by Charles Todd
The rector offered a last word of comfort to a tearful, red-eyed Abigail Barber, touched her briefly on the arm, and with a nod to the man just behind her, walked away. As he reached the lane, he looked up and saw Rutledge waiting.
“Good morning,” Morrison said, surprised.
Rutledge said, “I thought you were not welcomed in Furnham.” They fell in step, walking to where Morrison had left his bicycle leaning against the nearest tree.
“I thought you had returned to London.”
“I still haven’t solved the riddle of a dead man.”
“I understand.” Morrison collected his bicycle and pushed it along with him as they continued toward the High Street. “Ned was one of my parishioners. He was always one to question, but he came to believe that he was safer in the church than out of it.”
Rutledge smiled. “A wise man, I think.”
“A careful one. Abigail liked to attend services with him, and Sandy tried to put his foot down, but Ned told him to worry about the state of his own soul.”
“Who was the man standing behind Mrs. Barber as you were leaving just now?”
Morrison had to think for a moment. “I expect it must have been Timothy Jessup. He’s Abigail’s uncle. Her mother’s brother. Not what you would call the friendliest of souls. The Jessups have always kept to themselves. But for all that, the rest of the village listens to them when they do voice an opinion. I’ve never quite worked out why, but there you are. Villages have their own hierarchy inherited down the generations, I should think.”
Rutledge waited until they had moved out of earshot of several women carrying dishes covered with linen cloths, on their way to the Willet house, then said, “When I left the church yesterday I decided to look in at River’s Edge. I expected to find the house closed and empty, as it was before. Instead Miss Farraday was there. She gave me to understand that she was interested in purchasing the house, if Russell intends to put it up for sale.”
“Cynthia Farraday?” Morrison turned to stare at him. “I had no idea . . .” He left it there, busy coming to terms with this piece of news. “I had no idea,” he said again.
They came to the High Street, and Morrison pulled his bicycle around, preparing to mount it. “You said Miss Farraday,” he went on, concentrating on adjusting the band around his trouser legs. “That must mean she never married.”
“Apparently not.” But he had not asked her name, he had greeted her by it. And she had not contradicted him or used we in her subsequent conversation.
“I see.” With a nod to Rutledge he pedaled briskly out of Furnham.
Rutledge watched him go. He hadn’t told the rector the identity of the face in the photograph. It was up to Barber to find the right opportunity to break the news to his wife first.
Hamish commented. “Yon priest. He’s afraid to linger.”
And yet he’d ventured into the village to offer comfort to Abigail Barber, and would very likely conduct the service for her father.
Why had he stayed so long in a parish where hope was outpaced by the knowledge that he was not wanted here?
“Like yon constable, he hasna’ anywhere else to go.”
Chapter 9
Rutledge’s ultimatum to Constable Nelson was sixty minutes. It was closer to ninety when he finally walked through the door of the inn and found Rutledge standing in Reception, waiting impatiently.
But the constable had bathed, shaved, changed his shirt, and brushed his tunic and trousers until they were at least presentable. There was nothing he could do about his bloodshot eyes and a face gray from fighting down his nausea. His hands shook as well, and he seemed not to know what to do with them, pressing the palms against his trousers.
He was out of condition, and Rutledge could see that he was running to fat around his middle, for the last button on his tunic was straining across his belly. And yet he was a younger man than Rutledge had thought when he’d seen him lying in a stupor on the floor. Thirty-eight? Forty?
“Constable Nelson reporting, sir,” the man said, unable to keep the resentment out of his voice.
“Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. Let’s walk, shall we?” They left the inn and turned toward the Hawking. “You were here before the war, were you?”
“Yes, sir, I’m going on my twelfth year in Furnham,” Nelson answered uneasily as he tried to see what it was that this man from London wanted of him.
“Good. I’m here to ask questions about one Ben Willet, and also about the former inhabitants of River’s Edge.”
“What’s he done, then, Ben Willet?”
“He was found in the Thames a few days ago. Murdered.”
Nelson’s eyebrows flew up. “Indeed, sir. Murdered? He was a quiet sort, not one you’d expect to be in trouble, much less murdered. Does Abigail Barber know? She’s his sister.”
“Barber is waiting for the proper time to tell her.”
“She’ll take it hard.” He paused. “Were you thinking it was someone from River’s Edge who killed him? I don’t see that being likely, sir.”
“Was Ben Willet here in Furnham when Mrs. Russell went missing?”
Nelson frowned. “In fact I believe he was, sir. Now you ask. His mother was taken ill of a sudden, and he got permission to come and see her. He was one of the searchers, as I remember.”
“What do you think happened to Mrs. Russell?”
“As to that, I don’t really know, sir. Tilbury handled the inquiry. I was asked to leave the matter to them.”
“Why?”
“Because there was hard feelings between the family and Furnham. I can’t tell you why, only that they wanted no part of me. They spoke to the Chief Constable. Of course he did what he had to do, and called in Tilbury.”
“Her body was never found? That’s difficult to believe. If she drowned, which seems to be likely, surely it would have washed up somewhere between River’s Edge and the sea.”
