by Charles Todd
When she returned to the telephone, she said, “I’m so sorry. But a man has just come. He has already spoken to Mr. Hiller, he tells me. I appreciate your message, Inspector.”
“Have you looked for Russell at his house in London?”
“I have. That’s to say, I asked one of our former orderlies who is now at St. John’s to go round and see if anyone was there. That was at ten o’clock this morning. The house appeared to be empty. What’s more, a neighbor confirmed that he hadn’t seen the Major for some time. I think we can safely say he isn’t there. The question is, where do we look now? Should I have Jacobson look at hotels?”
“I’m on my way to Essex,” he told her. “I shan’t be able to reach you, but I have a feeling that Russell is returning to River’s Edge.”
“My understanding is that the house is closed, the staff dismissed,” she said, doubt in her voice.
“That’s true. But given his present state of mind, he may not care.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Inspector. I shall look forward to hearing from you again.”
“And should he turn up meanwhile, will you call Sergeant Gibson at the Yard and leave a message for me?”
She promised, and he rang off.
After a brief stop at his flat, he drove out of London. It would be dark well before he reached his destination, and given his lack of sleep the night before, he ought to wait until morning. But in Essex, he would also be out of reach of recall.
“He doesna’ have his revolver with him,” Hamish said some time later. “If he didna’ go to yon house.”
“Not unless he stopped at the London house before he went to see Miss Farraday. But I don’t think he would risk that. Not before he spoke to her. The question is, what weapons are in the Essex house?”
“Ye ken, his father was in the Boer War.”
“He was buried in South Africa. There’s no way of knowing whether his service revolver was sent home in his trunk.”
“Or if he kens where it is.”
“It’s too bad that Willet-when he was confessing to the murder of Justin Fowler in Russell’s place-didn’t tell me how the victim was killed.”
Some miles outside London Rutledge stopped for petrol, and then realizing that he hadn’t eaten for nearly two days, he drove on to a pub overlooking the Thames and ordered his dinner. It was slow in coming.
Darkness was falling by the time he was on the road again, the sun a deep red ball behind him, the last of its rays reflected in the Thames, flickering on the current. Ahead, over the North Sea, the sky was a luminous purple.
Hamish said, “It’s best to wait until daylight.”
“But safer in the dark,” Rutledge answered aloud. “He won’t see me coming.”
He stopped briefly for a cup of strong tea when the food he’d eaten made him drowsy. Then he drove on, the night air warm in the motorcar and adding to his drowsiness. At length he picked up the pitted road that followed the Hawking east toward Furnham, where there was only starlight to guide him, and his headlamps tunneled through the darkness, marking his way. The wheel bucking under his hands was enough to bring him fully awake again.
The gates of River’s Edge were ghostly as the glare of his headlamps picked them up just ahead, alternately white and shadowed.
He drove past them some little distance, and then stopped the motorcar, turning off the headlamps. Taking out his torch but not flicking it on, he walked down the middle of the road as far as the house gates, guarding his night vision.
Reaching the gates, he stood for a moment, listening to the night. The marsh grasses whispered to themselves, and he could hear scurrying as small creatures hunted and were hunted. Insects sang in the warm darkness, or perhaps they were frogs of some sort.
But there was no sound of a man moving on the overgrown drive. It wasn’t likely that Russell was just ahead of him, but there was no way of knowing how successful the Major had been finding transportation. Rutledge knew he couldn’t afford to be careless.
He used the mental map from his previous visits to guide him now. Up the drive, striving to keep to the flattened paths that he’d made before, he took his time. If Russell wasn’t here now, he would surely come at some point, and there was no need to make him unduly nervous.
The night felt empty, like a house where no one was at home-indeed, like Russell’s house in London. But he still took no chances. Alert, slowly feeling his way, keeping to the shadows, he finally came within sight of the house rearing up before him.
No lights, he thought, scanning this front. But he would have to step into the open to reach the house from where he stood. Casting about for a better approach, he heard the soft flutter of feathers, and without warning an owl soared out of the trees directly over his head, swooping downward to scoop up its prey. A sharp squeak, broken off, and then the same flutter of feathers as the owl lifted off again and came back to his roost.
It had had all the earmarks of an ambush, and Rutledge felt the rush of adrenaline through his veins, setting his heart to pounding. He stayed where he was for several minutes until it had slowed.
Staying within the shadows as much as he could, he reached the corner of the house and then, bending low, crept across the open ground, keeping his silhouette short and as inconspicuous as possible. If there were guns in there, would Russell use them? Or had his anger burned out?
Rutledge stayed in the shadow of the house for all of five minutes. But nothing happened, and keeping as close to the walls as he could, he worked his way toward the terrace. He was nearly sure that Cynthia Farraday had either been able to force one of the French doors or had left it unlocked for future visits. She had spoken of a key, but he wasn’t certain he could believe her.
The terrace was empty. He got as far as the doors and waited again for any sign that he’d been spotted. Five minutes later, he tried the French doors and found that one of them was unlocked, as he’d expected.
