The Confession (24 page)

“Where did he go when on leave?” Hamish asked.

His family home in Colchester had been sold, the money put in trust for him. And it was doubtful that he would have wished to return there, given the memories of his parents' deaths in the house. Unless he'd taken a flat or bought a house in London, River's Edge was his home.

Was that why he had gone there while on leave in 1915? Because he needed to remember a happier time before the war? He couldn't have stayed there, but he could have spent a few hours on the grounds or in the house, if he still had a key.

And that brought up another problem Rutledge hadn't considered until now. How had Fowler reached the River Hawkins?

Aware that Sergeant Gibson was still talking, Rutledge said, “Sorry! I was fitting together pieces of the puzzle. Go on.”

Gibson said, “Have you spoken to Miss Farraday or Major Russell? I should think they ought to know where Fowler is.”

“They've been less than helpful. If he's alive, where is Fowler now? If he's dead, why hasn't it been reported?”

“In my view, sir—for what it's worth—you must assume the worst.”

Twenty minutes later, Rutledge set the last of the folders in the basket for filing. There had been no telephone call from Munro, although he'd given the man more than an hour. Not a good sign, as Hamish was pointing out.

There was one other person he needed to speak to before he went back to the hospital and from there to Essex.

Miss Farraday was at home. She said, when he was shown into her sitting room, “I've had enough unpleasant news. I hope you aren't here to add to that.”

“Where did Justin Fowler live, after the house at River's Edge was closed?”

“He went into the Army in late September, I think it was, and on his first leave he took rooms at the Prince Frederick Hotel. He invited me to dinner one night, and we talked. Mostly about the Army and about our years at River's Edge. I asked if he'd like me to write to him, and he said he thought it would be better if I didn't. He was still quite upset about Aunt Elizabeth's disappearance. I think one of the reasons he stayed on at the house after Wyatt and I left was the hope she might come back and someone ought to be there if she did.”

“And after that?”

“The Prince Frederick was flattened in one of the Zeppelin raids, worst luck, because in my opinion, the hotel restaurant was the best in London. I don't know where he stayed after that or even if he came to London at all. If he did, he never got in touch with me. His name never appeared on the lists of killed, wounded, and missing. I've heard since that not all of the missing and dead were ever accounted for.” She looked away. “Perhaps he found someone he liked and spent every minute of any leaves with her.”

He detected the faintest note of jealousy.

“His solicitors have had no word of him. I've spoken to them.”

There was a sadness in her voice that she couldn't quite conceal. “Justin went his own way, and Wyatt has been damaged by the war. Ben is dead. It makes me aware of how fleeting life is. How little we can hold on to anyone or anything. I wish I could understand why he'd been the way he was. What the shadows were in his life.”

It wasn't his place to tell her about Justin Fowler's past. But he said, “Something happened before he came to River's Edge. The shadows were there before you knew him.”

She nodded. “Thank you for telling me that. It helps. I always had the feeling that he was waiting. For something to happen or someone to come. It was one of the reasons he didn't go into Furnham. He liked the isolation of River's Edge. He told Aunt Elizabeth once that he felt safe there. I know, because I happened to overhear him.”

He thought about the boy Justin Fowler had been. His parents had been murdered, he himself had nearly been killed. Was he afraid that the unknown killer would come for him one day and finish what he'd begun? It was a dreadful burden for a child to bear.

“If he went to River's Edge on one of his leaves, how would he have got there?”

“Aunt Elizabeth's motorcar. Harold Finley brought it to London when he enlisted and stored it in the mews behind Wyatt's house. All of us used it from time to time. Mostly it just sat there, of course. But I drove it to Dover once, and another time to Cornwall for a friend's wedding.”

“Do you remember who used it in the summer of 1915?”

“No, of course not. Not now. I can tell you that the few times I wished to borrow it, it was always there in the mews.”

As he rose to leave, she said, “There's something I just remembered. The first warm weather we had, after he'd come to River's Edge, we went swimming in the river. I saw Justin's chest. It was horribly scarred. I asked him what caused them. He said he'd been in hospital for a long time. I thought he meant he'd had some sort of surgery. It explained how pale and thin he was. I was young, easily put off. But I realize now the scars were not the sort that come from surgery. I helped with the wounded during the war—reading to them, writing letters, keeping their minds off their suffering. It never occurred to me at the time—those scars of his were
wounds
.”

