earth and touched her face. She said she could feel it. Just as the schoolmaster had told them. He was the one who talked them into this silliness. But even he was taken by surprise.

    Losing his train of thought, Cummins turned and said, Where was I? Oh, yes. This young woman—her name was Sarah Harmon—was still staring at what she called the stone of sacrifice. That’s what the schoolmaster had told them it was called. It stands along the eastern avenue between the main section of Stonehenge and the horizon. Do you know it?

    Yes. I do.

    Hmm. She was trying to recapture a little of the emotion she’d felt when the sun struck her face, and then she noticed something odd about that stone. It was light enough, by then, you see. When she began screaming, everyone turned toward her, startled. She pointed to the stone. They could just make out something there and rushed down the avenue to find a man strapped to it. He was dead. Even they could see that, and when they held up their lanterns for a better view, they realized he’d been stabbed. Cummins cleared his throat. He was strapped to the dark side. Not toward the light.

    Hadn’t they seen anything? Anyone?

    Apparently not. I questioned them for hours. The body could have been out there before ever they arrived. In the dark, they wouldn’t have noticed.

    They didn’t know the victim?

    They swore they didn’t.

    Not even this schoolmaster, who’d lured them out there? It would have been a perfect cover for murder.

    Terrence Nolan? He was as frightened as the rest of them. And in the end, I believed them. I expect the murderer, whoever he was, had counted on no one finding the victim for days. As for the dead man, he was young—thirty to thirty-five at a guess—and he was wearing only a scrap of cloth, like a loincloth—there was no clothing at all, no marks on the body, nothing through which we could identify him. Even the bit of cloth was a cheap cotton that could be bought anywhere. It took us six weeks to discover his name.

    Who was he? Rutledge asked, intrigued.

    One Harvey Wheeler. He came from Orkney. A ne’er-do-well, according to the authorities there. His father had gone to Kirkwall to run the post, and Harvey grew up rather wild and unruly, a truant from school, roaming the island at will and never sorry for his escapades. His parents gave up trying to control him, apparently, and he went missing in 1902 after a brush with the police. It was thought he’d come south into Scotland. At any rate, he reappeared in Edinburgh in late 1903, and then left a step ahead of the police, who were after him for attempting to defraud a woman he’d met there. That was the last anyone had heard of him until he was found dead on Salisbury Plain. Why anyone would wish to kill him is still a mystery. It must have had to do with the missing two years of his life, although it always struck me as odd that someone like Harvey Wheeler should end that way. As murders go, it didn’t fit.

    Were you certain of the identification?

    As certain as may be. When Edinburgh took an interest in the description we’d passed around, we sent along a photograph. That was when they recommended we contact Orkney. They in turn felt it was very likely that our corpse was this young man. His father was dead by that time, and his mother too ill to be shown the photograph. But the Kirkwall police had no doubts. And so he was buried in a churchyard on the outskirts of Winchester. No one saw any point in sending the body north. That was the end of it. His murderer was never found. Cummins paused, looking toward the window, as if it held the answer, before bringing his gaze back to Rutledge. It was an odd inquiry from start to finish. I never felt comfortable with it. I’d have liked to go to Kirkwall myself, but the Orkney Islands are at the northern tip of Scotland, and the Yard felt it was money wasted to send me there. All the same, I’d have liked to know more about Harvey Wheeler. What brought him into England, for one thing, and where he might have lived on this side of the border.

    The murder weapon never turned up?

    We searched the area, every inch of it. We came to the conclusion that the murderer carried it off with him. It could be anywhere—thrown from a bridge, buried in a dustbin, returned to wherever it had come from. There would be no way to know, would there, that it had anything to do with a crime? What was odd was the coroner found a tiny flake of flint in the wound. The feeling was it was on his clothing and driven in by the force of the blow. That led us to believe two facts: that he was dressed when he was killed, although his clothing was never found, and that he must have come from a part of England where flint was readily available. And that covered a good bit of ground.

