The Confession

by Charles Todd

  Adams pulled back the sheet. She flinched. “It’s Ben,” she said, and then tentatively reached out to touch her brother’s face, drawing back quickly at the coldness of the flesh. “He’s a man, isn’t he? He was a boy when he left us to go to Thetford. Now he looks very much like Joseph.” After a moment, she leaned down, as if to whisper in his ear. Adams turned aside to offer her a little privacy. And then she straightened.

  “I want to take him home,” she said.

  Adams glanced over her head at Rutledge, who nodded once.

  “Yes, all right, I shall see that the paperwork is completed. There’s a good man here in Gravesend. The—undertaker. He’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Thank you.” Before they could move, she reached out and drew the sheet back over her brother’s face, her hands gentle. And then she was walking quickly out of the room, as if she couldn’t bear it any longer.

  Rutledge thanked Adams and followed her out of the hospital and half a block down the street. She stopped there suddenly, as if she couldn’t go any farther, and broke down, crying inconsolably. He put a hand again on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off.

  When she lifted her head finally, to his shock her eyes were blazing with anger.

  “If you know where Cynthia Farraday lives, you tell her for me. If she ever shows her face in Furnham again—if she even thinks of coming to the service for my brother—I’ll kill her myself.”

  He summoned a cab, and without a word she got into it.

  It was very late when he delivered Mrs. Barber to her home in Furnham. Her husband, peering anxiously out the window, saw them arrive and hurried out to open the motorcar door for her. He was about to demand where she had been when he caught the look that Rutledge gave him. Instead he said, as if it had been what he intended in the first place, “Come in, love, there’s tea waiting.”

  Rutledge didn’t get out. But he waited until the Barbers had walked into their house and shut the door.

  Driving on, he cursed whoever had killed Ben Willet.

  “And it willna’ do you any guid to damn him.”

  Still, he went to the Rectory to find Mr. Morrison, to tell him what had transpired, and to ask him to call on Abigail Willet. But the Rectory was dark and silent. No one answered his knock. At the church then? At this hour?

  He came to the junction in the road and soon after saw the church just ahead. It was dark except for a dim light in the nave, just visible through the plain glass of the high windows.

  Stopping the motorcar at the verge of the road but leaving it running, he crossed to the church door and quietly began to open it so as not to disturb the rector if he was at his prayers.

  He had not swung it more than two inches wide when the sound of voices came to him, echoing in the empty church. He couldn’t see anything but the opposite wall without pushing the door wider. But he knew the voices and could put a name to both of them.

  That was the rector, saying, “What is it you wish to confess, my son?”

  And the response came from Major Russell.

  Chapter 18

  His voice was hoarse, but still recognizable. “Damn it, Morrison, there’s nothing to confess. I just need to talk to someone. The police are after me, I’ve left the clinic again, and I don’t know where to turn. River’s Edge is closed, there’s no refuge there. The house in London has very likely already been searched.”

  There was a long pause. And then Morrison said, “Why do the police want you, Major?”

  “I took a man’s motorcycle. Well, it was the only way I could get out of that clinic and reach London. Then I frightened Cynthia, which I didn’t mean to do. I just wanted to know—never mind that. I sometimes muddle things. It’s getting better, I think, but then there are days of torment, pure hell, when I can barely remember who I am.”

  “They’ve come to Furnham. The police. I’ve been told that Ben Willet has been murdered. And possibly Justin Fowler as well. I don’t know what to think. And there’s your mother’s disappearance. Is River’s Edge cursed? Or is it Furnham? I grew up in a quiet village where murder was unheard of. I have no answers to give you.”

  “They aren’t connected, if that’s what you’re afraid of. There’s no madman out there picking us off every year or two. It’s the war, people are different. The England I nearly died for is gone. I don’t recognize anything.” There was despair in his voice. “For that matter, I’m not the same either.”

