The Confession (29 page)

The drive to London lay ahead. Reluctantly he walked back to the motorcar. He wouldn't have been surprised to find his tires slashed. But they were not, the crank turned and the motor caught, and nothing at all happened.

He didn't feel reassured by that.

I
t was too late to return to the Yard by the time Rutledge reached London. But he stopped at his flat to look in on Russell. He was sleeping, and Sister Grey, who had been nodding in her chair by the bed, assured Rutledge that there were no changes in his condition.

He found Frances waiting for him.

“I didn't know if you were coming here again tonight. What did you do with the boxes? Take them with you this morning?”

“They're evidence. I put them in the attic for safekeeping.”

“I'm glad they're out of sight. I'm starving. Will you take me to dinner? I'm afraid you still owe me a lunch.”

At the restaurant, they met several friends, but sat at a table for two. Rutledge was just as glad. The four people they had spoken with as they came in often included Meredith Channing in their dinner plans. He couldn't sit there and listen to speculation about where she might be or why she was away so long. He'd told himself a hundred times to put her out of his mind. But it was harder to do than he'd ever imagined. The wound was still too raw.

Hamish's voice, without warning, spoke from just behind him. “You willna' walk away. It's safer to love someone ye canna' have. You willna' have to tell her about me.”

Frances said, “A penny for your thoughts.” Stretching out her hand, she put a copper penny in front of his plate.

Collecting himself, he recognized the profile of Edward VII staring up at him and managed a smile. To gain time, he handed it back to her. “What else is there to think about? The Yard.”

She made a face. “Put it aside for tonight. Listen, the orchestra is starting to play. Talk to me, or I shall make a fuss until you dance with me.”

Laughing because she expected it, he cleared his mind of everything except for the ever-present Hamish and tried to pretend it was before the war and the golden summer of 1914 had lasted forever.

The next morning he went to the Yard early and found an envelope on his desk. Sergeant Gibson's name was on the front, in care of the Yard. There was no return address.

Rutledge took out the single sheet of paper.

I saw the request for information in the newspaper. Will you meet me? Just by St. Martin-in-the-Fields will do. 2:00?

It was unsigned.

The hunt was beginning. And he had a feeling he was the prey. But who was the hunter?

He walked out of the Yard at one-thirty and made his way to Trafalgar Square. He stood there for a quarter of an hour, surveying the people coming and going, trying to spot anyone looking for him as well.

At five minutes before two o'clock, he walked to the west door of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, its white facade bright in the afternoon sun.

He stood there until well after two o'clock, and no one came.

Giving it up, he turned and walked back toward the Yard. He was waiting at the corner to cross the street when someone came up behind him and said quietly, “Don't turn around. You aren't Sergeant Gibson. Who are you?”

“Inspector Rutledge. I put that request in the
Times.
Sergeant Gibson was merely the contact. What's your name?”

“No, I told you, don't turn. In exchange for what I know, I want one thing. Immunity from prosecution for desertion. Can you arrange that?”

A break in the traffic was coming, but Rutledge stayed where he was.

“I don't have the authority to make such an arrangement.”

“Then you don't need to speak to me.”

“Wait!” Rutledge said quickly. “I'll do what I can. Give me twenty-four hours.”

“I'll give you until dark. Come back alone. I know what you look like now. If you try to see me, it's finished.”

“Very well.”

Another break in the traffic came.

“Go,” urged the voice behind him. And Rutledge crossed the street with six or eight other people hurrying on their way. Even before he reached the far side, he knew he was alone.

The encounter had yielded several pieces of information. He had met a deserter, for one. And he was absolutely certain the Army wouldn't offer immunity in exchange for information that would bring a murder inquiry to an end. And finally, he hadn't recognized the voice at his back.

Was it a trick? A deserter seizing the opportunity to help himself ? The man claimed he knew Sergeant Gibson. Or had someone actually come forward and been clever enough to ensure he himself wasn't tricked?