He stepped inside and stood waiting again, before beginning a silent and methodical search of the house.
He walked from room to room, sometimes caught off guard by a dust sheet that was unexpectedly as tall as a man or a board that squeaked loud enough to echo.
In the study he found the gun case. In the dimness, he used his hands to identify the contents. Standing upright were four shotguns for hunting the ducks and geese that wintered here on the river. They were well oiled and cared for. In the case below were two revolvers, one a service revolver and the other a smaller caliber that could have been a souvenir. They too were clean and oiled. To one side of the case were several daggers mounted on the wall, the sort a military man might collect on his travels.
When he had made a full circuit of the ground floor with no sign of an intruder, Rutledge started up the stairs, careful not to step on the center of the tread but to stay as close to the wall as he could. At the top he waited and listened before going on. It was late enough that a weary Russell might be sleeping in one of the beds.
But the first floor yielded nothing either. Mattresses had been rolled on the beds to discourage mice, most of the drapes had been drawn, and there was nothing to indicate that a man, tired from a long journey, had tried to rest here.
Still, he went from room to room, as a rule standing in the doorway and listening before going inside to search.
He had reached the master bedroom, which faced the river, with long windows overlooking the lawns and the water. This too offered nothing, and he went into the dressing rooms on either side, before turning to go.
Hamish said, “The kitchen quarters.”
In the hope of finding a tin of tea and a kettle as well as a hob to heat it on, Russell could have fallen asleep at the servants’ table, unwilling to climb the stairs to find a more comfortable place to rest. It was worth taking the time to have a look.
Afterward he was never quite sure why he decided to go to one of the windows. He had already reached the doorway, his hand on the knob, on the point of shuttin
g it behind him. Instead, he turned and crossed the room a second time, lifting an edge of the drapes to peer out into the night.
The ambient starlight seemed brighter than it had before, as if the moon was about to rise, just touching the horizon. The shadows on the lawn were dark as pitch by comparison, and the reeds and salt grass along the water’s edge were nearly as black. But the water itself was bright in contrast, a pewter ribbon making its way to the sea beyond.
He thought at first that his eyes were playing tricks on him. And then he realized that someone was standing on the landing stage, his silhouette blending with the boards, irregular and almost undetectable.
He couldn’t tell if there was a boat tied up below, out of his line of sight, or if the man had walked there from the house itself.
Was it Russell? It was impossible to judge height or shape. The only thing he could be certain of was that the figure was not that of a woman. Whoever it was, he was wearing trousers.
Rutledge stood there, watching him for several minutes, and then, as if the man felt his gaze, he turned and looked toward the house, staring up at it intently. The light touched his upturned face, and his eyes were black holes in the paleness.
Chapter 15
Rutledge stayed very still, certain that he had been spotted. That something, some inadvertent movement, had given him away. Then, finally, the man turned back to his contemplation of the water.
Even now he couldn’t be sure. Was it Russell standing there? Or someone from the village?
He let the edge of the heavy drapes fall gently back into place and was across the room in swift long strides, shutting the door and making his way to the staircase. It had taken him fewer than two minutes to go down the stairs and reach the room overlooking the terrace.
But when he looked out, he saw no one on the landing stage or on the lawns.
Whoever had been there was gone.
And he had no idea where.
He searched the landings, the grounds, and the park for nearly three-quarters of an hour, but if Russell had come to River’s Edge, he’d disappeared.
There was still the chance that he’d seen someone from the village, but Rutledge was unconvinced. What would possibly bring them out this far at this hour of the night?
There had been no indication that the house had or was being used to store contraband, although it wouldn’t have surprised him to find that it had been on occasion.
An empty house on the water was always a great temptation. A boat could easily come up this far on a dark night, put in at the landing long enough for the goods in bulk to be unloaded and carried up to the terrace doors. A fairly decent livelihood. But this gift had been handed to them at the same time that crossing the channel had become impossible. The villagers must have cursed their luck. And if the smuggling that he had witnessed was any example, they hadn’t reestablished their contacts or else they were unable to afford more than three men could carry.
Hamish said, “They’re a suspicious lot at best. They wouldna’ trust strangers in France any more than strangers in yon village.”
Rutledge had to agree with him.
He gave up the search finally. Whoever had been here had gone, either by boat or on foot. Quietly and without being seen. Walking down the choked drive to his motorcar, Rutledge was glad he’d left it some distance from the stone gates.
All the same, he was relieved to find it just as he’d left it, motor and tires intact. He had no taste for walking all the way to Furnham.
T he Dragonfly Inn was dark, but when Rutledge tried the door, it opened. A small lamp burned in the little room behind Reception, and he called to the man who was usually there. No one answered. He wondered how the inn made enough money to stay open, given the owner’s aversion to strangers.
And then he realized the answer to that.
Ordinarily this was where the contraband was brought-except when a man from Scotland Yard had stubbornly taken up residence. It could be sorted and passed on at leisure but more importantly controlled by the chosen few involved. The three men in the run he’d witnessed had had to make other arrangements, no doubt cursing the intruder from London every step of the way.
