The Confession ir-14

by Charles Todd

  “I do.”

  “Fowler was there, stretched out on the ground. I thought he was dead, and I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to find out it was suicide, but he wouldn’t have been the first to fall into despair at the prospect of returning to France. I got to him and discovered he’d been shot in the back of his head. That was a shock, I can tell you. What’s more, when I touched him, the body was still warm. I tore open his tunic to listen to his heart, hoping I could save him. It occurred to me that whoever had done this must still be nearby, that I could be shot as well, but I found a faint, irregular pulse. I couldn’t leave him.”

  As he relived the event, his words tumbled over one another. And there was the ring of truth in his voice, echoes of the shock and fear and desperation he’d felt.

  “Any idea who could have shot him? Why they should still be nearby?”

  “It had to be someone from Furnham. Who else?” Something had changed in his voice now.

  “But with the war on, there was no smuggling. Nothing to store at River’s Edge. Why Furnham?”

  “I couldn’t think clearly, I tell you.” He turned away. “I didn’t want him to die. And just then someone spoke, and I wheeled, thinking-but it was Fowler. I could barely make out what he was saying, even though I put my ear to his lips. And what he said made no sense. No sense at all. And he died while I was holding him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Brother. He said it twice. Brother.” Finley hesitated. “All I could think of was Major Russell. And that was impossible. They weren’t actually brothers, were they?” He leaned forward, waiting for an answer.

  “Wyatt Russell was an only child. As was Justin Fowler.” He paused. “It’s possible that there is someone who believed that he was Fowler’s older brother. It isn’t true. But as a child he must have been led to think of himself as the elder Fowler’s son. And it’s also possible that this man-if he exists-killed Fowler and murdered both of his parents. Perhaps that’s why the police have never found the person responsible. The family’s solicitors never told them about this man.”

  “Gentle God.” There was a long pause. Rutledge wished he could see Finley’s face. “Is that true?” he asked finally. “Can you be certain of it?”

  “I believe it to be true. I’ve tried to find this man. But I don’t have his name. For a time, I thought he might be you, coming to work for the Russell family in order to finish what had been started in Colchester.”

  “You thought I’d killed Fowler-and now Russell?” Even in the darkness, his surprise was evident.

  “There’s no one else, is there? You were the only outsider at River’s Edge.”

  Pacing back and forth in the shadows, the man said, “Yes, all right. But if I’d killed them, why would I come to you now? Just to bargain with the Army?”

  “Why did you desert? Why not go to the police? Were you afraid they would suspect you?”

  “I couldn’t go back to France. Even in the artillery-” Shaking his head, he couldn’t continue.

  “The rest of us had the courage to go back.”

  “It wasn’t a matter of courage. Damn it, I’m as brave as the next man.” Taking a deep breath, he said more calmly, “I didn’t come here to defend myself. Fowler told me it was his brother. When I read the Yard’s request in the Times, it occurred to me that perhaps he’d been mistaken. Both men had been killed at River’s Edge, and I was afraid-the wrong person might be blamed.”

  Rutledge realized that Finley had come to protect Cynthia Farraday.

  “What did you do with Fowler’s body? Did you leave it there, where you’d found it?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  And that was a lie, his voice betraying him once more.

  “Then why was it never found? Even the bones?”

  “It was never found? Fowler’s body?” There was genuine consternation now.

  “Mrs. Russell also died at River’s Edge. Who killed her?”

  “I wish I knew. We searched until we were stumbling over our feet, and still we kept looking, and there was no sign of her. I’ve had a long time to think about it since then. I knew she had to be dead. They whispered suicide, but she wouldn’t have killed herself. It had to be murder. Was it the same person?” The tension in his voice was mirrored in the way he waited for the answer.

  “It could very well be. If he’d taken Fowler’s first family from him, why not the second? But we won’t have an answer, will we, until we’ve found him.”

  “Then he’s killed all of us, hasn’t he? Except for Cynthia. Except for Miss Farraday,” he corrected himself. “That’s all I can give you. It’s all I know. Just-find him. For the love of God, find him.” He waited, expecting something from Rutledge. When it didn’t come, he simply walked away.

  Rutledge let him go. But when he was nearly across the road and just into the shadows of the trees on the far side, yet still within hearing, Rutledge called in a normal voice, “Fowler?”

  And before he could stop himself, the man began to turn. He said quickly, “My name is Finley. I told you.”

  “I think not.”

  “I didn’t kill them-” he protested angrily, taking a few steps forward. The whites of his eyes were stark beneath the bill of his cap.

  “I’m arresting you for the murder of the people who gave you shelter and love when you were a victim yourself. Did you kill Mrs. Russell and her son?”

  “No. You can’t-I’ll be hanged-it’s not true,” he began, not ten feet away, and Rutledge felt himself tense as he moved even closer. “My name is Finley.” He broke off as an older couple came out of one of the houses behind them, and turned to go the other way.

  Rutledge waited until they were out of earshot.

  “I suspect Harold Finley is dead. And you survived because he was.”

  “You’re wrong. I didn’t have to come, I didn’t have to meet you. I did it for the Major’s sake.”