He said nothing.

“Did his parents—were
they
responsible?”

“Not his parents,” Rutledge replied. “A stranger.”

“Dear God. I wish someone had told me. I wish I'd
known
.”

“I don't think Mrs. Russell wanted you to know. She understood that it was important to forget.”

“But did she tell Wyatt?”

“Probably not. For the same reason.”

She took a deep breath. “If you find him, will you let me know—if he's all right?”

“If that's what he wants me to do.”

And she had to be satisfied with that.

Chapter 19

T
he first person Rutledge met as he walked into the hospital was a nursing sister he had dealt with earlier. As they walked together to the ward where the Major was being kept under observation, he asked if there had been any change in his condition.

She reported, “He's been rather restless, and the doctors are quite concerned about a fever. That would mean infection. He needs sleep, but he keeps trying to remember what happened to him.” She paused, then said diplomatically, “It might be best if the rector left for a time. There would be less temptation to talk.”

Russell had in fact dropped into a light sleep when Rutledge walked into the ward. Morrison was not there, and so Rutledge took the empty chair by the bed.

He himself had left River's Edge at a little after two the previous night. And he had seen no one, had heard no shots. Morrison had told him that the Major had left the Rectory after one o'clock. Where had he been between half past one and half past two? Or to look at this problem another way, who had encountered Russell on the road—or in the marshes? Was it a planned meeting—or simply opportune?

Who came to the house at night, who kept those terrace doors unlocked for easy access to the guns in the study? Who stood by the landing stage and stared out over the river to the far side, as if lord of all he surveyed?

The only people who were usually abroad late at night were the smugglers.

And while they wouldn't brook any interference in their business, it seemed unlikely that they would go out of their way to stalk Major Russell through the marshes.

Although Timothy Jessup might well have his own reasons for seeing that River's Edge remained closed. Hadn't he asked if Rutledge was interested in the property? On that first encounter when he was here with Frances?

Perhaps it was time to find out who would inherit River's Edge if the last of the Russells died. Rutledge realized he knew very little about the Major's father, who had been killed in the Boer War. Cynthia Farraday was distantly related to him. Who else might be? Surely not Jessup. But stranger things had happened. Men sometimes committed indiscretions in their youth—witness Justin Fowler's father—that they kept firmly locked away in their past.

Dr. Wade, Rutledge thought, was right. The Major seemed to live a charmed life. The war wound, the motorcycle crash, and now this gunshot. Any one of them should have killed him.

Hamish said, “He willna' escape the hangman.”

“We must prove he killed Fowler first.”

He was suddenly aware that the Major was awake and staring up at him. His first thought was that he'd answered Hamish aloud, without thinking.

Russell said after a moment, “Have you come back—or have you never left?”

“I was at the Yard. Where is Morrison?”

“He went to the canteen. He wanted a cup of tea.”

“Just as well. Do you feel like talking?”

“Not particularly.”

“If you had died of this gunshot wound, who stands to inherit River's Edge?”

“I made a will leaving it to my wife. After she died, I left everything to Cynthia. Why?”

“Are there any other cousins?”

“I don't know. I don't remember much about my father. Or his side of the family for that matter. A grandmother, I think, when I was very young. She read to me, and I remember her voice, not her face.”

“Do you know where Justin Fowler stayed, when he was on leave during the war?”

“There was a hotel in London he liked. A little out of the way for my tastes, but it suited him, he said. Cynthia went there to dine with him, I think. But don't trust that memory. I was jealous and could have imagined it.”

“I'm told the hotel was destroyed in a Zeppelin raid.”

“Was it?”

“Did he go back to River's Edge, after it was closed?”

“I ran into him in France and he told me he'd gone down to Essex a last time before being sent over with his regiment. That it was all right. I'd heard that one of the raids had taken out a windmill and some houses, but he told me that that was on the Blackwater. Or maybe the Crouch. I don't remember.”

