Charles Todd - The Confession

“From the clotting around the wound, I’d guess around three in the morning. Give or take an hour. He was cut and scraped as well. An earlier accident, was it? Or a drunken brawl?”

“He ran a Triumph into a ditch.”

“Yes, that fits.”

“Major Russell also suffered a head wound in the war. He’s sometimes confused.”

“I noticed that as well. He’s lived a charmed life, the Major has. I don’t think he’ll be riding his Triumph again anytime soon. With that head wound, he really shouldn’t be riding one at all.”

Rutledge indicated Morrison. “This man is the Major’s priest. I should like to leave him here, in the event that Russell comes to his senses and can describe his attacker. Will you see to it that Mr. Morrison is allowed to stay with him at all times?”

Morrison was on his feet, about to protest. “I’m needed-Mrs. Barber-”

“In good time,” Rutledge finished for him. “I have to leave, but I’ll be back by late afternoon.” He turned back to Dr. Wade. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Sorry, no. Not at this time. It’s a watching brief at the moment, with surgery a possibility if those ribs press into the lung or there’s more internal bleeding. He’s lost enough blood that I’d rather not risk costing him more. We’ll see.”

Rutledge thanked him and left. Morrison, resigned, walked with him to the door.

“Should I ask for a constable to come in and sit with Russell? Or bring in a sister to hear whatever he has to say?”

“He’s not confessing, Rector. Either he can identify his assailant or he can’t. If he dies, we’re back to where we began. If he names someone and then dies, you’re a reliable witness.”

“Yes, I see. I must admit,” he said wryly, “I’m still a little shaken. Seminary doesn’t prepare one for police duties.”

Rutledge smiled. He cranked the motorcar and got in as Morrison hurried back into Casualty to begin his watch.

But he sat there for fully five minutes after the rector had closed the door behind him.

There hadn’t been time to go back into the house and look at the contents of the gun case.

There was also the fact that Jessup had been waiting for him at the ruins of the old church. Had he discovered that Russell had been hiding there? And had he come to gloat, because he knew that Russell was now lying in the marsh near River’s Edge? It would fit. But why should he wish to shoot Russell?

It was Hamish who answered that. “Ye ken, in the dark, he thought the Major was you.”

Rutledge let out the clutch and drove on to his flat to change his torn and bloody clothes.

He went to The Marlborough Hotel and put in a call to the Yard, asking for Sergeant Gibson.

Gibson was not at present in the building, he was told.

So much for the information that Rutledge needed.

He rang off, left the hotel, and drove back through London to the hospital where he’d taken Major Russell.

When he found his way to the ward where the patient had been transferred, he saw Morrison sitting next to the Major’s bed. Rutledge thought the rector was asleep in his chair, but as he came down the aisle, Morrison looked up. He waited until Rutledge was standing by his side to say quietly, “He was awake. Briefly. I don’t think he knew where he was or why.”

“It could be that he will recall more details later. How is he?”

“The doctors are worried about infection. Where he was lying was not helpful on that score. Damp, marshy land, and God knows what festering in it. Otherwise the wound appears to be clean enough. And they don’t believe there’s as much internal bleeding as they feared in the beginning. He has a fair chance of making it.”

“He’s lucky his assailant was a poor shot. Or possibly he came up on Russell sooner than he’d expected-” He broke off as he saw Russell’s eyelids fluttering.

And then he was fully awake, grimacing in pain. Recognizing Rutledge, his gaze swung around the room, eyes wide with alarm. Then he made a sudden movement, as if to sit up, and sucked in a breath between teeth clenched in a grimace as he fought the fire that seemed to explode in his shoulder. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he lowered himself gently onto the pillows again.

“Lie still,” Rutledge admonished him. “The doctors are worried enough, and so am I.”

“The motorcycle?” Russell asked, his voice rough and without much force. It was clear that he had lost track of everything since going into the ditch with the Triumph.

“You survived that well enough. Someone tried to kill you at River’s Edge. You’re in a London hospital where you were brought from there. Do you remember anything at all about going to the house?”

The Major struggled to assimilate that bit of information. Finally he managed to say, his gaze on Rutledge’s face, “Shot?” as if it was as alien as the fact that he didn’t recognize his surroundings. “When?

“Last night. Do you remember sleeping in the church ruins outside Furnham? Being brought your meals by Nancy Brothers?” It took some time to take Russell step-by-step from the crash of the Trusty to leaving the Rectory in the middle of the night. Finally Rutledge asked, “Who shot you? Do you know?”

He shook his head slightly, as if afraid the movement would bring back the fierce pain. “He-betrayed me,” he said, his gaze moving on to Morrison’s face.

“In point of fact, he probably saved your life. He came for me when he couldn’t find you this morning.”

“Told me-he told me he couldn’t lie if you asked-if you asked where I was.”

“If we hadn’t found you in the marsh, you’d be dead by now. As it was, it was a close run thing.”

One hand lifted vaguely in the direction of his chest. “Dying?”

“Probably not. But we need to know who shot you. Do you remember anything?”

“Nothing.”

“If there’s anything on your conscience, I’d advise you to clear it. Morrison will hear your confession, if you like.”

Russell closed his eyes. “Hurts. The very devil.”

He asked Morrison to summon one of the nursing sisters. When he was out of earshot, Rutledge said in a low voice, “Before I go, I must ask you. It’s my duty. Did you kill Justin Fowler?”

“God, no.”

“Did you kill Ben Willet?”

“Told you. No. Refused.”

Hamish said, “Do you believe him?”

Rutledge didn’t answer him. Morrison was coming back with the sister, and she carried a tray with water and a small medicine cup.

Russell’s good hand tried to clutch at Rutledge’s arm, his fingers grasping at air.

“As I fell. Silhouette. I remember now.” He paused, and when the sister was about to hold the water to his lips, Russell shook his head, still watching Rutledge’s face. “Am I-will they send me back to St. Margaret’s?”

“Speak to Dr. Wade. He will have to work that out.”

Yet Rutledge understood how the Major felt about the clinic. He himself had left Fleming’s clinic a month before the doctor felt he was ready. And the doctor, as it turned out, was right, he hadn’t been prepared for Warwickshire.

Russell leaned back, taking the medicine the sister had brought. Rutledge waited until he had swallowed it, and then he left, promising Morrison to drive him back to Essex as soon as possible.

As he walked back to where he had left his motorcar, he debated his next move. And he came to a conclusion. He drove back to the center of London and once more availed himself of The Marlborough Hotel’s telephone, reluctantly shutting himself into the tiny closet and putting in a call to someone he knew in the War Office.

George Munro listened to what Rutledge had to say, then replied, “Do you know what you’re asking?”