  “You aren’t a very good liar, Fowler. What really happened at River’s Edge?”

  The sudden shift in his weight betrayed him, and Rutledge said sharply, “If you run, I’ll find you. No matter how long it takes. And when I do, I’ll hand you over to the Army.”

  “I didn’t want them to die,” the man cried. “Dear God, do you think-it’s why I ran. So that it would stop. But it didn’t, did it? Whoever is doing this finally came for Wyatt too, didn’t he? And I couldn’t let Miss Farraday be the next victim.”

  “If that’s the truth, come with me, we’ll find somewhere to talk. I give you my word I won’t arrest you, if in turn you’ll give me the truth.”

  Rutledge expected Fowler to refuse. And then he changed his mind, almost against his will, a part of him needing relief from the burden he’d carried too long.

  Finally, to Rutledge’s surprise, he said, “Where?”

  Russell was in his flat. And Frances was at the house. “Let me take you to Miss Farraday’s house. It isn’t public. You can leave anytime you like.”

  “No. Anywhere but there.”

  “Then name a place.”

  “There’s a pub some distance from here.”

  “Too public.”

  “I expect you’re right.”

  “My motorcar is not far from the Yard. We can sit in it.”

  Fowler considered the risks and finally said, “Yes, all right. But I need another guarantee, that you won’t ask the name I now live under.”

  “Very well.”

  Hamish was already questioning whether Fowler would make it that far. Before they reached the motorcar there would be a dozen opportunities to disappear.

  But the man followed without a word, and under the brighter lamps by Trafalgar Square, Rutledge could see his haggard face and haunted eyes.

  Before they reached the motorcar, Fowler said, “How did I betray myself?”

  “You weren’t shocked when I told you about the murders of your parents. No one else knew. Mrs. Russell had kept it a secret from th
e other two children. It wasn’t likely she would confide in her driver. And you said, ‘He’s killed all of us.’ Not all of them.”

  Fowler swore softly. “I thought I could carry it off.”

  They reached the motorcar, and when Fowler stepped in and shut the door, he put his head back against the seat. “I’m so very tired,” he said, his eyes closed. “I thought it would never end.”

  “Where did you start lying?” Rutledge asked after giving him some time to collect himself.

  “It’s true. Most of what I told you. Only it was I who arrived early that morning to find Finley dying down by the water’s edge. He’d been shot in the back of the head. I wasn’t sure what he said to me-it could just as well have been a gurgle of pain. But it sounded very much like brother. I didn’t know if Finley had any brothers. And then I remembered that Wyatt had been a little jealous of me. We were the same height and build, Harold and I. A split second later, I knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “There’s something I never told anyone. Not even Mrs. Russell or the police. While I was in hospital recovering from the stab wounds, there were messages from my parents’ friends, our neighbors, clients, general well-wishers. All of it very kind. The police and my solicitors opened them at first, to be sure they wouldn’t be upsetting. After the first weeks, realizing that the messages were actually comforting, they just let me open them as they arrived. A week before I was released, there was one with just two lines on the page.” He stopped, trying to steady his voice.

  “What did it say?”

  A constable came toward the motorcar, and Fowler tensed. But the man walked on by and went inside the Yard.

  “ ‘He was my father and the woman with him was a whore, and you’re my bastard half-brother. I’m not finished. Wherever you are, I will find you.’ ”

  “No signature?”

  “Nothing. I knew one day he’d come for me. That it was only a matter of time. And so I stayed close to River’s Edge. But I never expected him to attack the others. By the time Aunt Elizabeth went missing, I’d been to Cambridge, and I’d convinced myself that it had been a vicious prank by someone, because you see, nothing ever happened. It had been an empty threat from the start. A hoax that had haunted me, shaped my life. I didn’t want to believe he’d killed Aunt Elizabeth.”

  “Go back to the day you found Finley’s body.”

  “I did the unthinkable. I stripped Finley, put my uniform on his body, and shoved him into the river. I expected him to float down to where the fishermen would find him and report me dead. I started walking, and I didn’t stop until I was too exhausted to go any farther. That’s why I realized I couldn’t return to France when my leave ended. If I did, I’d have to explain about Finley and how he came to be wearing my uniform and carrying my papers. On the other hand, if I simply disappeared, by the time Finley was spotted in the river, he’d be unrecognizable. And whoever was out there, stalking us, would think it was finished. There’s be no point, would there, in killing Wyatt and Cynthia if I wasn’t alive. And I was right. Nothing happened to them. When I saw that column in the newspaper, I had to do something. It had started again, you see.”

  “Why do you think it stopped for five years? The killing?”

  “I expect whoever he is, he was satisfied. And Wyatt stayed away. There was no temptation. No opportunity.”

  “Did you know that Cynthia Farraday often went out to River’s Edge for the day? She was there fairly often, I expect, and a perfect target.”

  But he remembered-she borrowed a launch. There was no telltale motorcar outside the gates. Still, there could have been an encounter-it was only a matter of luck that she hadn’t been seen by whoever watched the house.