  “We must have faith that God in his wisdom—”

  “I don’t know that I believe in God any longer. He damned well wasn’t there in the trenches when we needed him. Did you know that Willet has written a book? A novel? I saw something about it in a newspaper a year ago.”

  “So it’s true, then. Gossip had it that the French believed it was his father who’d written a book. It caused a great deal of hilarity, I can tell you, among Ned’s friends. Were these books something he was ashamed of ? Is that why Ben never told his family about them?”

  “I have no idea. Apparently one’s all about smugglers in Essex before the war. I suppose I should have read it. But I wasn’t ready to revisit Furnham. Or River’s End.”

  Morrison was still concentrating on the books. “It’s just as well everyone thought it was a good joke. Otherwise it could have got him killed. Jessup hadn’t forgiven Ben Willet for becoming a footman. Putting Furnham into a book would have angered everyone.”

  “I doubt it would have led to murder. I saw Willet in London quite recently. Twice, as it happens. The last time there was a crash on Tower Bridge, and I couldn’t get through.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I didn’t recognize him at first. But he knew who I was and spoke. He asked how I was faring, and I asked why he looked so ill. We commiserated on our war, and I told him I’d seen a mention of his book, asked him if he was still writing. He said he was just finishing another manuscript. And then he told me he wished once it was finished that someone would shoot him and put him out of his agony. I told him not to be a fool. I thought he was asking if I’d do it, and I wouldn’t. I couldn’t understand why he believed I could do such a thing. I hardly knew the man.”

  “Then why were you meeting him a second time?”

  “He told me there was something he must tell me. Before he died.” Wyatt took a deep breath. “I didn’t come here to talk about Willet. Will you risk it, Rector? Taking me in? I can’t ask Nancy to do any more than she has done. She must be afraid her husband will find her out. I had trouble enough persuading her to bring me food in the old church ruins.”

  There was another silence.

  Russell said irritably, “If you’re afraid I’ll murder you in your bed, I’ll find somewhere else to go.”

  “It isn’t that,” Morrison began, then before Russell could speak, he added, “there’s hardly enough room for one in the Rectory. Much less two.”

  “I’ll sleep in a chair if I have to.”

  But he must have read something in the other man’s face, because without waiting for an answer, Russell went on, “Yes, all right, I understand. I think there’s a bicycle in one of the outbuildings. It was used by the servants. I can manage. At least let me clean up a little. I’ve slept rough too long and I can’t very well bathe in the river in plain sight of anyone coming upstream.”

  Rutledge eased the door closed, careful not to let the latch click to, and went back to his motorcar, driving off as soon as he was behind the wheel. Without turning on his headlamps he continued down the dark road until he was certain that neither the rector nor the Major could see his rear light.

  Hamish said, “Ye didna’ think to search yon ruins.”

  It was an accusation. But there was barely cover enough to conceal a human being. He hadn’t expected it to hide a stray sheep, much less a grown man.

  “More to the point, how did he get there?”

  “Ye must ask him.”

  “I intend to.”

  He drove for more than a m
ile past the gates of River’s Edge, then left the motorcar at the verge, as far into the heavy grass as he dared. Walking back toward the house, he considered where best to set his ambush.

  Just past the gates?

  But then if Russell knew a shorter way across the marshes—and Rutledge was fairly sure now there must be one—closer to the house would be wiser.

  He chose his spot under the windows at the side of the house, leaned against the wall under the drawing room windows, and waited. How long would it take a man to bathe and shave, perhaps drink a cup of tea? An hour then, before Russell appeared.

  But an hour passed. And then another.

  Had Morrison taken pity on Russell after all, and allowed him to stay the night in the Rectory?

  He’d been certain that Morrison wouldn’t change his mind.

  Hamish said, “Ye could ha’ confronted him in yon kirk.”

  “If Russell had put up a fight, Morrison would have had every reason to raise the question of sanctuary. No, it was better to wait for him here, alone.”

  By half past two, it was clear that Russell wasn’t coming.

