The Confession ir-14

by Charles Todd

“You found the information about Justin Fowler and Harold Finley?”

  “Mind you, it took me hours, because I was looking in the wrong place. Finally, as a last resort, I tried another direction, and that’s when I found both of them.”

  “Let me take out my notebook.”

  “You won’t need it, Ian. It’s very straightforward.”

  “All right. Go ahead.”

  “I looked at the rolls of the dead and then searched the missing. They weren’t there. I went to the list of deserters. And I found both their names on it. The Army would very much like to find both of them. The war is over, but the Army is still of a mind to shoot them.”

  “When did they desert?”

  “In the summer of 1915.”

  Chapter 21

  Rutledge sat there with the receiver to his ear.

  After a time Munro said, “Are you there, Rutledge?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “How did you come across these names? I should very much like to know.”

  “They came up in a murder inquiry I’ve been conducting. Neither man had contacted anyone since the Armistice. What month did they desert?”

  “Both men had been wounded but at different times and neither wound was self-inflicted for a free ticket home. Finley failed to report to France in July. Fowler’s wound was more serious, but he didn’t return to duty in September. What’s more, he missed a medical examination to update his recovery. That was in August. From my end, the two cases don’t appear to be related. I’d like to hear what you see at your end.”

  “It shoots my own theory full of holes.”

  “Yes, I expect it does. All right, the shoe is on the other foot now. You owe me, rather than the other way around. Give my love to Frances, will you? Joan was asking about her just the other day.”

  “I’ll be sure to.”

  With that Munro was gone, and the line went dead. Rutledge realized he was still holding the receiver when the operator asked if he cared to place another call.

  It was late when Rutledge got home, having had to interview a possible suspect in someone else’s case. The air in the flat was hot and oppressive, and he opened several windows to let in what little breeze there was. London had had a particularly long spell of warm dry weather, punctuated by a few storms that hadn’t seemed to bring in cooler temperatures.

  He was all too aware that he was back at the beginning in the Willet case. And the more he learned, the more unlikely it was that the disappearance of Mrs. Russell had anything to do with Willet’s murder. If he’d found the locket in the marshes while searching for her, then put a photograph of Cynthia Farraday in the place of the wedding pair, Willet was guilty of theft, not murder. And it was more and more likely now that he had posed as Wyatt Russell because his mind was confused by the drugs he’d been taking.

  Yet he had carried that imposture off flawlessly.

  Which brought Rutledge back to the likelihood that Major Russell had been shot because coming through the reeds along the riverbed, he’d been mistaken for the man from Scotland Yard. It would be easy to rid themselves of him in the middle of the night with no witnesses, and the reason why Ben Willet had had to die would be safe.

  Even if the Yard knew to look for him here, a dozen inspectors sent out in his place would have no better luck finding a body than earlier searchers had had looking for Mrs. Russell.

  “He didna’ come to see if you were dead.”

  “No, that would have left footprints. If I hadn’t been found in a few days, whoever it was could safely put me in the river.”

  Hamish said, “The house is his.”

  “He must come there often enough to feel it is. And if he isn’t Jessup, I’ll wager Jessup knows who he is.”

  “Aye, it’s verra’ likely true.”

  Which meant a confrontation with Jessup was looming. He didn’t altogether regret it.

  Rutledge left the window and went to bed shortly after that, but he lay there for a time, thinking about Cynthia Farraday and trying to decide what it was that made her so attractive to so many men.

  No great wisdom arrived with the morning.

  On the way to the Yard, he considered placing a request in the Personals of the Times, asking either Justin Fowler or Harold Finley to contact Scotland Yard. Both men were considered deserters by the Army, and the risk for them was too great to expect them to yield to curiosity. That avenue was effectively closed to him.

  There must be another.

  In his office, refusing to admit defeat, he played with the wording of such a request.

  Hamish said, “Ye ken, Fowler hasna’ used a farthing of his ain money. He’s deid. It’s the reason why he’s shown as a deserter.”

