Page 160 of Slack Tide Kill

"Busy old fool," Liam countered, and started up the driveway. A lace curtain in the window twitched and the door opened before Liam could knock. There stood Edwin Pike, somehow seeming more diminutive than when they'd seen him at the museum, but still dressed and coiffed immaculately. He wore a pressed white shirt, buttoned tight around his neck, with a sharp navy necktie featuring golden insignia Sally guessed to be from his local Rotary club. A silk navy waistcoat and pressed khaki slacks completed the ensemble.

He met them with a warm smile. "Officers Rogers and O'Connell, welcome. I must say, I am surprised to see you. I've been following your endeavors." His smile dampened. "The tragedy on Dungeness beach. Please accept my deepest sympathies for your lost colleague."

He reached out and took both of their hands. Sally felt a knot welling in her throat. His earnestness was overwhelming.

Liam cleared his throat and answered first. "Thank you, Mr. Pike. Now, if we could discuss the matter of Reginald Rook's schooling? We are pressed for time."

"Of course, of course!" Pike bustled, his eyes twinkling. "I've laid out biscuits. I think you are going to find this quite fascinating. Please, come in."

He turned and started backward, a fast shuffle over his gray carpet. He wore burgundy slippers that made a soft shushing sound.

"Now that's raging against old age," Liam said softly.

Sally could only nod in admiration. Pike was in his late 70s and hadn't let standards slip one iota. She wiped her feet on the mat, took off her shoes and stepped gingerly inside.

67 CONUNDRUM

Edwin Pike's home was neat and orderly like a military barracks; every framed photograph on the hallway wall perfectly aligned, every cushion on his floral sofas at an exact 45-degree angle. His living room had clean geometric lines, the small TV oriented sharply, the sofas arrayed in a perfect U around the small coffee table, faintly reminiscent of Crawford Meeks' conservatory.

But there was no fakery here. No sham painting, no kaftan hat, no pink trousers. Just a man who'd worked all his life, living by an iron discipline. On the table lay an old gray hardboard valise, the top open, with photographs and pages of thin yellowed paper spilling out.

"Please, sit," Pike said.

Sally and Liam sat.

"Tea?"

"We'd love to get to the question in hand, Mr. Pike," Sally said. "You may have noticed the increased police presence around Rye. There is a fear the killer's scale may have amplified."

Pike nodded. "Of course. And I do hate to disappoint." He gestured to the valise. "As you can see, I've brought my oldest records down from the attic." Sally pictured him at the top of a precarious ladder, reaching into the musty dark. "I began leafing through them before you arrived."

"And colleagues from that time?" Liam asked. "Anyone who actually taught Reginald Rook?"

"I made some calls, indeed," Pike said. "It has been a shocking morning for me, I'm afraid. All my predecessors at St. Botolph's, it seems, have passed away."

That statement went down poorly.

"All of them?"

"Many I knew of already," Pike said. "For the past 20 years, I have been attending funerals. My mentors. My past headmasters. As for the colleagues I called today, I had simply let too long elapse between contact. I spoke to a grandson. A nephew, himself in residential care. To my knowledge, I may be the oldest remaining Botolph master."

Sally and Liam exchanged looks.

"And what are these?" Liam asked, gesturing to the valise.

"Memories, though not my own. A friend's, who passed over 10 years ago. Stanley Albright." Pike leaned over his knees. "He gave this box to me, and I have kept it ever since. In many ways, he paved the way for me at St. Botolph's."

Sally let that sit for a moment, feeling the weight of it. She scanned the photographs around the room. No children. No women, either, except one, black and white, that she guessed to be a sister.

"You were close," she said.

Pike drew himself up. "Yes, Officer Rogers. It was another time. Nothing like the world of today. But Stanley and I, we…" He smiled; bravely, Sally thought. "He meant a great deal to me."

She just nodded. Nothing else needed to be said. "I'm sorry for your loss. Now, your friend, Stanley. He taught Reginald Rook?"

"He did. Most ably. He taught thousands of students."

"And have you found reference to Reginald Rook amongst his records?"