Charles Todd - The Confession

“No. What did the postmortem show?”

“He hadn’t long to live. An abdominal cancer, inoperable. It could well have been a suicide, given that. Except for the fact that someone shot him in the back of the head.”

“Did they indeed?” He studied the photograph. “The man who came to the Yard was dying of cancer. Given this photograph, I should think the body must be his. Who is handling the inquiry in Gravesend?”

“Inspector Adams, sir.”

“I’ve heard of him. A good man. Very thorough.” He shuffled the papers in front of him into a folder and set it aside. “These can wait. And it’s as well to see the body for myself. To be sure.”

Gibson said, “Will you be asking the Chief Superintendent? He’s having lunch with the Lord Mayor.”

“I’ll leave a message. It will be late afternoon before he’s back at the Yard.” Rutledge took out a sheet of paper, and after a moment’s thought, wrote a few lines on it. Capping his pen, he passed the sheet to Sergeant Gibson. Glancing at his watch, he said, “I should be back before they’ve reached the last course.”

As the sergeant left, Rutledge collected his hat and notebook and walked out of his office. Five minutes later he was in his motorcar and threading his way through the busy London traffic as he headed east.

Gravesend was an old town on the south bank of the Thames, settled where a break in a long stretch of marshes provided the only landing stage. For centuries, ferrymen here held the charter to transport passengers to and from London. If anyone knew the river it was the people of Gravesend. On the outskirts of the town, Rutledge stopped for directions at a coaching inn that had been refurbished, then followed the omnipresent Windmill Hill into town, where he found the police station.

Inspector Adams, a slender man with horn-rimmed glasses perched on the top of his head, looked up as Rutledge was ushered into his office.

“Scotland Yard?” he said as Rutledge gave his name. “You’re here about our corpse, I think. It was an educated guess, sending that photograph to London. He’s not one of ours, we’re fairly certain of that. And the most likely place he came from was somewhere south of the Tower.”

Rutledge asked, “Any idea how long he’d been in the water?”

“At a guess, a good four and twenty hours.”

“And there was nothing in his pockets to help with identification? A hotel key, medicine bottle, even a handkerchief?” There should at least have been a key from The Marlborough Hotel.

“Nothing.” Adams pulled his glasses down and searched for a paper in the clutter on his desk. “Here we are. White male, approximately thirty years of age, fair, five feet eleven inches tall,” he said, reading from the sheet he finally located under a stack of books. “No distinguishing marks, suffering from terminal stomach tumor that has metastasized. Pockets empty, shot at close range, most likely with a service revolver, judging from the caliber. Clothes those of a gentleman. In the water for a day, day and a half.” He looked up over the rims of his glasses. “If his killer had waited a few months more, Nature would have dispatched our victim for him. Hasty, I should say.”

“He admitted that he didn’t have long to live.”

“You know him then. Does he have a name?”

“As a matter of fact, he does. Wyatt Russell, Furnham Road, Essex. It’s the name he gave when he came to the Yard recently to report a crime. At this stage we haven’t found any evidence to indicate that his information is true. But we also can’t prove that it isn’t. The question is, does his murder nearly a fortnight later have any bearing on what he told us? What did he intentionally-or unintentionally-stir up? Who else is involved in this?”

Hamish spoke, his voice jarring in the small office. “Ye ken, ye asked yoursel’ that same question, when the man wouldna’ gie ye any details about the murder.”

Rutledge nearly lost track of Adams’s reply. He had to repeat himself.

“What sort of crime was he reporting?”

“A murder.”

“Well, there you are. Someone will have taken exception to that.”

“Except that my visitor claimed he was the killer.”

“Did he, by God!” Adams pushed his glasses back to the top of his head. He sat there for a moment, then asked, “Have you considered the extent of his cancer? He must have been in almost intolerable pain and taking a fair amount of drugs. You have to wonder if he was in his right mind. He could have felt responsible for a man’s death and finally convinced himself that he’d actually killed him. Guilt can take many forms.”

Rutledge was all too aware of that.

“We’d have to ask a medical man. Russell himself had made some remark about the morphine speaking.”

“I’m glad it’s your case and not mine. Will you want the body? No one so far has claimed it. Potter’s field seems an ignominious end. He must have a family somewhere.” He opened his desk drawer and fished out a small packet. “This was around his neck. Whoever killed him missed it when going through his pockets.”

He tossed the packet to Rutledge, who caught it deftly and unwrapped the brown paper.

Inside was an oval gold locket on a gold chain. An ornately scrolled E graced the front. The locket itself was either old or worn, possibly both. Rutledge found the clasp and opened it. Inside were two small spaces for photographs. The right-hand oval was empty, but on the left there was a woman’s face. Despite the water stains, he could see that she was pretty, young, the just visible collar of her dress fashionable, her hair drawn softly back into a knot behind her head. It was impossible to judge her coloring, but he rather thought her hair was a light brown.

“I wondered if this was hers, and she was dead. That would explain why he’s wearing a woman’s necklace,” Adams said. “A sentimental gesture.”

“Russell lost his wife in childbirth a little less than a year after they were married. Neither her Christian name nor her maiden name began with an E.”

“So much for sentiment,” Adams said dryly.

Still considering the face in the locket, Rutledge said, “He knew he was dying. That means he’d seen a doctor. Possibly in London. We’ll need to find him and speak to him.”

“I thought you told me he lived on the Furnham Road in Essex. That’s on the Hawking, isn’t it?”

“The house there is closed. When I met him, he was staying in The Marlborough Hotel. Someone there should be able to tell us more.” Rutledge frowned. “Are we absolutely certain that Russell didn’t fire that bullet into his own brain? To avoid a worse death?”

“Impossible, according to the doctor. Unless the man was a contortionist. Would you like to see the remains?”

Rutledge accompanied Adams to the hospital where the body had been taken. Down in the bowels of the building they walked through a series of passages to where a small morgue had been set up. The other three bodies had died in the hospital, Adams explained, and were awaiting the undertaker. In the far corner lay their murder victim.

When Rutledge pulled back the covering over the body, he recognized Russell instantly. The likeness was stronger than that of the photograph, which must have been taken in poor light. “Yes. I’d swear to his identity in the witness box.” He moved the dead man’s head slightly to look at the entry wound of the bullet. “Your doctor is right, he couldn’t have shot himself. Who did you say found the body?”

“A waterman by the name of Acton. He got it into his boat and brought it in. You can speak to him if you like. He should be back in Gravesend in about five hours.”

“You have his statement? It’s satisfactory?”