  “Then where was his body hidden?”

  “There’s the river. The same reason Mrs. Russell’s body has no’ been found.”

  “Then Major Russell’s body should have been put into the river as well.” But he knew the answer to that. There hadn’t been time to bring a boat up to River’s Edge and take the body aboard. Morrison’s concern and his own search of the high grass had seen to that.

  An idea was taking shape.

  Galvanized, Rutledge worked feverishly for three-quarters of an hour, crumpling sheets of paper as he made false starts and was faced with unexpected hurdles. Finally, satisfied, he went to find Sergeant Gibson.

  “Read this. I’d like to see it in tomorrow morning’s Times.”

  Gibson scanned the sheet of paper, then looked up at Rutledge. “Sir? Is this true?”

  “Only half of it. Russell is alive but badly wounded. It’s possible that the person who shot him also shot Benjamin Willet. I need to draw him out before he kills again.”

  “You believe he will?”

  “If he discovers that Russell is alive, he will bide his time and try again.”

  Gibson read the paragraph more carefully. Major Wyatt Russell was shot three days ago on the lawn of his house on the Furnham Road, Essex, and taken to a London hospital where he was expected to recover and name his assailant. This morning at six o’clock, he succumbed to severe blood loss and infection. Scotland Yard is treating this death as a case of murder by person or persons unknown. Anyone with information that could help the police with their inquiries is asked to contact Sergeant Gibson at Scotland Yard. All replies will be held in the strictest confidence.

  “I’ll see to it,” Gibson told him, but there was doubt in his voice. “You’ve told the Major?”

  “I’m on my way now.”

  At the hospital he caught Dr. Wade just coming out of surgery. They retired to an empty office and Rutledge explained his plan.

  “I don’t care for it,” Dr. Wade said flatly. “The danger of infection hasn’t passed.”

  “I understand that risk. But if Major Russell survives this wound, whoever shot him will still be out there waiting.”

  “You can’t be sure of that. Can you?”

  “I’m not willing to find out.”

  “Yes, there’s that. But where are you taking him? He needs care, he can’t fend for himself.”

  Rutledge had considered the possible answers to that on his way to the hospital. His first choice had been the rector, Mr. Morrison. But the cottage was small, and if there were any changes in the Major’s condition, medical care was too far away. And the cottage was far too close to Furnham. Morrison would be no match for an angry Jessup.

  The second choice was the clinic in Oxfordshire, but he was fairly certain the Major would have no part of that. And a careful killer just might think to look for him there, to see if the Times article was true.

  The third option was to take the Major to Cynthia Farraday. That too had its risks.

  Which left him with no alternative but to offer his own flat, with a nursing sister in charge of Russell’s care. And yet he had rejected that for personal reasons. His flat was his sanctuary, his dark corner where he could scream in the night when the war came back again. Here Hamish was
at his most vocal, and his presence was a living thing.

  His rational mind told him that the Major and the nursing sister would find nothing there to betray his connection with Hamish MacLeod. And yet the part of his mind that Hamish inhabited recoiled in terror and refused even to contemplate such an idea, even when Rutledge himself would not be in the house at all.

  The rest of the journey had seen a battle with himself. But now he said to Dr. Wade, “My flat in London.”

  And for the next half hour together Rutledge and Wade hammered out every possible detail until both were satisfied.

  Dr. Wade said, “I’m still not convinced that this is necessary.”

  “It’s important to try.”

  In the ward, he found the Major sitting up against pillows and drinking a glass of water.

  “I’m surprised to see you again,” he said as Rutledge took the chair by his bed. “I thought our business was concluded until you found my assailant. I’ve told you all I know.”

  “I’ve come to arrange for you to die.”

  “I’m damned if you are.”

  He handed Russell a copy of the sheet that he’d given Sergeant Gibson. Setting aside his glass, Russell read the words written there and then read them a second time.