  “Dear God.” Fowler seemed to fold into himself, hunched over, almost as if he were in physical pain.

  “Why didn’t you tell the police what you suspected when Mrs. Russell vanished?”

  Fowler roused himself to stare at Rutledge. “I told you. I hoped it was all my imagination. Besides, the Tilbury police didn’t know about my past. I was afraid that if I told them, they’d think I’d run mad. The Colchester police were suspicious enough. In the beginning, if they could have shown that I’d killed my parents, they would have been very pleased. I was young, but not so young that I didn’t understand where their questions were leading. If I’d reported a body at River’s Edge, what do you think would have happened? I’d have been the chief suspect. I decided to let the fishermen report him for me. Four people dead, Rutledge, and I was present each time. What’s more, I don’t think Tilbury would have any better luck finding the killer than Colchester had done.”

  “But they never reported a body.”

  “Are you sure? Did you ask that man Nelson? The constable? They should have found him in the shallows. I’d emptied my pockets and put everything in his. I was in such a funk I forgot and left the pounds he was carrying and my own in the wallet.”

  “How much money was there?”

  “I don’t know. I had almost fifty pounds with me because I was expecting to stay in a hotel in London for a few days. He could have had twenty or so. I cursed myself, I can tell you. That money would have made my disappearance a lot smoother. I dared not touch my inheritance.”

  Had Jessup found the corpse-and just as his ancestor had done aboard The Dragonfly, had he taken the pounds and left the body in the water?

  Jessup had much to answer for.

  “You gave no thought to Finley’s family?”

  “He had none. That’s why he went into service. But he was a decent chap, and I thought long and hard about what I was doing. He was still serving us, in a way. And if after the war, Wyatt reopened the house, he’d be all right. Safe.”

  Rutledge remembered the man he’d seen at the landing. Looking. Waiting.

  After a time he said, “Is there anyone-anyone at all-who could have been stalking your family before they were killed? Anyone you felt the slightest suspicion of?”

  “I was eleven.”

  “Sometimes children see more clearly.”

  “Do you think he would have taken that risk? That he’d be among the people the police interviewed?”

  “I’ll have to look through the statements the Colchester police took at the time. Meanwhile, what will you do? Where will you go? Is there a way to contact you?”

  “I’ve made a life of sorts for myself. Perhaps not what I’d have wanted, if none of this had happened. But I was content. You can imagine what I felt when I read about Wyatt in the Times. My God, that was a shock, I can tell you. I had to make a choice then. I had to come forward.”

  Hamish spoke suddenly in the stillness of the motorcar. “Do ye trust him?”

  And Rutledge, weighing all the evidence, wasn’t sure.

  “I shall go to Colchester tomorrow and look for the statements. Meanwhile, there’s something you should know.”

  He told Fowler about Willet’s visit to the Yard, the accusation he’d made, and his subsequent death.

  “He said Wyatt had killed me? But how did he even know I was dead? You said my-the body was never found.”

  “A good question.” Had Willet heard something, believed it, and later tried to do the right thing without involving his family? A fisherman’s son, he had a strong connection to the men who lived by the water. He could have heard whispers.

  “What are you going to do about me?” Fowler asked after a silence.

  “If I ask you to testify, the Army will take you into custody.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “Give me a way of reaching you. If I find something, I may need to contact you.”

  “If you sent a letter to the Pipes Tobacco shop in Chester, addressed to Finley, it will eventually reach me.”

  “Fair enough. It’s late. I’ll take you to a train if you like.”

  “Thanks. I’d rather walk.” He got out, thanked Rutledge again, and then said, “I’ve never dealt with such hatred as this. Such evil. You must fin
d him. You know that.”

  Rutledge said, thinking about a burning church and the screaming victims inside, “Evil is always there. If we look for it.”

  With a nod Fowler walked on. Rutledge watched him go, wondering if he’d done the right thing. Or if he’d made the worst mistake of his career.

  In the end, as he started the motorcar, preparing to drive to his sister’s house, he rather thought that he had done the only thing possible in the circumstances.

  If he could ignore small-scale smuggling, he could ignore a case of desertion.

  But he was still not certain about Fowler, even when he let himself into his sister’s house and climbed the stairs to the room that had once been his.

  Hamish said, “Ye didna’ face murder when ye were eleven.”

  Rutledge, hanging his clothes in the wardrobe and preparing for bed, tried to put himself in Fowler’s shoes. How would he have felt if he’d been awakened in the night by a murderer, and then barely surviving himself, learned the next morning that his parents had already been killed with the same knife?

  It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Chapter 23

  When Rutledge walked into the police station in Colchester, he found that Inspector Robinson was elsewhere investigating a housebreaking. The constable who had been summoned in the inspector’s place didn’t remember the Fowler case-he had come from Suffolk-and spent over an hour searching for it in the cellar archives.

  “And you’re quite certain, sir, that the Inspector is willing to allow you to read the file in his absence?”

  “He’s knows of Scotland Yard’s interest in these murders.”

  He directed Rutledge to a small interview room and ten minutes later reluctantly turned over the box containing the statements taken when Fowler’s parents were killed.