    Was he killed there at Stonehenge?

    Very likely not. There was no sign of a struggle. Unless of course Wheeler was drugged and carried there. Still, the coroner found no evidence of his being either drugged or knocked unconscious prior to his death. And there wasn’t enough blood at the site. Cummins hesitated. It was his face, I think, that disturbed me as much as the rest of it. A handsome enough man, fit and well made, more a gentleman than Wheeler appeared to be. Or perhaps that was his charm, and why he nearly succeeded in defrauding that widow. How many more women were there that we never heard of?

    I can understand why Wheeler’s murder has remained fresh in your mind.

    That, and the fact that it was the only case I failed to solve to my own satisfaction. Cummins made a wry gesture and smiled. Sheer arrogance, of course. I took pride in my record, all the same. The men used to call me Cautious Cummins. But it was always my way, to work out each detail until I could make a case out of the pieces. You remind me of myself as a young inspector, you know. The smile widened. I bequeath you this albatross of a case. If you ever solve it, let me know. He went back to packing. Don’t let Bowles lay the blame for my going on you, Rutledge, he warned. Because he will try. He has it in for you, he has from the day you returned to the Yard after the war. I don’t know precisely why, but he’s been instrumental in blocking promotions and failing to give you proper credit where it was due. He’s mean and vindictive. I’ve never liked him, and I’m not about to pretend now.

    Warning taken, Rutledge said, surprised that Cummins would speak so bluntly.

    I should finish this, the Chief Inspector said, glancing around the room. Two more boxes should do it, I think. I’m not one for prolonging the inevitable. He put out his hand, and Rutledge took it in a firm grip. I wish you well, Ian.

    Thank you, sir. I hope your retirement will be a happy one.

    Rutledge walked to the door and was on the point of opening it when Cummins said, Inspector. I would have no objection to hearing from you from time to time. And then his attention returned to the half dozen books in his hands.

    As Rutledge strode down the passage toward his own office, his footsteps loud on the bare boards, he wondered if he would look back at the end of his career and remember a case the way Cummins had lived with his.

    Aye, but first ye must survive long enough to leave the force on your ain twa feet, Hamish said, his voice seeming to follow Rutledge the short distance to his own room.

    Hamish was his penance for what he’d done in the war: a voice that was relentless and unforgiving, like the guilt that haunted him. In life Corporal Hamish MacLeod had been the closest thing Rutledge had had to a friend during the darkest hours of the Somme Offensive, despite the vast difference in rank between them. The young Highlander would have made sergeant if he’d survived the battle. He was a natural leader, the sort who cared for his men and understood the tactics of war. But that had been his undoing. Refusing a direct order on a battlefield had led to a firing squad. It wasn’t cowardice, it was an unwillingness to lead tired and dispirited men in another useless charge against a well-concealed machine gun nest. Yet even knowing as well as Hamish did what it would cost in lives, knowing that it was impossible to dislodge the enemy, Rutledge had had no choice but to give the order to try one more time in an effort to clear out the nest before the main attack began along the entire line. The few sacrificed for the sake of the many. And then as an example to his men, he’d had no choice but to give the order to fire that had ended Hamish’s life. Military necessity, but in human terms, despicable to Rutledge’s already battered mind.

    After days of endless fighting that had killed thousands of good men for mere inches of ground and did nothing to bring the war nearer its inevitable end, this one death had seemed insupportable. A decision made at HQ, a decision that appeared sound and workable to officers far from the fighting, officers who didn’t have to look exhausted men in the face and ask them to climb over the top one more time and die to satisfy a strategy that was broken before it had even begun, had resulted in a bloodbath that was incomprehensible. Hamish MacLeod had simply given that bloodbath a personal face.