  “Yes, I see what you’re driving at. All right, how do I go about dying? And where will you take me? Not to Oxfordshire or I’ll refuse to help you.”

  “That was a bit of a problem, but we’ve found a solution. I’ll find a way to make it happen. You must play your part and call for the nursing sister in half an hour, then let her examine you and cover your face. Someone will come and remove the-er-body.”

  “When you’ve got what you want, will you retract the death notice?”

  “As soon as I can. Yes.” He took the sheet of paper and returned it to his pocket. Then he said, “Did you know that Justin Fowler is listed by the Army as a deserter?”

  “Justin? You can’t be serious! Yes, you are, aren’t you.” He lay there for a time, then said, “That’s odd. Because Justin said something I’ve never understood. He told me that the war was too bloody for him, that it gave him nightmares again.”

  Rutledge leaned closer, to make certain his voice didn’t carry, but a patient was coughing heavily behind him, covering his words. He said, “Did you know that Justin Fowler’s parents were brutally murdered, and he himself repeatedly stabbed and left for dead?”

  “Good God. No. Is that true? Justin? Did they catch whoever did it? No?” He whistled softly. “Did my mother know? She never said a word to me. But that explains the scars on his body. Something was mentioned-surgery, I think.” After a moment he added wryly, “I was a boy, I didn’t believe her. I was envious because I thought he’d done something daring. And so I asked him. Do you know what he said? I have no scars. I thought he’d been sworn to secrecy, and it was rather exciting.”

  Rutledge said, “It’s time we got started. I must go.”

  Russell stopped him.

  “I remembered something last night as I was falling asleep. When I ran into Ben Willet in London, he asked me if I’d see that Cynthia got boxes that he’s left for her in his lodgings in Bloomsbury. He was in love with her. I could see it as plain as the nose on his face. But he didn’t want her to see him, ill as he was. I asked why the boxes shouldn’t go to his family in Furnham. Willet said they wouldn’t have any use for them. But I was jealous, I didn’t do anything about them. As far as I know they’re still there. My conscience pricked all night. It was wrong of me. There’s no one else, Morrison hasn’t come back. I’d like to ask you to make certain they’re kept until I can deal with it myself.”

  “What sort of boxes?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t curious enough to ask.”

  Rutledge thanked him and left.

  He waited out of sight in one of the other wards until the transfer was over, watching the nursing sister he’d dealt with before hurrying out of the ward, summoning Dr. Wade, and then a few minutes later, the body of Major Russell was taken away on a stretcher under Matron’s grim, watchful eye. Finally the undertaker arrived, and Rutledge went out to his motorcar and left.

  It was at a lay-by some two miles away that the transfer was made, the nursing sister settling the Major into the rear of Rutledge’s vehicle. It was painful work, but the Major took it stoically. Rutledge thanked the driver of the undertaker’s van, and an hour later, the Major was in Rutledge’s flat, lying exhausted in the bed while the sister took his vital signs.

  Rutledge quickly packed a valise of whatever he would need for the duration and stowed it in the boot of his motorcar, then warned the nursing sister not to open the door unless she could see him through the window beside it.

  And then he left, driving to Bloomsbury, and after asking a man walking a handsome English setter, he tracked down the lodging house where Ben Willet had stayed in London.

  It was a small, well cared for, with a neat sign by the door advertising a vacancy. The woman who answered his knock was tall, with graying red-brown hair and a lined face, and when she spoke, he realized she was Irish.

  “Hello, my dear, I’m that sad to tell you that despite that sign, we have no rooms to let just now. I’ve not had the time to change it. But I’ll give you the name of a friend one street away who does.”

  “I’m actually here to collect Ben Willet’s boxes.” He smiled. “He seems to make a habit of leaving them behind. I hope you still have them?”

  “Oh yes, of course I do, Major. He told me you’d be here sooner or later. Did he reach France safely? I was so afraid, you know, that ill as he was, he’d collapse on the journey.”

