Charles Todd - The Confession

“You said the local people had helped in the search. Could they have seen to it that her body wasn’t discovered?”

“Dear God.” He was shocked. “I never thought of that.”

“Where is this Furnham mausoleum? Is there a churchyard associated with your parish?”

“Ah. The churchyard. The water table is too high, this near the river. It’s the reason there isn’t a crypt in this church. There’s a turning between here and the village. It doesn’t appear to be more than a dusty cart path. It leads to higher ground. The Rectory is there as well.”

“Forgive me, Rector, but isn’t it odd to have a church this far from a village? And the churchyard in another place?”

“It’s a long story,” Morrison answered. “And not a very pleasant one. I don’t know all of it myself. Suffice it to say, this church was built several years before Victoria ascended the throne. It was felt by the Bishop of that day that one was needed in Furnham parish. But over the years very few people in Furnham have availed themselves of it. I have a handful of elderly farmers’ wives, a few young children preparing for their first communion, often a bride and groom, and occasionally those who have nowhere else to turn in their misery but to God. I hadn’t expected to serve in a parish like this. It has tried my spirit, I can tell you.”

And Morrison had very skillfully directed Rutledge away from his questions about Russell and the woman in the locket.

“When was the last time you saw Russell?”

“I don’t believe he came home again once he’d joined the Army. Or if he did, I never saw him. I did learn that he was a major. His name appeared on a list of wounded.”

“And Miss Farraday?”

“Without Mrs. Russell there to act as chaperone, Miss Farraday went to London. A sad state of affairs, that. With Russell off to war, she might have stayed in the house without any criticism. But when she came to see me to say good-bye, she told me that the house was haunted.”

“Literally?”

“I asked her that question myself. She answered that it was filled with the ghosts of what might have been. It was ‘not a happy house,’ to use her words.”

“I understand that Russell was married.”

“Yes, on his last leave before sailing for France. I don’t believe he ever brought his bride to River’s Edge. I’d have liked to meet her. Later I heard she died from complications of childbirth, and the baby with her.”

“Perhaps that was why Miss Farraday chose to leave. Because of the marriage.”

Morrison smiled, a sadness in his eyes. “If anything it was the other way around. Russell would have married her on the instant. It was my understanding that she refused him. I feared that he’d married just to provide an heir for River’s Edge. If he did, it was not given to him, was it? But I understand he survived the war. So much for his mother’s superstitions.”

Rutledge reached for the envelope again and brought out the photograph of the dead man, taken in Gravesend. “I need confirmation that this is, indeed, Wyatt Russell. If you have any reservations, I’ll be happy to take you to Tilbury for the ferry to Gravesend.”

“Let me see the photograph, first.”

Rutledge passed it to him. Morrison took it and held it to the faint rays of sunlight coming through the plain glass windows high up in the sanctuary wall.

“But this isn’t Russell,” he exclaimed. “What led you to believe it was?”

“It’s not Russell? You’re quite sure of that? You haven’t seen him in six years,” Rutledge countered, making an effort to conceal his consternation.

“I’d stake my life on it!”

“Could this be Justin Fowler?” Rutledge asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then you knew Fowler too?”

“He was a connection of Mrs. Russell’s, although I don’t believe she had known his family very well. She told me before he came that she’d lost touch with his mother after she married Mr. Fowler. I had the feeling that Mrs. Russell didn’t approve of him. That’s to say, of the husband. This was just after the solicitor had come to ask her to take the boy in. She said that God in his wisdom had seen fit to give her only one child. But to make up for it, God had sent her the daughter she’d never have and now a second son. I wondered later if she was as happy as she’d expected to be. They weren’t that easy to mother. They weren’t hers, after all. Then she was gone, and the boys-they were young men by that time-left to join the Army. I don’t know if Justin Fowler survived or not. I drove him in Mrs. Russell’s motorcar to meet the train to London, and that was the last time I saw him. A quiet boy, kept to himself. I didn’t know him well. But he was afraid of something. I never knew what it was.”

“Then who is the man in this photograph?”

Morrison frowned as he considered the face again. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him before. But you said he’d come to call on you at the Yard? The man in this photograph? How did you come to believe he was Major Russell?”

“It was the name he gave me,” Rutledge said trenchantly.

“How very odd! And you tell me he was wearing the locket with Miss Farraday’s likeness in it when his body was pulled from the river?”

“According to those who found him.”

“Then I should think you ought to find her and ask her if she knows this man.”

“Before I do, what else can you tell me about the Russell household? Are there any of the staff still living in the vicinity? Perhaps in Furnham.”

“There was only a small staff. A housekeeper, of course, and several maids. A cook. An elderly groom. And I believe there was a man who acted as butler when there were guests, but generally drove Mrs. Russell when she went out. The household didn’t get on well with the local people and kept to themselves more often than not. The groom died soon after Mrs. Russell disappeared. And the cook went to live with a member of her family, when the house was closed. Mrs. Broadley. I remember how apt her name was. An excellent cook! I don’t know what became of the housekeeper, Mrs. Dunner. I was told she found employment in the Midlands. Harold-the chauffeur-stayed on as caretaker in the first few weeks of the war, then was called up. There was no one at River’s Edge after that.”

“The maids?”

“I’d nearly forgot. Nancy married a farmer’s son on the other side of Furnham. Samuel Brothers. The others went their ways.”

“Tell me how to find this farm?”

“You must drive through Furnham, and when the road curves to the left, just continue along it. The second farm you come to belongs to Brothers.”

Rutledge thanked him and took his leave. Morrison walked with him up the single aisle of the church and to the door, like a good host seeing a guest on his way.

He said as they reached the door, “I hope you can identify that poor man in the photograph. I shall pray for him.”

“Thank you, Rector.”

And then the door was closed behind him, and the rector’s footsteps seemed to echo in the emptiness of the sanctuary as he walked back down the aisle.

“He was in love with the lass. In yon locket,” Hamish said as Rutledge crossed the narrow strip of lawn to his motorcar.

“Morrison?”

“Aye, the priest.”

Rutledge remembered the sadness in the rector’s eyes as he said that Russell would have married Cynthia Farraday. Russell was more her equal than a country parson. It could explain why Morrison had found it difficult to discuss her.

He paused as he reached for the crank, and in the silence he could hear the whispers in the grass. It was easy to imagine people hidden among the reeds, some of them taller than a man. For that matter, it would be hard to find someone even twenty feet away from where one stood. It explained the difficulty in searching for Mrs. Russell.