Charles Todd - The Confession

He left the church, turning toward Furnham.

Who the hell was the man who had come into his office, claiming to be Wyatt Russell and swearing he’d murdered Justin Fowler? More to the point, who had killed that man not a fortnight later? And were the two events related? Or was there something else in the victim’s past that had led to his death?

Hamish said, “The lass in the locket will know.”

“Yes, very likely.” But finding her was going to be another matter.

Making a point to look for the turning Morrison had spoken of, he saw it to his left three-quarters of a mile from the church. He drove on, passing through Furnham and out the other side, turning away from the river’s mouth toward the farms and pasturage wrested from the marshes. The farms were not large, but they appeared to be prosperous enough. Dairy herds, mostly, he thought, judging from the cows grazing quietly. With only enough acreage for the corn and hay to feed them. He could just see the green tips of the corn in a field beyond, moving with the light sea breeze.

He found the Brothers farm and took the rutted turning that led to the house. Beyond it stood a weathered barn and several outbuildings.

No one answered his knock, and after a moment he walked round to the kitchen door at the rear. There he found a woman in a black dress that had seen happier days, inside a wire pen scattering feed for the chickens bunched and clucking around her ankles. She looked up as Rutledge came toward her, her eyes wary.

It was an expression he was growing accustomed to, here on the River Hawking.

She said, politely enough, “Can I help you, sir?”

“Good morning. My name is Rutledge. I’m looking for Mrs. Brothers.”

“And what would you be wanting with her, when you’ve found her?”

“I’m trying to locate anyone who knew the family at River’s Edge. The rector at St. Edward’s, Mr. Morrison, has told me Mrs. Brothers was once a housemaid there.”

Nodding, she emptied the bowl she was holding in the crook of her arm and walked out of the pen, latching the gate behind her. “Come into the kitchen, then.”

He followed her down the path and over the stepping-stones that led between the beds of herbs, flowers, and vegetables flanking the kitchen entrance. Someone, he noted, took pride in the gardens, for they were weeded and the soil between the rows had recently been hoed.

Inside the kitchen, he saw the same care. The cloth over the table was not only clean but also ironed, and both the sink and the cabinets below it were spotless, as was the floor.

“I’m Nancy Brothers,” she said, offering him a chair and going to stand in front of the broad dresser. “Why are you looking for anyone from the house?”

“I’m not precisely sure,” Rutledge answered her. “This locket has been found, and I’m trying to trace the woman shown inside.” He took it from his pocket and held it out to her by the gold chain. “I was told she might have lived at River’s Edge.”

Instead of reaching for the locket, Mrs. Brothers asked, “Are you a lawyer, then? Or a policeman?”

He told her the truth. “I’m from Scotland Yard. We don’t ordinarily search for the owner of lost property. But in this case, it could help us in another matter of some importance.”

Mrs. Brothers took the locket, found the clasp, and opened it. “Oh.”

“You recognize her?” Rutledge prompted as she stood there staring at the tiny photograph.

“The locket. It brings back memories,” she replied slowly. “I thought I’d put all that behind me.”

“What had you put behind you?”

She sighed, and turned her head to look out the window. “In the end it was a troubled house,” she said finally. “I’d have left if there had been anywhere to go. It’s not as if this was London or even Tilbury, where I could have found another position.”

Was she making excuses for staying on, despite her feelings about the house? He wondered whether she was lying to herself or to him.

“How troubled?”

Nancy Brothers took a deep breath. “It’s not my place to gossip about my betters.”

“I understand. That’s commendable, in fact,” he told her gently. “But it’s not a matter of gossip, you see. In a police inquiry, it’s your duty to help the authorities in any way you can. If you know something, you must let us decide if it’s important or not.”

“Mrs. Russell was wearing this locket the day she disappeared. I know, I helped her put it on, and I saw it at noon that day, when she came in for lunch. She was still wearing it.”

“What happened to Mrs. Russell? Did the police find her? Or failing that, her body?”

“That was the odd thing. They never found any trace of her. Her son saw her walking toward the landing stage at two o’clock, but no one knew she was missing until I went up to help her dress for dinner.” She turned to set a bowl that had been draining in the sink up on a shelf. “They questioned all of us, the police did. Was she anxious about anything? Was she worried? Was she frightened? Did anyone harbor hard feelings toward her? She could be a trial, sometimes, to tell you the truth, but she was getting older, and crotchety. At least it seemed so to me at the time, young as I was. Sometimes she fussed over her hair until I was fit to be tied, wanting it to be thick and pretty as it was when she was eighteen. Or the ashes hadn’t been swept out proper, when I could see they had. But you don’t do someone a harm for that, do you?”

“Was this same photograph in the locket when Mrs. Russell wore it last?”

“No, it wasn’t. It was her and her late husband. On their wedding day.”

“Then how can you be sure this is the same locket?”

“I must have touched it a thousand times. Settling it around her throat, under her hair. Making sure it was hanging proper. She took it off each evening and put it on each morning. Even if she was wearing other jewelry, this was still around her throat.” She reached for the kettle and filled it with cold water. “Can you tell me how you came to have it? Does this mean you’ve found her body? And who put that other photograph in it?”

“We haven’t found Mrs. Russell. Someone else was wearing the locket.”

“How did she come by it?”

“Before I answer your question, will you give me the name of this woman?”

She was measuring tea for the pot, but she lifted the spoon and pointed with it. “That’s Cynthia Farraday. She came to live with Mrs. Russell when her own parents died.”

“What became of her?”

“She went to live in London after Mrs. Russell disappeared. She said it wasn’t fitting to live in the house without a chaperone. Mr. Russell proposed marriage, but she didn’t want that. She wanted to be free, she said, to live her own life.”

“Who else was in the house-besides the staff?”

“Mr. Justin, of course. He was another cousin come to live at River’s Edge. After Miss Cynthia came. They weren’t related, those two. She was connected through the Russell side, while Mr. Justin’s grandmother and Mrs. Russell’s were cousins. I heard it said that Mr. Justin’s mother had died of the consumption. Her lungs was bad. I never heard anything about his father.”

“What became of Mr. Fowler?”

“He went off to war and as far as I know never come back.”

“I see.” As the kettle began to whistle, Mrs. Brothers turned to fill the teapot. Watching her, Rutledge said, “And Mr. Russell, himself?”

She stirred the leaves in the pot, peering at them as she spoke. “All I know is, he survived the war. But I don’t know that he ever came back to the house. A shame, that was. It was a lovely house. I wish you could have seen it when I was in service there. They had money, the Russells did. I often wondered how it was the family built that house out here, in the marshes. It could have been set down anywhere.”