Charles Todd - The Confession

She made no attempt to deny the truth. “He doesn’t know-Samuel. He was glad the house at River’s Edge was closing just as I was marrying him. That was my old life, he said, and this was the new. He didn’t want me keeping up any acquaintance with the others. Mrs. Broadley, the cook, and I were friendly, and Mrs. Dunner, the housekeeper, helped me sew my wedding gown. They told me they wouldn’t mind hearing from me from time to time. But Samuel told me he’d rather I didn’t. They were in service still, you see, and I was a farmer’s wife now. And so I never wrote to them. When the Major came, I hardly recognized him. I couldn’t turn him away, could I? And I couldn’t take him in, neither. I didn’t know what Samuel would have to say about it. Instead I agreed to feed him. I’d take sandwiches and fruit and a jug of tea to him, whatever I could spare that wouldn’t be missed.”

“That was rough living for a man like the Major.”

“Don’t I know that? But he said he’d learned to do without while in the trenches. That he’d be all right. And I couldn’t go as far as River’s Edge without taking the cart.”

He could see her quandary.

“Was this the first time you’d seen him since the war?”

“Since my wedding, in fact. He gave me away. I was that grateful. I couldn’t turn him away, could I?” she asked again.

“What did he tell you? How did he get out here to Furnham?”

“He came with the van from Tilbury that brings the meat to the butcher’s shop. It comes twice a week. He’d remembered that.”

“Didn’t you wonder why a Russell would be reduced to traveling in the butcher’s van? He owns a motorcar, I’m told.”

“I did wonder, but he told me that the doctors wanted him to stay in hospital, and he’d left instead. He said it would be all right, they’d stop looking and he could go his own way. I believed him. Why should I not? He’s not one to lie. I never remember him telling a lie to anyone at the house.”

“It’s true. What he told you. As far as it goes.”

“He’s not done anything wrong. He just didn’t want to be found and made to go back to hospital. He said he’d heal better on his own, if they’d leave him to it. I could understand that.”

“Did you ever see Russell come to blows with Justin Fowler?”

“Mr. Justin?” She was surprised at the shift in subject. “They weren’t as close as Mrs. Russell had hoped. But there was never any hard feelings between them. There was a time when Mr. Wyatt was jealous over Miss Cynthia, and all that. But it was silly nonsense. Like two cockerels discovering the new hen. I’ve seen it happen before and since.”

“Did Russell blame Fowler for his mother’s death?”

She stared at him. “What did Mr. Justin have to do with that?”

“I must depend on you to tell me.”

Shaking her head, she said, “I never heard any such thing.”

“Then what happened to Mrs. Russell?”

“You asked me that before, when you showed me the locket. The good Lord knows. I don’t. Samuel said once there must be a murderer in that house, but that’s nonsense. I don’t believe it for a minute. Who could do a thing like that?”

“Yet she disappeared.”

“I know. It troubled all of us. The Major most especially, as you’d expect. I never knew a suicide before that. But it was the most likely thing.”

She glanced over her shoulder, and Rutledge knew she was anxious that her husband not see her speaking to the man from Scotland Yard. Then, looking back at him, she said, “I thought you came here about Ben Willet’s death. Not about the Major. Unless you’re looking to take him back to hospital.”

“I’m more concerned about his welfare than returning him to hospital.”

“Then you should know he wasn’t there when I went to the church this morning early. I didn’t know what to make of it, unless he decided that he’d be better off going back. He hadn’t said anything last evening about leaving. He just said he’d give much for hot water and a razor. I asked if he wished me to buy a razor for him, and he said, best not.”

He thanked her and left, intending to go directly to the Rectory now. Instead as he came through Furnham, he was hailed by a furious Sandy Barber, standing outside the door to The Rowing Boat. He looked haggard and out of patience.

Reluctant to take the time to soothe Barber’s ruffled feathers, Rutledge weighed putting him off, then decided against it. Until now they had maintained a workable truce, and that had to be considered. He pulled up in front of the inn and got out. Barber said almost as soon as he was in hearing, “Why the hell did you take my wife to see her brother’s body?”

“She asked to be taken. I tried to persuade her not to go, but she was adamant. When we got there, I saw to it that the body was presentable and there were no other corpses in the room.”

“Yes, well, that’s as may be, but she couldn’t sleep last night. She sat in the parlor and cried. There was no comforting her. I went to find Morrison, finally, but he wasn’t at the Rectory. I came back home and sat up with her. First her father and then her brother. I wish to hell she’d never found out about him.”

“She has asked to have the body brought to Furnham. I’ve given permission for it to be released for burial.”

Barber swore. “Another funeral. We’ve not got over the first.”

He paced away from where Rutledge was standing and stared out to the mouth of the river, then paced back again. “Are you any nearer to finding out who killed Ben?”

“No. The question is, did his killer know Willet was dying? Would it have made any difference?”

“Why wasn’t he in Thetford where he belonged? Why was he wandering about in London? Abigail just told me some faradiddle about Ben wanting to be a writer of books.”

“Apparently he’d lived in Paris after the war. He wrote a book about a man who smuggled goods between England and France. This man met a girl on one of his journeys, and he went to look for her during the war. The book was published in France.”

“I’ll be damned. Abigail never told me that. And there was a girl he mooned over for weeks.” Another thought struck him. “Here, was it Furnham he wrote about?”

“I haven’t read the book.”

“Does Jessup know about this yet? He’d be spitting mad.”

“Will he indeed?”

Barber paced away and back again. “When Ben went to be a footman, Jessup asked Ned if he thought the boy could keep his mouth shut, and Ned said he would. Jessup said the last thing we needed was for Furnham to become notorious. He said people would come just out of curiosity, and if one or two of us was hanged, even better.”

“I hardly think Furnham would become notorious over a few bottles of brandy and the like. Still, do you think Jessup could have killed Willet?”

“God, no. I’m not suggesting that. Look, you’ve stirred up feelings here that we thought had ended with the war, when they dismantled the flying field. That’s all. The Blackwater and the Crouch are drawing holidaymakers from London. We’ve seen what that does to a village. We don’t want it to happen here.”

“Then help me find Ben Willet’s killer. You do want him found, don’t you? The dead man isn’t a stranger, he’s your wife’s brother.”

It was clear that Barber simply wished that the whole matter would go away. But he said, “Yes, all right, I do. For Abigail’s sake. And her father’s. I liked the old man.”

“Was the killer one of your merry band of smugglers?”

Barber grimaced. “We can get the things we need easier from France than from London. What’s so wrong with that? We don’t pay the tax on them, but we don’t go about with a barrow selling them in the streets either, do we? A bit of tobacco, a few bottles of spirits, some lace or a length of cloth. Where’s the harm?”