“The current’s tricky sometimes. Especially after a storm. There’s no telling whether she’d have been found if she’d washed up in the marshes on the other side of the Hawking. There’s inroads that the storms have made. A body could lie in one of them for weeks without being discovered.”
“Someone must have searched that side of the river!”
“Yes, sir, they did. All the same, no one, not even the likes of Ned Willet, knows all the secrets of those marshes.” He stopped at the water’s edge, where it lapped gently at the toes of his boots. “Can I ask you what this has to do with Ben Willet’s death?”
“It seems that he was carrying a photograph of Miss Farraday in a locket that had once belonged to Mrs. Russell. Apparently she was wearing it on the day she vanished.”
“I’ll be damned,” Nelson said. “Are you sure of that, sir?”
Rutledge took out the locket and held it up. “See for yourself. It’s been identified as belonging to Mrs. Russell.”
Nelson took it tentatively, as if he had no right to touch it. “As to that, sir, I can’t tell you that this belonged to Mrs. Russell.”
“Any idea where Wyatt Russell might be? Did he even survive the war?”
“I heard that he had. But that’s all.”
“I was told that he could very well have killed one Justin Fowler in 1915.”
“Mr. Russell, sir?” Nelson shook his head. “I don’t see him as a murderer. Who told the police such a thing?”
“It was Ben Willet.”
Nelson stared at him. “But how could he know? Willet, I mean? Did you speak to him yourself ? How did that come about?”
“Willet came to the Yard a fortnight before his death. Where did he join the Army, do you know? With the men of Furnham, or in Thetford?”
“He was in Thetford when he enlisted. So I was told by Ned Willet. He had friends there and joined with them.”
Rutledge said, “I shall have to go to Thetford. But this isn’t a good time to ask Mrs. Barber where to find the house.”
“If I ever knew,
I’ve forgot,” Nelson said, looking away.
They watched a heron lift off from the far side of the river and fly toward the distant mouth in that strangely elegant slow motion that marked their flight. Then the two men turned back toward the High.
“We never really knew Ben, if you take my meaning,” Nelson said after a moment. “He wasn’t like the rest of them. Eager to go to sea as soon as they could, or if they weren’t fishermen, to work the farm or mind the greengrocer’s shop. Furnham is set in its ways, you can see that for yourself. It looks to the sea, not to London. At first I didn’t understand, I thought they were all benighted. But I came to like the way things were done here. I didn’t want to leave.”
“Where did you live before?”
“In the Fen country. Not all that different in some ways from the marshes, as far as the land goes. A hundred years different in our way of seeing things.”
“But you couldn’t be the village constable and still shut your eyes to the smuggling.” At the expression of alarm on Nelson’s face, Rutledge said, “I saw the brandy bottle on your floor. It’s only my business if it has anything to do with the murder of Ben Willet.”
Nelson took a deep breath. There was a suggestion of resentment in his voice, overlaid with guilt. “If I’d told London what I suspected about the smuggling, I’d have had to leave Furnham. I knew that from the start. I made my choice.”
“It hasn’t been much of a life for you.”
The constable shrugged. “I was never an ambitious man.”
On the surface that was evident. And yet—what had he left behind, what had he turned his back on, that made spending his days and nights in a drunken stupor a better way of life?
They had reached The Dragonfly. Nelson pointed to the sign above the door, creaking on its hinges as the wind picked up. “That was the name of a ship. Did you know?”
“A smugglers’ craft?”
“No.” He shrugged again. “Not that it matters. What do you want of me, sir? Do you think the murderer is here, in Furnham? Am I to help you search him out?”
“I don’t know. I’d hoped you could tell me something about Willet and the Russells that would explain what connected the two men. All I’ve found is the disappearance of Russell’s mother.”
“In your place, I’d look in London. Ben Willet was away from Furnham long enough to have made enemies somewhere. There’s no one here who wanted him dead.”
But Hamish didn’t believe him, stirring restlessly and warning Rutledge.
“Perhaps I will.” He saw the relief in Nelson’s eyes and added, “You’ll send for me, if you learn anything to the contrary?”
Nelson promised, but Rutledge knew even as the words were spoken that the constable had no intention of keeping that promise and contacting him. Whatever he might learn. His duty was to Furnham, not to Scotland Yard.
Rutledge nodded and walked on into Reception. Head down, Nelson turned toward his home. Rutledge wondered what repercussions there might be for the constable now that he’d been seen talking to Scotland Yard. Even if he had told London nothing of importance.
The clerk was behind the desk, sorting through papers, and he looked up as Rutledge approached.
“Where’s the churchyard?” he asked, and the man stared at him as if he’d asked directions to the moon. There must, he thought, be a shorter way to get there than driving out of the village.
“The churchyard?”
“Presumably you have one? I understand Ned Willet will be buried there tomorrow.”
“Ah.” Reassured, the clerk said, “If you go down past his daughter’s house, there’s a road beyond. Well, not much of a road at that. More of a track that has seen better days. Follow it west, and you’ll find the churchyard.”
Rutledge thanked him and went out to his motorcar.
Hamish said, “What really kept yon constable in Furnham?”