He grinned in the lamplight, amused.
Turning the register around, he saw that one other person had stayed here in his absence, one Frederick Marshall. A single night. A fisherman? Or someone who had once served at the airfield? Rutledge couldn’t imagine a sudden attack of nostalgia bringing one of the airmen or their crews back to Furnham.
He signed his name, put down the number of the room he’d been given before, and went up the stairs. In his absence, it had been cleaned and the bed newly made, fresh towels on the rack by the washstand.
Without bothering to turn on a light Rutledge undressed and went to bed, but it was some time before he actually fell asleep.
Hamish was awake and busy in the back of his mind, and Rutledge found himself mulling over the night’s events.
Who had been standing on the landing stage? And where had he gone?
Rutledge didn’t believe in coincidences. It had to be Russell, and it was very likely that he’d borrowed or taken a boat to make the long journey down the Hawking, reaching the house by river rather than over the road. Why he hadn’t stayed was anyone’s guess. At least for the night, late as it was. Bruised and tired as he must have been. Or had this simply been reconnaissance-to be sure, before he brought in supplies and prepared to stay, that no one was waiting for him here?
Because there was no other place, really, where Russell could go.
Sleep overtook Rutledge then, and the first rays of dawn were coming in the window when he awoke. The man behind the desk-clerk or owner, Rutledge had never been sure-was startled to find Rutledge coming down the stairs as he arrived the next morning.
It took several minutes of explanation and exclamation before the clerk would accept the fact that Rutledge intended to stay at the inn and wanted his breakfast. When it finally came, it consisted of overcooked eggs, burned toast and tea strong enough to walk back to London on its own. There was no sign of Molly, and he wondered if she was called in only when there were guests to serve.
As he was finishing his meal, he asked the man about the visitor in his absence, Frederick Marshall.
“Here, you’re not to be reading the register. It’s none of your affair!” the clerk told him, angry.
Rutledge said, “It’s done. Who is he?”
“He came to see if there was any good sport fishing here,” the clerk said, clearly against his will. “The other rivers in this part of Essex have a fair amount of it, and he thought the Hawking might as well. He was of a mind to buy land and set up a yacht club, if it was promising.”
“And is it promising?”
“I sent him over to the pub. He was told that the war had put paid to any good fishing, what with the Zeppelins and the fighters at the airfield, and the Coastguard mining the mouth of the river.”
“I should think Furnham would prosper with more contact with the rest of the country. It would mean some changes, but they’re inevitable.”
“And that’s what we don’t need,” the clerk said, goaded. “What will we do with ourselves when Furnham is overrun with strangers and there’s not a spot we can call our own? What we saw in the war will last us a lifetime. Prying, taking us for fools who didn’t know our elbow from our nose, cheating us where they could, laughing at us behind their hands. I saw it for myself, the way they lorded it over the rest of us. Loud and brash and not taking no for an answer when it was something they wanted.” He was incensed now. “It was a trial of the spirit, the four years they was here. If it hadn’t been for the war, we’d have run them off in the first six months. I wasn’t the only one went off to fight the war, not knowing if my wife would be mine when I got back, if this inn would still be standing after one of their wild parties. Betwixt the Coastguard and the airmen, it was four years of hell.” He turned and walked out of the dining room, leaving R
utledge sitting there.
He rose and left as well, but the clerk was nowhere in sight when he walked through Reception and went out to his motorcar.
This wasn’t the only village that war had disrupted and overrun. But for people more or less left to their own devices for hundreds of years, it was harsh reality with no respite, and for some of them, it was impossible to go back to the past.
Hard as Furnham was trying, he didn’t think the village would win. Men like Frederick Marshall were always looking to the main chance, and in the end, the villages along rivers like the Blackwater and the Crouch and the Hawking would succumb. Thanks to the motorcar they were too close to London now to survive for very long.
He walked down to the water and stood looking toward the sea. The day was fair and already warmer than usual. Far out in the North Sea he could just make out a ship steaming by, the smoke of its funnels a thick gray line above a hull that was nearly invisible from here.
Barber spoke just behind him, and Rutledge turned quickly. He hadn’t heard him walk down to the water’s edge. The lapping of the river on the strand had covered the sound of his footsteps.
“What brings you back to our fair village?” he asked.
“Ned Willet’s funeral,” Rutledge said, keeping his voice light. “When is it to be?”
“It was yesterday. You missed it,” the man replied, with some satisfaction.
“I’m sorry.”
“We’re not.” Barber reached down and picked up something from the strand. It was a flat stone, and he sent it skimming across the water. “Not bad. Seven skips,” Barber went on. Then he turned back to Rutledge. “You’ll be leaving then?”
There was nothing to keep him here. Except for the search for Russell. And yet the man’s eagerness to see the last of him aroused his suspicions.
He took a chance. “Making another run to France, are you? Before the moon is full?”
Barber’s face was a picture of dismay and anger, then wariness. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Rutledge picked up a stone just by the toe of his boot and sent it skimming across the river. It skipped nine times. “Hypothetically, of course.”