Rutledge tried to replay the voice in his mind. Low, but not deep. Most certainly male. It reminded him of Ben Willet's, the same timbre, the same cultured overtones. Willet was a good mimic, the voice of a gentleman coming naturally to him. But he was also dead, and his sister had identified the body.

Rutledge sent a message round to his sister's house to say that he would be late. And then he went to see Major Russell.

“Someone contacted me,” he said as he came into the bedroom. “It wasn't such a wild idea after all.”

Russell said quickly, “Who was it?”

Handing him the envelope, Rutledge said, “Do you recognize the handwriting?”

After studying it for a moment, Russell said, “I don't think I've seen it before.”

“Would you know Findley's hand? Or Fowler's?”

“I don't know that I've ever seen anything in Finley's handwriting. And it isn't Justin's. His had more of a slant to it.”

Rutledge told him what had transpired, ending with, “He asked for immunity from prosecution for desertion.”

“Good luck to him,” Russell said. “The Army will never agree to that. I wouldn't be surprised to learn it's someone from Furnham. You did see to it that they knew about the
Times
? All right then. I've dealt with soldiers from isolated villages. Some of them were so homesick they would have deserted if they hadn't been too afraid to try.”

Rutledge himself had dealt with raw troops facing battle for the first time. “Or it's a trap?” he said slowly. “I'm to meet him again when it's dark.”

“What would he have done,” Russell asked, “if this man Gibson had met him? He'd have been prepared to put him off, wouldn't he, and make certain that you would come.”

It was an interesting point.

“Take someone with you,” Russell added. “That's my advice.”

“I'll ask Constable Greene. I can't risk taking Gibson with me.”

“No need to frighten him off. Have a service revolver, do you? The clinic took mine away. Carry it with you.”

“Good advice.” But policemen were not expected to go armed.

Later when Rutledge asked Constable Greene to accompany him to the meeting, the man said, “It's my wife's birthday, sir. I don't think she'd forgive either of us.”

Constable Henry had already left for the day, and Sergeant Gibson was closeted with the Acting Chief Superintendent.

Rutledge left the Yard on his own, walking through the quiet streets back to St. Martin-in-the-Fields.

He wasn't sure what he was facing. Still, he hadn't brought his revolver. He would take his chances without it.

Arriving at the church, the first thing he saw was a white square of paper pinned to the door.

Taking it down, he walked to the pool of light cast by a streetlamp, unfolded the half sheet, and tried to read what was written there.

The words were a black scrawl. Not at all the neat writing on the first message. He thought, this must be the man's true hand. Or else he's apprehensive, afraid of a trap.

With Hamish uttering a warning in his mind, Rutledge finally deciphered the tangle of words.

Walk another quarter mile north, and I'll find you.

Whoever it was, he was being very careful. But then the price for desertion was death.

Rutledge continued north, out of the square, coming finally to a dark street where trees blocked the light of streetlamps, casting long black shadows across the road. Half seen beneath one of the trees stood a tall slim man in country clothing, a cap pulled down over his eyes.

He was suddenly reminded of Furnham, when he had waited under another tree, this one by the bend of the road until three men with sacks over their shoulders had come up from the river. He'd been alone, tense, prepared for trouble, then had watched it walk directly toward him and knew that he stood no chance if he was caught there.

Rutledge understood what the other man was experiencing, knew the price he'd paid to come to this meeting. Stopping some ten feet from him, Rutledge waited for him to speak. All he could see was the pale glimmer of a face beneath the cap but no distinguishing features.

“They aren't offering me anything, are they?” the man said after a moment, resignation in his quiet voice.

“I'm sorry. No.” He could see a faint lift of his shoulders as the man accepted the bald truth.

“Well. I'll have to take my chances, won't I?”

“I'll do what I can. But I make no promises. Still, I need whatever information you can give me. I can't find a killer without it.”