I’d like to know, Rutledge silently replied as he turned the crank. It’s as if everyone in this village has a guilty conscience.
He followed directions, driving down the lane past the Barber house, quiet now, the door shut, and saw that just beyond there was indeed a road half hidden by the tall summer grasses.
When he reached it, he realized that to the east it must run past the farm where he’d interviewed Nancy Brothers, eventually circling back into Furnham. From this vantage point, he had a very clear view of the farm beyond hers, where the land was still high enough for good drainage. And the other end of this track must lead to the Rectory before debouching on the London Road, just as Morrison had told him. A loop, as it were, marching in parallel with the High Street.
As he turned toward the west, ahead across the marsh he could just glimpse the tops of yews. And where there were yews there was usually a churchyard. In the far distance, he thought he saw the glint of sun on water. Another river? Or just one of those temporary pools that appeared after a heavy rain and soon vanished? Indeed, the track under his tires was soft from the storm of the other night.
When he reached the churchyard, the graves were, to his surprise, well kept, the grass cropped short, flowers blooming here and there where they had been planted at a headstone. He could also see, as he got out to walk among the graves, that the village had buried its dead here for centuries, for the older stones had settled crookedly, any inscription on them long since covered by lichen or flaked into dust.
At the back of the churchyard, marking the far boundary of graves, he could see a pair of low tumuli. They were long grass-covered mounds, and surely not old enough to be prehistoric.
Hamish said, “Plague victims.”
Rutledge thought he was right. It was often the practice to bury the dead quickly in lime-filled trenches. But he couldn’t remember having seen any as clearly defined as these.
Walking among the stones, glancing at dates here and there, he read the familiar names. There were any numbers of Willets and Barbers, Brotherses and Montgomerys, going back generations, and among them a score or more of other family surnames. Among the Willets, someone—was there a sexton here?—had dug Ned Willet’s grave. Next to his were two memorial stones to his sons lost in the war.
Behind a phalanx of tall yews stood a stone mausoleum. As he approached it, he could read the name incised above the grille that formed the doorway. RUSSELL.
He was more than a little surprised to find it here. He would have thought that the family would have preferred to bury its dead elsewhere. Ornate stone urns, draped in the carved folds of mourning crepe, were set to either side of the doorway. They were empty, and he realized that there was no one to care for them. Certainly not Cynthia Farraday. Did she ever come here? And where was Wyatt Russell?
He stared into the shadowy interior, trying to read the names on the marble squares that marked each interment. But it was too dark, and all he could decipher were the inscriptions on a pair of plaques nearest the grille.
The first was a memorial to Captain Malcolm Arthur George Russell, his dates, and the final inscription, DIED OF WOUNDS RECEIVED IN THE RELIEF OF MAFEKING.
Below it was the memorial to his wife: IN LOVING MEMORY OF EMILY ELIZABETH MARGARET TALBOT RUSSELL, and the dates of her birth and her disappearance.
This was the plaque that Morrison had spoken of, the one villagers had objected to because of the possibility that Mrs. Russell was a suicide.
He walked on, beyond the lilacs that encircled the mausoleum, as if setting it off in death from the village just as the circumstances of their material worth had set the occupants apart in life.
Another ten steps, and he stumbled over what he thought at first was a low stone wall marking the edge of the churchyard and nearly invisible in the thick grass that hadn’t been mown here.
But it wasn’t that sort of wall. Pushing aside the grass and brambles, he followed it some distance before he reached the end and realized that it turned. Here the stones had been pulled apart and tossed about, one or two with carvings that must have come
from around a doorway, others cut and dressed. Many of them were blackened, as if they had been enveloped in flames.
I’ve found the missing church, Rutledge thought, the much older one that had stood here next to its churchyard. And it would make sense too that the Russell mausoleum, rather than being at the outer fringe of holy ground—as it now appeared to be—had actually stood nearest the church. In its shadow, where the Russells could take their rightful place at the last trump.
He paced the breadth and then the length of the foundation. It had been small, like many early village churches, and over the years after what must have been a disastrous fire, stones must have found their way into byres and walls, for stone was scarce out here, and brick had been the main building material.
Morrison, the rector, had talked about drainage issues, and the church here was far enough from the river in flood stage to survive. Here too a crypt could be dug, and the dead could lie in the earth, not raised tombs.
There was no way to judge how long ago the church had burned—or even when it had been built. Had its fate been decided in the upheaval and dissolution of the monasteries under Henry VIII, or had the long arm of Cromwell reached even Furnham, with his strong Puritan revulsion for anything that smacked of High Church?
Hamish said, “Naught so dramatic. Verra’ likely it came down in a storm, and yon village couldna’ afford to rebuild it.” Rutledge smiled to himself. Depend on Hamish to see the practical, not the fanciful. The staunch Covenanter whose pragmatism had often made sense of the nonsense of war and military decisions.
Walking back to the motorcar, he said aloud, “Furnham hasn’t struck me as a godly place.”
Hamish retorted, “More than likely they fear the devil.”
He continued along this ill-kept track and saw that a mile before it reached the London road, a small cottage stood alone in a clearing, the marsh grass beaten back and a pair of trees as tall as the low roof sheltering it.