by Charles Todd
It took Rutledge two hours to sort through the statements. Everyone had been interviewed. The staff in the house, Fowler’s partner, the neighbors, Mr. Harrison, who represented the family, anyone who made deliveries to the house, from the milk van driver to the man who brought the post. Anyone who had worked on the grounds or in the house, from gardeners to painters to the chimney sweep and the coal man.
No one had seen or heard anything. No one knew of any trouble touching the family. The killer had come quietly, finished his work, and left, taking nothing, leaving nothing but death behind.
Hamish said, “If the wife had screamed, and one of the servants had come running, there would ha’ been another murder.”
“Very likely. But I don’t think the killer wanted that.”
He replaced the statements in the box and sorted quickly through the other pieces of evidence in the file. The postmortem report that graphically described the number and placement of the knife wounds in the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Fowler, indicating the savagery of the attack and commenting that Mrs. Fowler’s survival for even a few hours after it had been nothing short of miraculous, although she hadn’t regained consciousness. That was followed by a statement from the doctor who had treated Justin Fowler, describing the severity of his wounds and expressing concern about telling the boy that his parents were dead, suggesting that the police wait until he was out of danger.
A sergeant had meticulously made a list of all the personal correspondence found in Fowler’s desk in the six months before the murders, and another had been compiled of clients he’d dealt with in the past six months. The police had been meticulous, even to keeping a list of those who had called at the hospital in the first few days after Justin had been rushed to Casualty.
And there it was.
A name he recognized.
Rutledge sat back in the chair, telling himself it had to be a coincidence. A faint echo of memory awoke, something that Inspector Robinson had told him. What’s more, it explained why Mr. Waring hadn’t been able to find the right name when he’d been questioned at the school. Another discordant fact had fit well into the whole now.
And other odd pieces began to fall into place, making a pattern.
He just might have found the connection after all.
Armed with this new knowledge, Rutledge asked to use the station’s telephone and put in three calls to London.
When the last of these calls had been returned, Rutledge whistled under his breath.
Gladys Mitchell’s son had been adopted when he was barely a year old-just about the time she met the young man who would later become the father of Justin Fowler. Ridding herself of an encumbrance in the hope of impressing a rich man? But it hadn’t worked out the way she had planned. Meanwhile, the boy’s new parents hadn’t wanted to give him up. Still, they had sent him to the Charity School in London because he had had a scholarship there. They were too poor to do otherwise.
That much Rutledge had already worked out, but for the details.
What he had had no way of knowing was that Gladys Mitchell had become a matron at that same school, using the name Grace Fowler. Had the solicitor, Harrison, been aware of that? It was most certainly when she’d poisoned her son’s mind against the elder Fowler and his family. The boy grew up to follow in his adoptive father’s footsteps as a shoemaker, but he hadn’t prospered. His adoptive mother-Gladys’s sister-died soon after, followed within a year by her husband, and the boy, now a grown man, was penniless, unhappy, and in search of a new life. He had found it in an unexpected place.
Sitting down again at the table, Rutledge stared at the box of evidence in front of him. Hardly able to take it all in.
“Dear God,” he said aloud.
Behind him, Inspector Robinson replied, “He’s not available, but I am. What have you found?” When Rutledge didn’t answer straightaway, he said harshly, “It’s my case. I remind you of that. The Yard hasn’t charged you with this inquiry. You have your own.”
Rutledge turned as he collected the rest of the file and added it to the box. “Quite. I can’t connect my murder to yours. I don’t know why your killer should have shot my victim.” He rose and handed the box to Robinson. “I might add that your predecessor was a careful and thorough man. If anyone should have found this murderer, it was he. The only problem is, we aren’t omniscient, are we? It’s what gives the criminal an edge.”
Taking the box, Inspector Robinson said, “I don’t appreciate your examining this file without speaking to me. What were you looking for?”
“Any tangible evidence that could be useful. A name, a coincidence, an irregularity, anything out of order.”
“If an answer comes of what you’ve discovered, I want to know.”
“There’s no real proof, Robinson. Only a faint hope.” He was on his way to the door. “What I’m afraid of, if you want the truth, is that if I’m not careful, they will hang the wrong man. And even if I’m careful, that could still happen.”
Inspector Robinson was a zealot when it came to this particular crime, and there had to be some way of proving what he, Rutledge, suspected, without involving Justin Fowler or having him taken up for desertion. Rutledge didn’t approve of what the man had done, refusing to go back to France. But that was a matter for Fowler’s conscience.
He left then, faced with the dilemma of what to do with the information he had.
Wyatt Russell could probably tell him what he needed to know. But Russell hadn’t seen his assailant. And Rutledge wasn’t eager to put words in his mouth.
Who could answer his question?
Nancy Brothers?
When he came to the junction with the road to the Hawking River, he took it.