There was a pause, as if the man was considering how to begin. Finally he said, “All right. My name is Harold Finley. I worked at River's Edge until it was closed and stayed on as caretaker until I was called up.”

Rutledge stayed where he was, waiting for an errant breeze to shift the leaves a little and show him the man's face. It had nearly happened once already.

“I came back to the house twice after that. When my training was finished and I was given leave. And later in the summer of 1915, when I'd recovered from my wounds. I knew Justin Fowler was already in England, so I wasn't surprised to find the terrace doors open. There was no one inside, and I decided to walk down to the water, and I stood there for a while. I was beginning to wonder where Fowler had got to, and just in case he'd brought in supplies at the kitchen landing, I thought I might go along and help him carry boxes up to the house. Do you know where it is, this landing?”

“I do.”

“Fowler was there, stretched out on the ground. I thought he was dead, and I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to find out it was suicide, but he wouldn't have been the first to fall into despair at the prospect of returning to France. I got to him and discovered he'd been shot in the back of his head. That was a shock, I can tell you. What's more, when I touched him, the body was still warm. I tore open his tunic to listen to his heart, hoping I could save him. It occurred to me that whoever had done this must still be nearby, that I could be shot as well, but I found a faint, irregular pulse. I couldn't leave him.”

As he relived the event, his words tumbled over one another. And there was the ring of truth in his voice, echoes of the shock and fear and desperation he'd felt.

“Any idea who could have shot him? Why they should still be nearby?”

“It had to be someone from Furnham. Who else?” Something had changed in his voice now.

“But with the war on, there was no smuggling. Nothing to store at River's Edge. Why Furnham?”

“I couldn't think clearly, I tell you.” He turned away. “I didn't want him to die. And just then someone spoke, and I wheeled, thinking—but it was Fowler. I could barely make out what he was saying, even though I put my ear to his lips. And what he said made no sense. No sense at all. And he died while I was holding him.”

“What did he say?”

“Brother. He said it twice.
Brother
.” Finley hesitated. “All I could think of was Major Russell. And that was impossible. They weren't actually brothers, were they?” He leaned forward, waiting for an answer.

“Wyatt Russell was an only child. As was Justin Fowler.” He paused. “It's possible that there is someone who believed that he was Fowler's older brother. It isn't true. But as a child he must have been led to think of himself as the elder Fowler's son. And it's also possible that this man—if he exists—killed Fowler and murdered both of his parents. Perhaps that's why the police have never found the person responsible. The family's solicitors never told them about this man.”

“Gentle God.” There was a long pause. Rutledge wished he could see Finley's face. “Is that true?” he asked finally. “Can you be certain of it?”

“I believe it to be true. I've tried to find this man. But I don't have his name. For a time, I thought he might be you, coming to work for the Russell family in order to finish what had been started in Colchester.”

“You thought I'd killed Fowler—and now Russell?” Even in the darkness, his surprise was evident.

“There's no one else, is there? You were the only outsider at River's Edge.”

Pacing back and forth in the shadows, the man said, “Yes, all right. But if I'd killed them, why would I come to you now? Just to bargain with the Army?”

“Why did you desert? Why not go to the police? Were you afraid they would suspect you?”

“I couldn't go back to France. Even in the artillery—” Shaking his head, he couldn't continue.

“The rest of us had the courage to go back.”

“It wasn't a matter of courage. Damn it, I'm as brave as the next man.” Taking a deep breath, he said more calmly, “I didn't come here to defend myself. Fowler told me it was his brother. When I read the Yard's request in the
Times,
it occurred to me that perhaps he'd been mistaken. Both men had been killed at River's Edge, and I was afraid—the wrong person might be blamed.”

Rutledge realized that Finley had come to protect Cynthia Farraday.

“What did you do with Fowler's body? Did you leave it there, where you'd found it?”

“I didn't know what else to do.”