“When was this?”

“Early in 1915, I think. He'd seen some fighting, and I was in the relief column. He told me he'd borrowed my motorcar and driven out to Essex.”

“Did he stay at the house? Or just spend a few hours there?”

“He built a fire in my mother's sitting room, he said. It was damned cold, the house had been shut up for months. He'd brought tea in a Thermos and a packet of sandwiches, and he ate them by the fire rather than on the terrace as he'd planned. I asked if the chimneys were all right—I didn't relish the idea of the house burning down. But he'd checked them first, he said, and made certain the fire was out before leaving.”

“When next did you see or hear from him?”

“Someone told me he'd been wounded. Late May? It earned him a ticket home, I expect. He wrote once from hospital. He'd heard that we were expecting a child, my wife and I. They'd done surgery on his knee and he was hoping to be released for duty by late August. He told me he might drive down to Essex again, if he could manage it.” Russell lay still, closing his eyes. “I never heard from him again as far as I recall. But letters get lost.”

“Do you know if he survived the war?”

“You must ask Cynthia that. She kept track of both of us and Harold Finley as well. Why the interest in Justin? You don't think
he
shot me, do you?” He had opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on Rutledge. “Why on earth should he do that?”

It was clear that he'd forgot what Rutledge had told him about Willet's confession.

“I'm still investigating Willet's death. Were you in England during that summer of 1915?”

“I was in France. No, that's not true. I was sent home on compassionate leave when my wife died.”

“Did you go down to River's Edge? Or look up Fowler in hospital?”

“I don't think so. It was—I don't remember much about that time.” He grimaced. “I was ridden by guilt. I hadn't loved her. She died because of me. I didn't think I'd made her happy.” He turned his head aside. “Go away. Leave me alone.”

Rutledge was on the point of saying something more when Morrison came back.

“There you are,” he said, stepping in. “Is he asleep?”

Rutledge answered, “Yes, I think so. The nurse warned me not to disturb his rest. We should leave.”

He rose and got Morrison out of the room. Walking to the motorcar, Morrison asked, “Could you talk to him? Did he tell you anything else?”

“Only that he doesn't know what happened to Fowler. It may be that he will never be able to remember. If he's guilty of murdering him, Russell could well go free.”

Morrison digested that, then said, “You don't intend to take him into custody?”

“Suspicion isn't truth. I need facts.”

Morrison cranked the motorcar for Rutledge and then got in. “How, I wonder, did Ben learn about Fowler's death and Russell's role in it?”

“I don't know. But the fact that he did tells me that whatever happened, happened in River's Edge. Or somewhere along the Hawking. Not in London or Dover or Portsmouth. I told you before I don't believe in coincidence. And it would have been difficult to kill someone and get rid of the body where hundreds of men are collecting and boarding their transports. But the River Hawking is rather isolated. If it swallowed up Mrs. Russell, it could swallow Fowler just as easily.”

“Then why wasn't Willet killed in Essex as well?”

“I haven't worked that out yet. Perhaps someone didn't want him to reach Essex.”

“We don't know he was intending to go there.”

“I've discovered that he was.”

That silenced Morrison. After a time, he said, “I'm tired. I'll shut my eyes for a bit, if you don't mind.” He leaned his head against the window strut.

Rutledge was grateful for the chance to think. With his eyes on the road, he let his mind review everything he knew.

Hamish said, “There's no answer.”

“Exactly. And there's only one reason I can think of to explain that. Somewhere is a piece of the puzzle we haven't found. Not yet. And I'm not sure where to look.”

“Aye. Ye must start at the beginning.”

By the time he'd passed the gates of River's Edge and made the turning to the Rectory, Morrison was awake and complaining of being stiff.

He said, preparing to get out of the motorcar, “I never thought he would live.”

“Nor did I. But if he had died, the inquiry on Justin Fowler would have to be closed. Without Willet and without Russell, there is no case.”

Morrison shook his head. “I watched you question a man who was in great pain. How do you live with the fact that the person you take into custody will be tried and judged and very likely hanged? Do you never feel merciful?”

