Driving into the city through one of the gates, Rutledge glanced at some of the houses. In the late afternoon sun, the glazing reflected the light, and the white plaster with its dark hatchwork of beams seemed to have defied the centuries.
He wasn’t certain just where Alasdair’s chambers were, but he finally found them not far from the Cathedral. Set into the dark green door, the heavy brass knocker was shaped like a gloved fist, but there was lacy fringe to the cuff. Rutledge remembered as he lifted it that a gloved fist was on the family’s coat of arms.
A clerk answered the summons, leading Rutledge through the narrow entry into a room that spoke quietly of old money. He gave his name, and the clerk disappeared through a door, returning shortly. “Mr. Dale will see you, sir. This way, if you please.”
Down a passage lined with paintings of waterbirds, Alasdair was waiting by the door to his office. He was nearly as tall as Rutledge, only a few years older, with sandy hair and blue eyes. As Rutledge started toward him, he said, “Well, I never thought you’d make it to Chester, but here you are. Don’t tell me there’s a murder in the city that I haven’t been told of?”
They shook hands as Rutledge replied, “Not here, but not that far away. I need your expertise.”
“The law? Or do I know the victim—or the murderer?”
They moved into the paneled room, and Alasdair was gesturing toward one of the leather chairs across from his desk.
“Actually, I need to know something about the Bantams.”
“Do you indeed?” Interested, Dale leaned back in his chair. “What’s this in aid of?”
Rutledge described the dead man he’d seen in Wales.
“You do know, that description could fit half a regiment? As for the tattoo, I daresay there must be half as many men again who got such a one. If not when they enlisted, at least before they shipped out. Have you considered your man might be in the Navy, not the Bantams?”
“You’re depressingly unhelpful. Did you ever write that history?”
Dale grinned. “Good God, man, we’re talking about the stories of thirty-odd thousand soldiers! But I’ve got a box room full of notes. I found collecting information was much more my thing than sitting down and collating it. My friends tell me to hire someone to write the book. But somehow I don’t think it would be the same.” The grin faded. “I knew those men. They were damned good soldiers. They deserve a history far better than anything I might write.”
“You’re too close to it. Five years from now you might see it differently.”
“I hope that’s true. But I shan’t hold my breath.” He picked up a pen from the blotter, toyed with it for a moment, then set it down again. “I’ve had trouble fitting back into my old life. It didn’t help that I lost my wife in the middle of the war. I can’t settle, somehow. Even my work doesn’t satisfy me the way it did in 1914. Don’t misunderstand me. God knows I don’t miss the war. I do miss the comradeship. We counted on one another, it was a brotherhood born of necessity. Nothing like anything I’d known at university before the war. And I haven’t found it since.” He cleared his throat. “Too many of us died. They haunt me. The friends who didn’t make it.”
He couldn’t meet Rutledge’s gaze, looking instead at a painting of a swan landing on a lake fringed with reeds and grasses. It hung on the wall to his left.
Rutledge said carefully, “I think they haunt most of us. None of us expected to survive. What we did had nothing to do with who deserved to live. It was a lottery, and some of us won. God alone knows why.”
Dale took a deep breath, as if to steady himself. Then he said in a different tone of voice, “Back to this dead man of yours. Any good reason to think he was Welsh? Other than the fact he was found there?”
“Not so far. The only other bit of evidence is that his shirt came from a tailor. There’s a handmade label in the collar. The shirt is a fairly decent grade of cloth, but the label indicates a smaller, possibly local firm. Anything strike you about the name Banner?” Taking out his notebook, he passed it to Dale, open to the page where he’d drawn the design.
“Someone has ambitions, looking to come up in the world. I don’t recognize it—not an establishment I’m likely to know. But I’d advise you to speak to a few tailors here in Chester. One of them might be familiar with it.”
“Yes, I was considering that. Meanwhile—how popular was that Bantam tattoo?”
“At a guess? Thousands of men got it. A matter of pride. You are welcome to go through my notes. But you already know that the first two battalions were local men, then the idea spread, and we had men as far away as Nottingham. Fairly soon, other towns all over England were following in our footsteps, raising companies. Still, if this man was killed in Wales, he could well be from Cheshire. Or any of the neighboring counties. Less likely to be from Glasgow, say, or Suffolk. That’s still a fair number of men to track down.”
“What about the narrowboats? Do they have a reputation for trouble? If I were a boatman and looking for a place to rid myself of a body, the Aqueduct would be my first choice.”
“I’d say they’re no more likely to be killers than any other occupation. On the other hand, there’s one thing in your favor, Ian—there’s never been an overall English canal system. They’ve always been local enterprises. Bits and pieces, wherever it was possible to link rivers with waterways and make it easier to carry loads of goods, instead of hauling them overland. If this man’s killer is a narrowboat man, then it’s likely that he met his victim close to that particular canal. Which brings us back to the possibility that your body is Welsh. Or your killer may be. As a rule, boatmen put down roots where they worked.”
Which fit all too well with the reception he’d encountered at the Aqueduct. Rutledge grimaced. “You make it sound hopeless.”
“I’m being realistic. Now, if you could give me a name, I could probably find your man in my notes. Any time between now and Whitsunday, if you nagged me.”
“Meanwhile, a murderer goes free.”
Dale shrugged. “I know. I do have photographs of various companies of Bantams. It was a popular thing to take one, and after the war I found many of the photographers and begged copies. I’ll gladly let you search through them.”
“His face was too badly damaged. I could make a guess at the shape of the nose and the chin, but that’s about it.”
“When you have more, come back. I’ll do what I can to give you a name.”
Leaving his motorcar where it was, Rutledge sought out the city’s tailor shops. The more upscale clerks shook their heads and denied any knowledge of anyone by the name of Banner. But on a back street not far from Ye Old Boot pub, he was more successful.
The older man who came to help him looked at the sketch Rutledge had made and frowned. “I don’t know if Banner is still in business,” he said. “He came here as an assistant in 1904, and learned the trade. Some years later, when there was an opening in a shop closer to home, he took it. I was sorry to lose him, to tell the truth. But his parents were getting on, and he was worried about them. I might still have his direction.” He looked around the shop as if expecting it to materialize out of the air, then went to a small room in the back where he kept his files.