Charles Todd - The Confession

“Will you tell me when the funeral will be? I’ll take the service, if Cynthia-Miss Farraday-wishes me to.”

He was prepared this time. “The body won’t be released straightaway.”

“Yes, I understand. But you’ll pass along my offer, I hope.”

Rutledge promised, thanked him for the lemonade, and left.

“Are ye going to River’s Edge? Ye’ll be a target, if ye do, and no one to help.”

He answered Hamish aloud. “If it’s someone from Furnham, he’ll follow me to London. And there I won’t see him coming.”

“Aye. But watch your back.”

Rutledge stopped at the gates of River’s Edge, walked up the drive and around to the terrace. And although he stood there for nearly three-quarters of an hour, he saw no one. No one took a shot at him.

All the same, he could feel eyes watching him. From the high grass? Among the reeds across the river? Or concealed in the dozens of inlets and coves barely deep enough for a small boat?

He hadn’t thought to bring his field glasses. And he cursed himself for that.

Debating the wisdom of spending the night in the empty house, he decided against it.

Hamish said, “Yon Major was shot after dark.”

“If I’m to be shot and killed, it won’t matter if I see who it is in broad daylight.”

“Aye, there’s that.”

“When next I come, I’ll bring Constable Greene with me.”

The drive to London lay ahead. Reluctantly he walked back to the motorcar. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find his tires slashed. But they were not, the crank turned and the motor caught, and nothing at all happened.

He didn’t feel reassured by that.

I t was too late to return to the Yard by the time Rutledge reached London. But he stopped at his flat to look in on Russell. He was sleeping, and Sister Grey, who had been nodding in her chair by the bed, assured Rutledge that there were no changes in his condition.

He found Frances waiting for him.

“I didn’t know if you were coming here again tonight. What did you do with the boxes? Take them with you this morning?”

“They’re evidence. I put them in the attic for safekeeping.”

“I’m glad they’re out of sight. I’m starving. Will you take me to dinner? I’m afraid you still owe me a lunch.”

At the restaurant, they met several friends, but sat at a table for two. Rutledge was just as glad. The four people they had spoken with as they came in often included Meredith Channing in their dinner plans. He couldn’t sit there and listen to speculation about where she might be or why she was away so long. He’d told himself a hundred times to put her out of his mind. But it was harder to do than he’d ever imagined. The wound was still too raw.

Hamish’s voice, without warning, spoke from just behind him. “You willna’ walk away. It’s safer to love someone ye canna’ have. You willna’ have to tell her about me.”

Frances said, “A penny for your thoughts.” Stretching out her hand, she put a copper penny in front of his plate.

Collecting himself, he recognized the profile of Edward VII staring up at him and managed a smile. To gain time, he handed it back to her. “What else is there to think about? The Yard.”

She made a face. “Put it aside for tonight. Listen, the orchestra is starting to play. Talk to me, or I shall make a fuss until you dance with me.”

Laughing because she expected it, he cleared his mind of everything except for the ever-present Hamish and tried to pretend it was before the war and the golden summer of 1914 had lasted forever.

The next morning he went to the Yard early and found an envelope on his desk. Sergeant Gibson’s name was on the front, in care of the Yard. There was no return address.

Rutledge took out the single sheet of paper. I saw the request for information in the newspaper. Will you meet me? Just by St. Martin-in-the-Fields will do. 2:00?

It was unsigned.

The hunt was beginning. And he had a feeling he was the prey. But who was the hunter?

He walked out of the Yard at one-thirty and made his way to Trafalgar Square. He stood there for a quarter of an hour, surveying the people coming and going, trying to spot anyone looking for him as well.

At five minutes before two o’clock, he walked to the west door of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, its white facade bright in the afternoon sun.

He stood there until well after two o’clock, and no one came.

Giving it up, he turned and walked back toward the Yard. He was waiting at the corner to cross the street when someone came up behind him and said quietly, “Don’t turn around. You aren’t Sergeant Gibson. Who are you?”

“Inspector Rutledge. I put that request in the Times. Sergeant Gibson was merely the contact. What’s your name?”

“No, I told you, don’t turn. In exchange for what I know, I want one thing. Immunity from prosecution for desertion. Can you arrange that?”

A break in the traffic was coming, but Rutledge stayed where he was.

“I don’t have the authority to make such an arrangement.”

“Then you don’t need to speak to me.”

“Wait!” Rutledge said quickly. “I’ll do what I can. Give me twenty-four hours.”

“I’ll give you until dark. Come back alone. I know what you look like now. If you try to see me, it’s finished.”

“Very well.”

Another break in the traffic came.

“Go,” urged the voice behind him. And Rutledge crossed the street with six or eight other people hurrying on their way. Even before he reached the far side, he knew he was alone.

The encounter had yielded several pieces of information. He had met a deserter, for one. And he was absolutely certain the Army wouldn’t offer immunity in exchange for information that would bring a murder inquiry to an end. And finally, he hadn’t recognized the voice at his back.

Was it a trick? A deserter seizing the opportunity to help himself ? The man claimed he knew Sergeant Gibson. Or had someone actually come forward and been clever enough to ensure he himself wasn’t tricked?

Rutledge tried to replay the voice in his mind. Low, but not deep. Most certainly male. It reminded him of Ben Willet’s, the same timbre, the same cultured overtones. Willet was a good mimic, the voice of a gentleman coming naturally to him. But he was also dead, and his sister had identified the body.

Rutledge sent a message round to his sister’s house to say that he would be late. And then he went to see Major Russell.

“Someone contacted me,” he said as he came into the bedroom. “It wasn’t such a wild idea after all.”

Russell said quickly, “Who was it?”

Handing him the envelope, Rutledge said, “Do you recognize the handwriting?”

After studying it for a moment, Russell said, “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

“Would you know Findley’s hand? Or Fowler’s?”

“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anything in Finley’s handwriting. And it isn’t Justin’s. His had more of a slant to it.”

Rutledge told him what had transpired, ending with, “He asked for immunity from prosecution for desertion.”

“Good luck to him,” Russell said. “The Army will never agree to that. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn it’s someone from Furnham. You did see to it that they knew about the Times? All right then. I’ve dealt with soldiers from isolated villages. Some of them were so homesick they would have deserted if they hadn’t been too afraid to try.”

Rutledge himself had dealt with raw troops facing battle for the first time. “Or it’s a trap?” he said slowly. “I’m to meet him again when it’s dark.”

“What would he have done,” Russell asked, “if this man Gibson had met him? He’d have been prepared to put him off, wouldn’t he, and make certain that you would come.”