    Dr. Fleming had explained it best—though it was no comfort to Rutledge to hear it: You couldn’t accept that one man’s death. And so you refused to let him die. He’s every young soldier you tried to keep alive and failed. He’s your expression of guilt for that failure, and he will be in your head as long as that guilt lasts. Or until you die and take Hamish MacLeod with you to the grave.

    Guilt or not, Hamish’s voice sounded as clear as if it had come from a foot or so behind Rutledge’s shoulder, where Hamish had so often stood and fought. And explanations did nothing to ease the strain of knowing the voice was there, that it would speak or not as it chose, and there was nothing on God’s earth to prevent it or keep others from hearing it, even when Rutledge knew they could not. He could never be certain of anything except that Hamish had never forgiven him, just as he had never forgiven himself—even though he had never been given any choice in the matter. Hamish had taken that away too and left Rutledge to cope alone. And yet never alone.

    Trying to shut out the soft Scots words in his mind, Rutledge tried to settle to the papers on his desk, and after a time he managed to concentrate on them. He knew he would miss Cummins. There were already rumors that Inspector Mickelson would be promoted to fill his place.

    3

    Eastfield, Sussex, on the Hastings Road, July 1920

    Eastfield was neither particularly charming nor particularly important, historically or politically. It had begun as a hamlet where the road out of Hastings climbed the bluffs, leveled out, and turned eastward. A large field at that point had served as grazing for tired oxen and horses either before their descent into the town below or after their ascent from it. This common field had eventually been encircled by the huts of providers of services—a tavern to feed the drovers, a smithy to see to torn hooves, and a brothel to ease a man’s other needs. The new-built abbey at Battle had soon taken the hamlet in hand, to save the souls of its inhabitants and to charge a small fee for the hitherto free grazing.

    At the dissolution of the monasteries, the tiny village had passed into the keeping of a crony of Henry VIII’s, hardly aware of the change in ownership. By 1800, descendants of that crony had fallen on hard times, and the village found itself forgotten, though the field for grazing still served those going to and from Hastings. The fees were now collected by a self-appointed squire, who was no more than a jumped-up yeoman who saw his chance to prosper, and no one thought to formalize the new status of Eastfield in any fashion.

    It began to flourish in Victoria’s reign, selling its produce and wares to the hungry fishermen and residents of the little port where the valley broke through the ridge and swept down to the water’s edge, and as Hastings grew, so did Eastfield.

    By 1880, it boasted changes that brought in more revenue—the small firm that had built tackle, fish boxes, and other furnishings for the fishermen found that the newly acquired taste for sea bathing had brought hotels in its wake, and hotels needed a better quality of furniture to serve those who expected fine accommodations. The second stroke of good luck occurred when the Pierce brothers decided to locate their brewery in three buildings at the far end of the Hastings Road. An exiled Frenchman set up a small Latin school in the middle of the village and made a good living educating the sons and daughters of those who could now afford it.

    The brewery, the furniture making, and the Latin School gave the village an air of success. The Misses du Toit, thoroughly English daughters of the school’s founder, changed their name to Tate on the death of their father, and in 1913 passed charge of the school to a niece, Mrs. Farrell-Smith, a young widow.

    By 1900, Eastfield had doubled in population and in 1914 took great pride in furnishing a company of its sons to fight for King and Country in the Great War.

    They had received a letter of commendation from the King himself, and the brewery produced a beer it called The Rose of Picardy, which unexpectedly became very popular among soldiers and then ex-soldiers, making the Pierce Brothers Brewery, under its Arrow label, famous throughout Kent, Sussex, and Surrey.

    Content with their ordinary lives, the villagers of Eastfield saw no reason why their future shouldn’t be as peaceful as their past.

    And then on a Friday night, in July 1920, that illusion was shattered.

    William Jeffers had no inkling of his fate when he walked into The Conqueror Pub in a back street of Eastfield.

