Charles Todd - The Confession

“Would you have come at all?” she asked finally.

“I was hoping to reach you before you’d seen the Times.”

“I don’t believe you.” She rose to go. “Where do I find the undertaker who took Wyatt’s body? I shall deal with the arrangements myself.”

It was the one thing he hadn’t planned for.

“The hospital is sending that information to us. I’ll see that you get it.”

“Just as you saw to it that I was informed before the Times arrived this morning?”

“No, Miss Farraday. I’ll see that you know in good time. If I must send Constable Henry to you with the information.”

Turning toward the door, she said, “You’ve brought me only unhappiness. When I thought you were Wyatt’s solicitor, I liked you. And then you tried to follow me home, and I was frightened. Since then, nothing has gone the way it should. I hold you accountable.”

He walked with her as far as the street in front of the Yard. “Shall I take you home? My motorcar is just there.”

“I’d rather walk,” she told him, and turned toward Trafalgar Square, leaving him standing on the pavement.

He drove to Essex, feeling the guilt of the liar. Telling himself that what he had done was necessary. But it didn’t help.

On the way he stopped and bought a copy of the newspaper.

Arriving in Furnham, he took the paper, already turned to the proper page, into the cool morning dimness of The Rowing Boat.

Barber was there, and Jessup as well, with four or five others. Rutledge realized that he’d just walked into a planning meeting for the next run to France.

They stared at him with animosity, and he told himself grimly that it was only to get worse.

He put the newspaper down on the bar in front of Barber. “I don’t imagine you’ve seen this,” he said.

With a glance at the others, Barber picked up the newspaper, found the article that Rutledge had referred to, and began to read it. Then he stopped and began again, reading it aloud this time.

There was silence in the room as he put it down. “What’s this got to do with us?” He nodded to the others.

“I should think you’d be interested in helping find his killer. Even if you had no interest in finding Ben Willet’s.”

“Perhaps it was suicide,” Barber said after a moment. “Did you think of that?”

“I should think he would have found it difficult to shoot himself in the back and then walk as far as the house, leave the revolver where he’d found it, and return to the marshes to collapse.”

As he stood there, waiting for them to answer, he found himself wondering if any of the shotguns the runners had carried had come from the gun case at River’s Edge. Something in the faces turned toward him told him they knew the gun case as well as Rutledge did.

Jessup said into the silence, “Why should one of us wish to kill Russell? We hardly knew him. He wasn’t one to come to The Rowing Boat of an evening and drink with us.”

“There have been too many deaths at River’s Edge. Beginning with Mrs. Russell and including Justin Fowler. Bodies don’t disappear in the river, not without a little help.”

Jessup stirred. “Don’t be a fool,” he said after a moment.

“What reason did we have?” another of the men asked.

“I was hoping you would tell me. There is something wrong at River’s Edge. I haven’t found out what it was, but I will.” He gestured to the newspaper as he picked it up. “As this says, any information will be treated with strictest confidentiality. So don’t be afraid to speak up. I should think Miss Farraday will be offering a reward as well.”

He turned, walking out the door, feeling a tightness between his shoulder blades until he had swung the door shut behind him.

At the Rectory, he saw Morrison trimming a hedge that ran along the back of his property. Getting out, he walked past the house and said, when he was in earshot, “I think you’ll want to read this.” Holding up the newspaper, he waited until Morrison had put down the wooden-handled hedge trimmers and joined him by the kitchen door.

“What’s that? It can wait, I’m thirsty. Would you care for a lemonade?”

Rutledge went into the small but tidy kitchen and took the chair Morrison indicated. An oiled cloth in a rather garish shade of green covered the table, and the hutch and the cabinets were old. After a moment he came back with a heavy pitcher in his hands.

“It’s not terribly cold,” the rector said apologetically. “It’s hard to come by ice out here. I’ve taken to keeping the jug in the root cellar.” He poured a glass and handed it to Rutledge. “Now. What is it I ought to read?”

Rutledge thanked him and pointed to the top of the page.

“Dear God,” he said after he’d finished it. “He’s dead? But I thought- Dr. Wade gave him a very good chance of living.”

“I was there yesterday. Just before his fever shot up. I’ve shown this to Barber and Jessup and a few of the others. And as you can see, I’ve kept your name out of it. I thought it best.”

“Thank you very much. I can do without any other quarrel with my parishioners. But this is sad news. After all our efforts to get him to a Casualty Ward. Did he ever remember anything more?”

“Apparently not.”

“Well, that will just make your task harder, I should think. Much as I hate to say it, it must have been one of the villagers.” Morrison shook his head. “But there’s no motive. He hadn’t been here for years. Why shoot him?”

“Perhaps because he’d seen Ben Willet the night before he was killed. With someone from Furnham.”

Morrison’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you sure? In London? That’s a long journey for someone from Furnham. None of us has the luxury of your motorcar.”

“There are vans that come to the butcher’s shop and the greengrocer’s shop. Someone must come for the milk out at the farms. There are ways.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. Well, then, it should be easy enough for you to find out. Still-I know these people, Rutledge. Which one have I failed to understand?”

“You told me that Jessup was dangerous.”

“Yes, that’s true, he is. He will hammer you within an inch of your life if you cross him. His fists are his weapon of choice.”

“Nevertheless, one of your flock shot Russell.”

“All right, yes. I just don’t want to think that men I’ve known and argued with and cajoled into coming to a service or letting a son or daughter be baptized are killers. Is it possible that someone from London followed him here? There was that business of the loose mare.”

“Probably very slim at best.” Rutledge could appreciate Morrison’s concern for the souls in his keeping, whether they wanted his keeping or not.

Finishing his lemonade, he asked, “Did you know the history of the church that preceded yours?”

Morrison roused himself from whatever he was thinking about the men of Furnham. “I was told it was struck by lightning and burned. Flat as it is out here, a steeple is the tallest point around. Not surprising.”

“Jessup told me the same story.”

“It’s one of the reasons why the new church, St. Edward’s, has a truncated tower. I suspect the beams were ancient and as dry as several hundreds of years could make them. They’d burn in a flash. I asked if it had been a Sunday, if anyone had been trapped in it. But apparently not, it was in the evening.”

Rutledge left it at that. Picking up the newspaper, he said, “I’m going to River’s Edge. It’s possible that in our concern for Russell we overlooked something.”

“I can’t imagine what. Do you want me to go with you? Two pairs of eyes and all that.”

“It’s just as well if I go alone. And then I’ll carry on straight to London.”