Charles Todd - The Confession

“There you are,” he said, stepping in. “Is he asleep?”

Rutledge answered, “Yes, I think so. The nurse warned me not to disturb his rest. We should leave.”

He rose and got Morrison out of the room. Walking to the motorcar, Morrison asked, “Could you talk to him? Did he tell you anything else?”

“Only that he doesn’t know what happened to Fowler. It may be that he will never be able to remember. If he’s guilty of murdering him, Russell could well go free.”

Morrison digested that, then said, “You don’t intend to take him into custody?”

“Suspicion isn’t truth. I need facts.”

Morrison cranked the motorcar for Rutledge and then got in. “How, I wonder, did Ben learn about Fowler’s death and Russell’s role in it?”

“I don’t know. But the fact that he did tells me that whatever happened, happened in River’s Edge. Or somewhere along the Hawking. Not in London or Dover or Portsmouth. I told you before I don’t believe in coincidence. And it would have been difficult to kill someone and get rid of the body where hundreds of men are collecting and boarding their transports. But the River Hawking is rather isolated. If it swallowed up Mrs. Russell, it could swallow Fowler just as easily.”

“Then why wasn’t Willet killed in Essex as well?”

“I haven’t worked that out yet. Perhaps someone didn’t want him to reach Essex.”

“We don’t know he was intending to go there.”

“I’ve discovered that he was.”

That silenced Morrison. After a time, he said, “I’m tired. I’ll shut my eyes for a bit, if you don’t mind.” He leaned his head against the window strut.

Rutledge was grateful for the chance to think. With his eyes on the road, he let his mind review everything he knew.

Hamish said, “There’s no answer.”

“Exactly. And there’s only one reason I can think of to explain that. Somewhere is a piece of the puzzle we haven’t found. Not yet. And I’m not sure where to look.”

“Aye. Ye must start at the beginning.”

By the time he’d passed the gates of River’s Edge and made the turning to the Rectory, Morrison was awake and complaining of being stiff.

He said, preparing to get out of the motorcar, “I never thought he would live.”

“Nor did I. But if he had died, the inquiry on Justin Fowler would have to be closed. Without Willet and without Russell, there is no case.”

Morrison shook his head. “I watched you question a man who was in great pain. How do you live with the fact that the person you take into custody will be tried and judged and very likely hanged? Do you never feel merciful?”

“It’s not a question of mercy. I don’t judge people. I leave that to the courts. It’s my task to collect the facts that will help them arrive at the truth.”

“That’s very self-righteous, don’t you think?”

And then he was gone, shutting the Rectory door behind him.

Rutledge continued into Furnham, realized he’d eaten nothing since breakfast, and stopped by the tea shop-cum-bakery. But it was already closed, and he went on to the inn.

The clerk told him that he hadn’t asked for dinner, and so there was none to be had. But when Rutledge offered to pay him well for a meal, he agreed to prepare something. When the tray was brought to his room, Rutledge found under the cloth covering several sandwiches, a dish of fruit, and a square of cheese with rather stale biscuits.

He ate his meal sitting by the window, where the cool evening air made him drowsy. Setting the empty dishes outside his door, he went to bed.

But the drowsiness seemed to evaporate as soon as he blew out the lamp and got into bed.

Instead, his mind went over and over what he knew about the three murders and the attack on Russell. And he didn’t like what he was beginning to conclude.

Cynthia Farraday had wanted River’s Edge, but not its owner. It would have been easy for her to murder the unsuspecting Mrs. Russell. But despite his protestation of his love, Wyatt Russell married someone else for the sake of an heir. If that was her motive, it didn’t make sense for her to kill Fowler or Ben Willet.

Wyatt Russell had the best motive-jealousy. He could have killed the men he perceived to be his rivals. But why kill his own mother?

Jessup, for reasons of his own, could have killed Mrs. Russell, her son, and his own nephew. But why murder Fowler?

And if the person who killed Fowler’s parents intended to return one day and murder the son as well, why had it been necessary to kill the Russells and Ben Willet?

Was it possible that there were two people at work here?

He was close to the answer when sleep overtook him.

And then he was back in France, the sound of the guns loud in his ears, the screams of the wounded and the dying all around him while the machine gunners whittled away the numbers coming toward them until only Rutledge was left on his feet, and struggling through the mud toward the gunners, his revolver in his hand and determination giving him the strength to keep going despite the bullets plowing into his body. But when he reached the nest, there was only one gunner, nothing but bones grinning at him from behind the gun sight. And Hamish’s voice at his ear was shouting to him, trying to make him understand that he too was dead.

“Fall down and let it be over,” the Scots voice cried. “For God’s sake, let it be over!”

Rutledge fought against it, clinging to life, struggling against the darkness that was overwhelming him, reaching out for a handhold and unable to find it. For he could see that the River Somme was filled with blood, and he would drown in it, in spite of all he could do.

With a shock he came wide awake, wrestling the bedclothes, crying out in the darkness.

He could feel the cold sweat drying on his body, and his chest was heaving as he tried to breathe again.

In the quiet room, unseen, Hamish said, “It will never go away. Not even when ye die. The dead dream too.”

He got out of bed and thrust his head out the window, letting the night air blow away the last remnants of the night terror.

Finally he dressed and went out to walk until the sun brightened the horizon, not caring if the smugglers had made a run in the night. It wasn’t until he could see his hand clearly before his face that he went back to his room and, without undressing, fell into a deep sleep.

In the morning he went to see Nancy Brothers, spending half an hour in her pleasant kitchen, and when he had the information he wanted, he thanked her and left.

And then, because he didn’t think he could spend another night in the room at The Dragonfly Inn, he packed his valise and drove out of Furnham.

When he finally reached London, he went directly to Somerset House and began his search.

The first name on his list was Mrs. Broadley, the cook at River’s Edge. According to Nancy Brothers, she had gone to live with her sister when the house was closed.

He hadn’t expected to encounter quite so many Broadleys, but it appeared to be a fairly common name in some counties. Finally he found the one he was after.

She had died in a village north of Derby during the influenza epidemic of 1918.

He turned next to Mrs. Dunner, who had taken another post in the Midlands.

There was no record of her death. And he had the address that Mrs. Brothers had given him.

The last name on his list was the young chauffeur, Harold Finley.

There was no record of his death.

It had taken him two hours, but he felt satisfied with the results.

On a whim, he also looked for Gladys Mitchell, Fowler’s first wife. Her death was recorded here, and he jotted down in his notebook the name of the sanitarium.

He found the name of her husband in the marriage records and looked at his death date.