    The sign was swinging gently in the late evening breeze, squeaking a little in its iron frame. On one side of it, a vast, painted armada of Norman ships was shown anchored in an English bay—there was debate as to whether it was intended to portray Hastings or Pevensey—and on the other side, a victorious William raised his painted sword high to celebrate his famous victory over King Harold at Senlac Hill.

    The haze of tobacco smoke was already thick as the barkeep hailed the newcomer with a smiling greeting. Jeffers rarely came to drink in the pub. He was a farmer and had little time in the evenings and less money to waste in conviviality. But it had become a regular thing each year for him to mark the anniversary of the wound that had ended his military career and nearly cost him his life.

    Jeffers settled himself at a corner table with his first pint, and for the rest of the evening proceeded to drink as much as he could hold.

    He left half an hour before closing, making his way toward the church.

    The light was fading, and he sat on the low stone wall surrounding the churchyard until he had watched the sun set and the long shadows deepen into night. He was not a praying man, but he found himself saying a prayer for the dead. Most of the dead on his mind weren’t lying here in St. Mary’s, they were in France, but it would do.

    At length he stood up and made his way to the outskirts of the village, where Abbey Street met the Hastings Road. He was only slightly tipsy, he told himself. He had to rise at half past four in the morning to milk the cows, but this anniversary was more important than duty. The hole in his chest was just a rough and ugly scar now, but it sometimes ached, as if it hadn’t healed. Four years. The flesh had surely forgot the pain and the terror and the weakness from loss of blood. But the mind hadn’t. The mind never forgot. And so he tried to drink himself into oblivion.

    He never quite got there.

    He tripped on a stone, recovered his balance, and walked on. The farm was barely a mile away, but tonight the road seemed twice as long. Overhead the stars were so bright he felt he could hear them. His grandfather always said to him when he was a lad, Listen to the stars, Willie. Can you hear them? Just listen.

    And he would listen, over the ordinary night sounds of rats in the feed bins or a stoat hunting in the hedgerow, a horse moving in its stall. He could have sworn he heard them.

    A stone rattled on the road behind him, and he turned to see what was there. Nothing but his imagination. At this hour of the night, he had the road to himself.

    His mind was clouded with the beer he’d drunk. His wife would have something to say about that. He shook his head to clear it, but it was no use.

    He tripped again, and swore.

    A voice quietly called his name. Jeffers whirled to see who it was, peering through the darkness, but for the life of him he couldn’t bring the pale face into focus.

    Do I know you? he asked after a moment.

    You did. Once.

    Sorry. I don’t remember.

    Never mind. It doesn’t matter.

    Jeffers nodded. Coming this way?

    No. Good night.

    He turned and plodded on, leaving the man standing there. He wanted his bed, now. The beer was making him sick.

    Something flashed briefly in the starlight, seeming to fly over his head. And then it had him by the throat, and he was fighting for breath, twisting and shifting furiously, but the thing at his throat bit all the harder, and in the end it was no use.

    William Jeffers was the first man to die.

    Three nights later, Jimmy Roper was in his barn, sitting up with a colicky cow. Dandelion had always been prone to the ailment, with a temperament that was easily unsettled, but she was his best milker and worth the trouble to keep her healthy. Her calves carried that trait, and she had done much to improve the quality of the dairy herd.

    He was tired. It had been a long day, and it would be longer still before he could seek his bed. But he had learned patience after taking over the farm from his ailing father. One waited for cattle and for crops and for time to shear. One waited for sun and for rain and for a still day to harvest. If he’d had a choice he would have worked at the brewery, but as an only son, he had had to fill his father’s shoes.

    He heard the squeak of the barn door and leaned around the edge of the stall, to see who was there. Pa? Is that you? I told you I’d come to your room as soon as I saw to things here.

    There was no answer. His father shouldn’t have walked that far. He’d be out of breath, shaking.