  A wild-goose chase.

  “Then go to yon Rectory now and ye’ll have him.”

  It was the only option left to him. By morning Russell could be miles away from this part of Essex. The roads were rutted but flat, and a bicycle could make good time, given an early start.

  It was a long dark walk back to his motorcar.

  But when he reached the Rectory, there were no lights, and no one came to the door.

  After an early breakfast the next morning, Rutledge drove to the Brothers farm. He found Nancy cutting flowers for the house, a basket over her arm and secateurs in her hand.

  She looked up as she heard the motorcar come up the farm lane, straightening to stare warily at Rutledge as he got out and walked across to the garden. He was beginning to understand why she had been eager to see him go yesterday before her husband had come in from the fields. She was afraid her husband might learn that she was harboring the son of her late mistress, a man wanted by the police. And yet out of her feelings for the family she had served so long, she’d taken the risk.

  “Good morning. I’ve come to ask you about Major Russell.”

  She set the basket of zinnias and marigolds to one side, trying to decide whether he knew the truth or was merely looking for information. He could read the uncertainty in her eyes.

  Rutledge said, “I’ve learned you’ve been taking food to him at the old church. Did your husband know?”

  Flushing, she said, “Who told you?”

  “You did. Looking back, I should have guessed you were hiding something. Or in this case, someone.”

  She made no attempt to deny the truth. “He doesn’t know—Samuel. He was glad the house at River’s Edge was closing just as I was marrying him. That was my old life, he said, and this was the new. He didn’t want me keeping up any acquaintance with the others. Mrs. Broadley, the cook, and I were friendly, and Mrs. Dunner, the housekeeper, helped me sew my wedding gown. They told me they wouldn’t mind hearing from me from time to time. But Samuel told me he’d rather I didn’t. They were in service still, you see, and I was a farmer’s wife now. And so I never wrote to them. When the Major came, I hardly recognized him. I couldn’t turn him away, could I? And I couldn’t take him in, neither. I didn’t know what Samuel would have to say about it. Instead I agreed to feed him. I’d take sandwiches and fruit and a jug of tea to him, whatever I could spare that wouldn’t be missed.”

  “That was rough living for a man like the Major.”

  “Don’t I know that? But he said he’d learned to do without while in the trenches. That he’d be all right. And I couldn’t go as far as River’s Edge without taking the cart.”

  He could see her quandary.

  “Was this the first time you’d seen him since the war?”

  “Since my wedding, in fact. He gave me away. I was that grateful. I couldn’t turn him away, could I?” she asked again.

  “What did he tell you? How did he get out here to Furnham?”

  “He came with the van from Tilbury that brings the meat to the butcher’s shop. It comes twice a week. He’d remembered that.”

  “Didn’t you wonder why a Russell would be reduced to traveling in the butcher’s van? He owns a motorcar, I’m told.”

  “I did wonder, but he told me that the doctors wanted him to stay in hospital, and he’d left instead. He said it would be all right, they’d stop looking and he could go his own way. I believed him. Why should I not? He’s not one to lie. I never remember him telling a lie to anyone at the house.”

  “It’s true. What he told you. As far as it goes.”

  “He’s not done anything wrong. He just didn’t want to be found and made to go back to hospital. He said he’d heal better on his own, if they’d leave him to it. I could understand that.”

  “Did you ever see Russell come to blows with Justin Fowler?”

  “Mr. Justin?” She was surprised at the shift in subject. “They weren’t as close as Mrs. Russell had hoped. But there was never any hard feelings between them. There was a time when Mr. Wyatt was jealous over Miss Cynthia, and all that. But it was silly nonsense. Like two cockerels discovering the new hen. I’ve seen it happen before and since.”

  “Did Russell blame Fowler for his mother’s death?”

  She stared at him. “What did Mr. Justin have to do with that?”

  “I must depend on you to tell me.”

  Shaking her head, she said, “I never heard any such thing.”