But halfway to Furnham, he changed his mind. Leave Nancy Brothers out of it. Go straight to Constable Nelson.
The rector was wheeling his bicycle along the road, on his way from Furnham to the Rectory. Rutledge slowed to keep pace with him.
“Back again, are you?” Morrison asked.
“I’m afraid so. Willet’s death is still a mystery.”
“I thought you’d all but settled on Jessup.”
“In truth, I’ve yet to place him in London. But all in good time.”
They had reached the Rectory drive. Morrison went ahead and leaned his bicycle against the side of the cottage. “Come in. I’m making a pot of tea.”
Rutledge followed him inside and walked to the window to look out as Morrison brought down the teapot and filled it with cold water.
“I need more information. I considered speaking to Nancy Brothers or Constable Nelson. It’s possible you can help me as well.”
“If I can.”
“When did you take up the living at St. Edward’s? Were you here before Cynthia Farraday came to live at River’s Edge?”
“I don’t believe there was a priest here then. There hadn’t been since 1902, I think it was. I refused the living twice myself before my bishop convinced me it was my duty to bring God back to this benighted place. Or words to that effect. He’s dead now. I often wonder what he would have to say about my dealings with the people of Furnham. I’m not the most successful shepherd, I grant you, but this is not the general run of flock.”
Rutledge laughed. “What about Nelson? When did he come to Furnham?”
“About five years before the war, I should think. 1908? 1909? But you were asking me about Cynthia Farraday. I’ve told you most everything I can think of. Is there anything in particular?”
“I’ve spoken to her a number of times, and I’ve begun to think that she’s still in love with Justin Fowler. She refuses to believe he’s dead. She feels he must be among the missing. What she doesn’t know-I didn’t care to be the one to tell her-is that he’s been listed as a deserter by the Army.”
Morrison’s surprise was genuine. “Has he been, by God?”
Rutledge finished his tea. “Now I must beard Jessup in his den. Do you know where he lives?
“The house just past the be
nd in the road. On the right.”
But when Rutledge stopped in front of that cottage, he changed his mind. Reversing, he went instead to The Rowing Boat. It appeared to be closed, but he knocked at the door. There was no answer.
From there he drove to Abigail Barber’s house. She came to the door, and as soon as she recognized him, she said, “My father and my brothers are dead. There’s no more bad news to bring to me.”
“My apologies, Mrs. Barber. I need to ask you again. You had no word from your brother for months?”
“That’s true. I expect he didn’t want to tell us he was dying.” Her eyes filled at the memory. “He was so thin, lying there under that sheet. It broke my heart to see him.”
“Someone paid him a visit in London. The night before he died. He’d written a letter, and the visit must have been prompted by that.”
“He couldn’t have written. Sandy would have told me. Nor would he have gone to London without me. Not if it was Ben he was seeing. He wouldn’t have gone to London without me!”
“Your father was ill,” he reminded her.
“He would have taken me to see Ben. I’d have found someone to sit with my father. It would have been all right.”
He reminded her of the date again. “Was your husband away at that time?”
“No, of course he wasn’t. Besides, there’s the pub. He doesn’t trust anyone else to manage it.”
“Your uncle, then.” When she hesitated, he added, “I know about France. It’s not important.”
Her face wasn’t good at hiding what was going through her mind. He had his answer. Jessup had been away. But where?
Mind reading couldn’t put Jessup in London, and it was clear that Abigail Barber had no idea where her uncle had gone.
“He was in France,” she said finally. “He goes, sometimes.”
He thanked her and left.
“Now ye must ask the man himsel’,” Hamish warned him. “Before yon lass asks him.”
“I’d have preferred not to. He’s spoiling for a fight, and I’m not.”
“Aye, he is that.”
This time Rutledge walked up the path to Jessup’s door. Before he could knock, Jessup opened it in his face.
“I saw you before, trying to gather your courage. I won’t ask you in. It’s my house, and I’m rather particular about who I invite to step across my threshold.”
“Yes, I rather thought you might be,” Rutledge said easily. “Where would you prefer to go instead? The strand there, where everyone in Furnham can watch you being taken into custody for obstructing the police in the course of their duties? Or shall we retire to the churchyard, where only the dead will be disturbed by your humiliation?”
Jessup measured his chances. They were nearly of a height, Rutledge slightly taller, while he himself was running to fat around the middle and could give Rutledge at least a stone.
Rutledge said, “You’re wasting my time, Jessup.”
“Talk.”
“What did Ben Willet tell you in his last letter? That he was writing a book about The Dragonfly? About the plague and the burning of the church with a hundred souls inside? Is that why you went to London and killed him?”
Rutledge had prepared for any reaction. What he got was a frowning stare.