    Roper got to his feet, feeling a tingle in one leg from crouching there by Dandelion until his foot had gone to sleep under him. Picking up his lantern, he walked down the aisle, past the stalls where his three horses dozed, undisturbed by their temporary neighbor’s restlessness, and saw that the outer door was open several inches—but there was no one inside the barn after all. Had his father had a fainting spell?

    Crossing quickly to the door, he peered outside and saw that someone was standing a little distance away in the shadow of the cowshed. Not his father, then—this was someone taller, straighter, younger. He could just make out the man’s features, but they meant nothing to him. Someone needing work, then. In the past six months he could have hired a dozen men like this, walking the roads, footsore and hopeful. But the farm could barely keep his own family and that of one laborer, and he had come to hate turning hope into hopelessness. He put off the moment of decision.

    Looking for me? Roper asked, then went on quickly. Sorry, I’m attending a cow. Can it wait?

    It can wait, the man said. Go back to your cow.

    Roper nodded and left the door ajar, out of courtesy.

    Dandelion was on her feet when he got back to her stall, mouthing the hay he had put in the manger for her, looking at him with what he swore was mischief in her dark eyes. You just wanted company, then, did you? he said, scratching her between her horns. Too good for the yard, that’s what you are. He’d long suspected that it was true—she had been sickly in her first year and kept in the stall where she was petted and made much of, and even now preferred the barn. All right, you can stay here the night, but I’m going to bed. He stepped back, studying her for a moment to be sure she was recovered.

    One of the horses snorted, moving uneasily in his stall. And then Roper was startled by a sound just behind him. Before he could turn, something flashed before his eyes, bright in the lantern’s glow, tightening around his throat before he could put up his hands to protect himself. It cut into the skin with such force he could feel blood trickling down his neck. Dandelion jerked away, moving to the back of the stall, the whites of her eyes showing her fear, but he was beyond worrying about her, fighting for his life with the breath left in him. Strong as he was, the man behind him had a fearsome strength. And then Roper was on his knees on the hard-packed earthen floor, aware that he didn’t have a chance in hell. A last fleeting thought as he died was for the lantern, and a dread that it had overturned in the struggle.

    And Jimmy Roper became the second victim.

    The third to die was the son of the present owner of the Pierce family’s brewery. It occupied three stone buildings that had once belonged to the abbey and had fallen into ruin. But the abbot had built well, and Pierce’s grandfather had bought them, renovated them, and made his fortune from them. The brewery stood on the inland side of Eastfield, where the road up from Hastings turned toward Battle, and in the beginning the family had occupied quarters in the third building, but expansion had put paid to that, and prosperity had brought them a fine house on Abbey Street.

    That was a generation ago, and Tyrell Pierce, Anthony’s father, had become a man to reckon with in the community. Anthony himself had come home from the war with one leg, but that hadn’t prevented him from taking his place in the firm, continuing his rise through the ranks from the driver of the dray to assistant to the brewmaster. His father was a strong believer in an owner’s intimate knowledge of each position in the yard and in the brew house.

    On this night—the third since Jimmy Roper’s death—Anthony Pierce had gone back to the brew house to look at one of the temperature gauges on the new kettle. It had been playing up and must either be repaired or replaced on the morrow. The foreman had tinkered with it earlier, with no success, and after dinner Anthony had strolled down to have a go at it, certain that it could be salvaged. His father had spoken to a supplier in London who had informed him that it would require three days to find and ship the new gauge, and that would mean that the current batch of mash would have to be dumped, at a loss.

    He had always liked the smell of the brew house, almost a sour odor, rich and thick on a warm night. The door was never locked, and lighting his lantern, he walked in, climbed to the first floor, and went to the bench where the foreman had left his tools. Setting the lamp there, he walked over to study the offending piece of equipment.

    After working with it for some minutes, he stepped back. There was no hope of repairing it. The foreman had been right. If it went now, they would just have to absorb the loss of this one kettle, clean it out, and wait for the new gauge to arrive before starting it

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