  “Then what happened to Mrs. Russell?”

  “You asked me that before, when you showed me the locket. The good Lord knows. I don’t. Samuel said once there must be a murderer in that house, but that’s nonsense. I don’t believe it for a minute. Who could do a thing like that?”

  “Yet she disappeared.”

  “I know. It troubled all of us. The Major most especially, as you’d expect. I never knew a suicide before that. But it was the most likely thing.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, and Rutledge knew she was anxious that her husband not see her speaking to the man from Scotland Yard. Then, looking back at him, she said, “I thought you came here about Ben Willet’s death. Not about the Major. Unless you’re looking to take him back to hospital.”

  “I’m more concerned about his welfare than returning him to hospital.”

  “Then you should know he wasn’t there when I went to the church this morning early. I didn’t know what to make of it, unless he decided that he’d be better off going back. He hadn’t said anything last evening about leaving. He just said he’d give much for hot water and a razor. I asked if he wished me to buy a razor for him, and he said, best not.”

  He thanked her and left, intending to go directly to the Rectory now. Instead as he came through Furnham, he was hailed by a furious Sandy Barber, standing outside the door to The Rowing Boat. He looked haggard and out of patience.

  Reluctant to take the time to soothe Barber’s ruffled feathers, Rutledge weighed putting him off, then decided against it. Until now they had maintained a workable truce, and that had to be considered. He pulled up in front of the inn and got out. Barber said almost as soon as he was in hearing, “Why the hell did you take my wife to see her brother’s body?”

  “She asked to be taken. I tried to persuade her not to go, but she was adamant. When we got there, I saw to it that the body was presentable and there were no other corpses in the room.”

  “Yes, well, that’s as may be, but she couldn’t sleep last night. She sat in the parlor and cried. There was no comforting her. I went to find Morrison, finally, but he wasn’t at the Rectory. I came back home and sat up with her. First her father and then her brother. I wish to hell she’d never found out about him.”

  “She has asked to have the body brought to Furnham. I’ve given permission for it to be released for burial.”

  Barber swore. “Another
funeral. We’ve not got over the first.”

  He paced away from where Rutledge was standing and stared out to the mouth of the river, then paced back again. “Are you any nearer to finding out who killed Ben?”

  “No. The question is, did his killer know Willet was dying? Would it have made any difference?”

  “Why wasn’t he in Thetford where he belonged? Why was he wandering about in London? Abigail just told me some faradiddle about Ben wanting to be a writer of books.”

  “Apparently he’d lived in Paris after the war. He wrote a book about a man who smuggled goods between England and France. This man met a girl on one of his journeys, and he went to look for her during the war. The book was published in France.”

  “I’ll be damned. Abigail never told me that. And there was a girl he mooned over for weeks.” Another thought struck him. “Here, was it Furnham he wrote about?”

  “I haven’t read the book.”

  “Does Jessup know about this yet? He’d be spitting mad.”

  “Will he indeed?”

  Barber paced away and back again. “When Ben went to be a footman, Jessup asked Ned if he thought the boy could keep his mouth shut, and Ned said he would. Jessup said the last thing we needed was for Furnham to become notorious. He said people would come just out of curiosity, and if one or two of us was hanged, even better.”

  “I hardly think Furnham would become notorious over a few bottles of brandy and the like. Still, do you think Jessup could have killed Willet?”

  “God, no. I’m not suggesting that. Look, you’ve stirred up feelings here that we thought had ended with the war, when they dismantled the flying field. That’s all. The Blackwater and the Crouch are drawing holidaymakers from London. We’ve seen what that does to a village. We don’t want it to happen here.”

  “Then help me find Ben Willet’s killer. You do want him found, don’t you? The dead man isn’t a stranger, he’s your wife’s brother.”

  It was clear that Barber simply wished that the whole matter would go away. But he said, “Yes, all right, I do. For Abigail’s sake. And her father’s. I liked the old man.”