Charles Todd - The Confession

There must be another.

In his office, refusing to admit defeat, he played with the wording of such a request.

Hamish said, “Ye ken, Fowler hasna’ used a farthing of his ain money. He’s deid. It’s the reason why he’s shown as a deserter.”

“Then where was his body hidden?”

“There’s the river. The same reason Mrs. Russell’s body has no’ been found.”

“Then Major Russell’s body should have been put into the river as well.” But he knew the answer to that. There hadn’t been time to bring a boat up to River’s Edge and take the body aboard. Morrison’s concern and his own search of the high grass had seen to that.

An idea was taking shape.

Galvanized, Rutledge worked feverishly for three-quarters of an hour, crumpling sheets of paper as he made false starts and was faced with unexpected hurdles. Finally, satisfied, he went to find Sergeant Gibson.

“Read this. I’d like to see it in tomorrow morning’s Times.”

Gibson scanned the sheet of paper, then looked up at Rutledge. “Sir? Is this true?”

“Only half of it. Russell is alive but badly wounded. It’s possible that the person who shot him also shot Benjamin Willet. I need to draw him out before he kills again.”

“You believe he will?”

“If he discovers that Russell is alive, he will bide his time and try again.”

Gibson read the paragraph more carefully. Major Wyatt Russell was shot three days ago on the lawn of his house on the Furnham Road, Essex, and taken to a London hospital where he was expected to recover and name his assailant. This morning at six o’clock, he succumbed to severe blood loss and infection. Scotland Yard is treating this death as a case of murder by person or persons unknown. Anyone with information that could help the police with their inquiries is asked to contact Sergeant Gibson at Scotland Yard. All replies will be held in the strictest confidence.

“I’ll see to it,” Gibson told him, but there was doubt in his voice. “You’ve told the Major?”

“I’m on my way now.”

At the hospital he caught Dr. Wade just coming out of surgery. They retired to an empty office and Rutledge explained his plan.

“I don’t care for it,” Dr. Wade said flatly. “The danger of infection hasn’t passed.”

“I understand that risk. But if Major Russell survives this wound, whoever shot him will still be out there waiting.”

“You can’t be sure of that. Can you?”

“I’m not willing to find out.”

“Yes, there’s that. But where are you taking him? He needs care, he can’t fend for himself.”

Rutledge had considered the possible answers to that on his way to the hospital. His first choice had been the rector, Mr. Morrison. But the cottage was small, and if there were any changes in the Major’s condition, medical care was too far away. And the cottage was far too close to Furnham. Morrison would be no match for an angry Jessup.

The second choice was the clinic in Oxfordshire, but he was fairly certain the Major would have no part of that. And a careful killer just might think to look for him there, to see if the Times article was true.

The third option was to take the Major to Cynthia Farraday. That too had its risks.

Which left him with no alternative but to offer his own flat, with a nursing sister in charge of Russell’s care. And yet he had rejected that for personal reasons. His flat was his sanctuary, his dark corner where he could scream in the night when the war came back again. Here Hamish was at his most vocal, and his presence was a living thing.

His rational mind told him that the Major and the nursing sister would find nothing there to betray his connection with Hamish MacLeod. And yet the part of his mind that Hamish inhabited recoiled in terror and refused even to contemplate such an idea, even when Rutledge himself would not be in the house at all.

The rest of the journey had seen a battle with himself. But now he said to Dr. Wade, “My flat in London.”

And for the next half hour together Rutledge and Wade hammered out every possible detail until both were satisfied.

Dr. Wade said, “I’m still not convinced that this is necessary.”

“It’s important to try.”

In the ward, he found the Major sitting up against pillows and drinking a glass of water.

“I’m surprised to see you again,” he said as Rutledge took the chair by his bed. “I thought our business was concluded until you found my assailant. I’ve told you all I know.”

“I’ve come to arrange for you to die.”

“I’m damned if you are.”

He handed Russell a copy of the sheet that he’d given Sergeant Gibson. Setting aside his glass, Russell read the words written there and then read them a second time.

“Yes, I see what you’re driving at. All right, how do I go about dying? And where will you take me? Not to Oxfordshire or I’ll refuse to help you.”

“That was a bit of a problem, but we’ve found a solution. I’ll find a way to make it happen. You must play your part and call for the nursing sister in half an hour, then let her examine you and cover your face. Someone will come and remove the-er-body.”

“When you’ve got what you want, will you retract the death notice?”

“As soon as I can. Yes.” He took the sheet of paper and returned it to his pocket. Then he said, “Did you know that Justin Fowler is listed by the Army as a deserter?”

“Justin? You can’t be serious! Yes, you are, aren’t you.” He lay there for a time, then said, “That’s odd. Because Justin said something I’ve never understood. He told me that the war was too bloody for him, that it gave him nightmares again.”

Rutledge leaned closer, to make certain his voice didn’t carry, but a patient was coughing heavily behind him, covering his words. He said, “Did you know that Justin Fowler’s parents were brutally murdered, and he himself repeatedly stabbed and left for dead?”

“Good God. No. Is that true? Justin? Did they catch whoever did it? No?” He whistled softly. “Did my mother know? She never said a word to me. But that explains the scars on his body. Something was mentioned-surgery, I think.” After a moment he added wryly, “I was a boy, I didn’t believe her. I was envious because I thought he’d done something daring. And so I asked him. Do you know what he said? I have no scars. I thought he’d been sworn to secrecy, and it was rather exciting.”

Rutledge said, “It’s time we got started. I must go.”

Russell stopped him.

“I remembered something last night as I was falling asleep. When I ran into Ben Willet in London, he asked me if I’d see that Cynthia got boxes that he’s left for her in his lodgings in Bloomsbury. He was in love with her. I could see it as plain as the nose on his face. But he didn’t want her to see him, ill as he was. I asked why the boxes shouldn’t go to his family in Furnham. Willet said they wouldn’t have any use for them. But I was jealous, I didn’t do anything about them. As far as I know they’re still there. My conscience pricked all night. It was wrong of me. There’s no one else, Morrison hasn’t come back. I’d like to ask you to make certain they’re kept until I can deal with it myself.”

“What sort of boxes?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t curious enough to ask.”

Rutledge thanked him and left.

He waited out of sight in one of the other wards until the transfer was over, watching the nursing sister he’d dealt with before hurrying out of the ward, summoning Dr. Wade, and then a few minutes later, the body of Major Russell was taken away on a stretcher under Matron’s grim, watchful eye. Finally the undertaker arrived, and Rutledge went out to his motorcar and left.