“It's not a question of mercy. I don't judge people. I leave that to the courts. It's my task to collect the facts that will help them arrive at the truth.”

“That's very self-righteous, don't you think?”

And then he was gone, shutting the Rectory door behind him.

Rutledge continued into Furnham, realized he'd eaten nothing since breakfast, and stopped by the tea shop-cum-bakery. But it was already closed, and he went on to the inn.

The clerk told him that he hadn't asked for dinner, and so there was none to be had. But when Rutledge offered to pay him well for a meal, he agreed to prepare something. When the tray was brought to his room, Rutledge found under the cloth covering several sandwiches, a dish of fruit, and a square of cheese with rather stale biscuits.

He ate his meal sitting by the window, where the cool evening air made him drowsy. Setting the empty dishes outside his door, he went to bed.

But the drowsiness seemed to evaporate as soon as he blew out the lamp and got into bed.

Instead, his mind went over and over what he knew about the three murders and the attack on Russell. And he didn't like what he was beginning to conclude.

Cynthia Farraday had wanted River's Edge, but not its owner. It would have been easy for her to murder the unsuspecting Mrs. Russell. But despite his protestation of his love, Wyatt Russell married someone else for the sake of an heir. If that was her motive, it didn't make sense for her to kill Fowler or Ben Willet.

Wyatt Russell had the best motive—jealousy. He could have killed the men he perceived to be his rivals. But why kill his own mother?

Jessup, for reasons of his own, could have killed Mrs. Russell, her son, and his own nephew. But why murder Fowler?

And if the person who killed Fowler's parents intended to return one day and murder the son as well, why had it been necessary to kill the Russells and Ben Willet?

Was it possible that there were two people at work here?

He was close to the answer when sleep overtook him.

And then he was back in France, the sound of the guns loud in his ears, the screams of the wounded and the dying all around him while the machine gunners whittled away the numbers coming toward them until only Rutledge was left on his feet, and struggling through the mud toward the gunners, his revolver in his hand and determination giving him the strength to keep going despite the bullets plowing into his body. But when he reached the nest, there was only one gunner, nothing but bones grinning at him from behind the gun sight. And Hamish's voice at his ear was shouting to him, trying to make him understand that he too was dead.

“Fall down and let it be over,” the Scots voice cried. “For God's sake, let it be over!”

Rutledge fought against it, clinging to life, struggling against the darkness that was overwhelming him, reaching out for a handhold and unable to find it. For he could see that the River Somme was filled with blood, and he would drown in it, in spite of all he could do.

With a shock he came wide awake, wrestling the bedclothes, crying out in the darkness.

He could feel the cold sweat drying on his body, and his chest was heaving as he tried to breathe again.

In the quiet room, unseen, Hamish said, “It will never go away. Not even when ye die. The dead dream too.”

He got out of bed and thrust his head out the window, letting the night air blow away the last remnants of the night terror.

Finally he dressed and went out to walk until the sun brightened the horizon, not caring if the smugglers had made a run in the night. It wasn't until he could see his hand clearly before his face that he went back to his room and, without undressing, fell into a deep sleep.

In the morning he went to see Nancy Brothers, spending half an hour in her pleasant kitchen, and when he had the information he wanted, he thanked her and left.

And then, because he didn't think he could spend another night in the room at The Dragonfly Inn, he packed his valise and drove out of Furnham.

When he finally reached London, he went directly to Somerset House and began his search.

The first name on his list was Mrs. Broadley, the cook at River's Edge. According to Nancy Brothers, she had gone to live with her sister when the house was closed.

He hadn't expected to encounter quite so many Broadleys, but it appeared to be a fairly common name in some counties. Finally he found the one he was after.

She had died in a village north of Derby during the influenza epidemic of 1918.

He turned next to Mrs. Dunner, who had taken another post in the Midlands.

There was no record of her death. And he had the address that Mrs. Brothers had given him.

The last name on his list was the young chauffeur, Harold Finley.

There was no record of his death.

It had taken him two hours, but he felt satisfied with the results.

On a whim, he also looked for Gladys Mitchell, Fowler's first wife. Her death was recorded here, and he jotted down in his notebook the name of the sanitarium.