  “I should think all is well. But I haven’t heard myself. What sort of lodger was he?”

  “Neat as a pin, and such a gentleman. He’s a lovely man, and he could make me laugh until my sides ached, you know. Such a grand mimic, he was. What a pity that he took ill so sudden. I thought my heart would break. But there you are, we shouldn’t be questioning the Lord’s way, should we? All the same, I can’t help but think how his family must feel.”

  “Did his sister or her husband come to visit him?”

  “He didn’t want her to know, you see. I thought it wrong, myself, she sounded like such a lovely girl. He wrote to her, and I posted it for him myself. It was sent in care of someone else, to be given to her after he’d passed on. And then the man came to see him, and they left together.”

  This was unexpected. “When was this?”

  “It was the night he was to meet you at Tower Bridge. He said to me as they were walking out the door, ‘Good-bye, Mrs. Hurley. If the friend I was to meet comes looking for me, tell him I’ve gone ahead and will be there as promised.’ When Mr. Willet came back he told me there was a terrible accident on the bridge, and no one could come across. The next evening he left for Dover, and that was that. I held his room for a few days, just to be sure.”

  “You’re very kind. Do you remember the man who came to see him?”

  “I was in the dining room serving dinner and only caught a glimpse of him. It was Mr. Willet who told me why he’d be missing his dinner, and here I’d made his favorites. But I saved him a plate, in case, and when he got home he sat there in the kitchen with me and ate it.”

  “Could you describe this visitor?” ”

  “I had no reason to remember him, did I? I was only glad for Mr. Willet’s sake that he’d come, hoping he might persuade Mr. Willet to go home and see his father and his sister after all. I tell you I cried when he walked out the door that last time. I was that upset.”

  “The other man didn’t come back with Willet?”

  “Oh, no, he was alone. He told me the visit hadn’t gone as he’d expected, and I was sorry for that. But here I’ve kept you standing at the door. Come in, Major, my dear, and we’ll find those boxes.”

  He followed her inside, and she led him to a tiny box room in the back of the house where there were odds and ends piled neatly to allow access
, and to one side were two boxes marked with Willet’s name.

  “In a way I’m that sad to see them go,” Mrs. Hurley told Rutledge. “As long as they were here, I’d hoped for a miracle, and that he’d come back the way he was before the sickness came on him. I couldn’t bear to hand them over to that constable who came for them. I was told to pass them to no one but the Major, and I keep my word when it’s given.”

  And he was grateful for her insistence.

  “There. I’ve said good-bye,” she said as he lifted them to carry them to his motorcar. And she turned and walked swiftly back into the house, shutting the door, so that Rutledge wouldn’t see her cry.

  The Major was in Rutledge’s flat, so he took the boxes to his sister’s house. When he walked in carrying the first of them, Frances said, “Are you moving in?”

  “Not precisely. I need to leave this and its mate with you after I open them. The study?”

  “Yes, that will do very well.”

  When he’d brought both boxes in, Rutledge set about opening each one.

  Both contained sheets of paper neatly typed, and then others written in longhand.

  “I wonder what became of his luggage?” he mused. “But I suppose it went into the Thames with him. I’d have done the same in his shoes.”

  “Whose luggage? Whose shoes?” Frances asked.

  “If I knew the answer to that I’d be ahead of the game.”

  “Does this have to do with that awful village where you took me for tea? I still haven’t forgiven you for that.”

  “Furnham? Yes, that was rather dreadful, wasn’t? In hindsight, I shouldn’t have taken you there.” He lifted the first hundred or so pages out of the box.

  But the pages he held were drafts of Willet’s first two books, and he set them aside, disappointed. And yet he knew that to the dead man, these had been precious.

  When he reached the bottom of the first box he retied the cords and set it aside.

  It was in the second box that he found what must have been a draft of the unfinished third book. He took it out, sorted through the handwritten pages, and then came to the typed sheets.