“What last letter? What do you mean, he was writing a book about The Dragonfly? God, if I’d known that I’d have killed him myself. Bloody coward. Are you sure? Damn it, he swore to me and to his father. He swore he would say nothing.” He was furiously angry, striking the frame of the door hard with the edge of his fist. “Is that why he was afraid to come home before Ned died? Did Abigail know this?”
“She did not. I don’t know why he never told her about his books.”
“He’s the one they were talking about in France,” Jessup said suddenly. “Not Ned. I thought they were putting us on. Georges and his son. They’re bastards, but they get what we want. How did they know when we didn’t? Besides, I thought they said the book was about smuggling.”
“They knew because the books were published in France under the name Edward Willet. Smuggling was in his second work. Dragonfly would have been his third.”
“If you’re lying to me, I’ll kill you.”
“Someone knew. Someone met him in London. There’s a witness to the fact that he wrote that letter. The same witness can swear to the fact he met someone the night before he died.”
“I got no letter. He’d write to Sandy, not me. Or to Abigail.” His gaze moved toward the pub.
Looking up the street Rutledge saw Sandy Barber in the doorway of The Rowing Boat, watching them. He said, “Who found Mrs. Russell’s body?”
“Found-she was never found.”
“But the locket was, wasn’t it. Her locket.” He watched the man’s eyes, and they gave Jessup away. “And who found Justin Fowler floating in the river and never reported it?”
Jessup looked toward Barber again. “Nobody.”
“You didn’t want the police asking questions. That’s why you didn’t report the locket. Or Fowler’s body. Who killed them, Jessup? Your merry band of smugglers? Or someone else?”
“Get the hell out of Furnham,” Jessup said through clenched teeth. “I’m warning you.”
“You’ve intimidated Constable Nelson, but you can’t intimidate Scotland Yard. I will have a dozen men here to search every house and question every person in this village. We’ll drag the river as well and tear every boat apart. The London newspapers will be kept abreast of our efforts, and when we’re finished, Furnham will be changed forever. And your name will be synonymous with the evil your ancestor did. I read the manuscript, Jessup. ”
He knew that he’d pushed too far. If the shotgun had been to hand, Jessup would have used it.
Hamish warned him, and he realized that while he’d been speaking, Sandy Barber had come up behind him. He moved slightly so that he could watch both men, waiting for whatever would happen next. But he’d been angry with the intransigence of these men, the obstruction at every turn. And it was time to end it.
Into the hostile silence, Barber said, “If we tell you, will you leave us in peace?”
“No!” Jessup said explosively.
“We’re making a spectacle of ourselves.” Barber shouted at him in his turn. “There’s no one in The Boat. We’ll settle it there.”
Barber waited, and Rutledge held his tongue.
Jessup was struggling to get himself under control. He seemed to realize through the haze of fury that villagers going in and out of the shops were staring at the confrontation on his doorstep.
Rutledge could almost read the thoughts passing though the man’s mind, that this was too public a place to do murder.
Finally he nodded curtly, shoved Rutledge to one side, and walked off toward the pub. He didn’t look to see if anyone was following him.
When he was out of earshot, Barber snapped, “Why did you make him so angry? He could have killed you.”
“He could have tried,” Rutledge said, and strode to the pub in his turn, with Barber hastily falling in beside him.
“Was the book that explicit?” he asked. “God, I never-he went to be a footman. That’s all Ben wanted. What happened?”
“I expect it was going to France that changed him. The war. He must have kept a diary. He wrote a memoir after it was over, and someone in Paris published it.”
“Damn the war,” Barber said as Rutledge opened the door into the pub. “And damn the French while we’re about it.”
Jessup was waiting. He said to Barber, “What are we going to do with him? He has to be stopped.”
“You fool, do you want to hang? They know where he is. The Yard does. If he goes missing, he’s right, they’ll come down on us and tear Furnham apart. Tell him what he wants to know. Tell him, or I will. Then make him promise.”
The flush on Jessup’s face was a measure of his rage. “They won’t know what he knows. They can’t.”
“There are th
e boxes Willet left behind. The manuscripts are in them,” Rutledge said. “You’ll be taken up for the murder of Benjamin Willet when they come to light. What’s more, the murder of Justin Fowler and the attack on Wyatt Russell happened here, not in London. You have that to answer for as well.”
“You selfish bastard,” Barber said. “You’ve got us into this. Get us out of it.”
There was a long silence as Jessup weighed alternatives.
Rutledge saw the man glance once at the windows that looked down on the river. Then he shook his head as if to rid it of the thought. Instead, he grappled with the realization that he had no choice at all.
“All right,” he said finally. “We found Fowler floating, already dead. We thought at first he was a German spy come to grief on the river. But it wasn’t all that long after the old woman vanished, and we didn’t want the police here again. We towed him to the mouth of the river and turned him loose.”
“Who told Willet that Wyatt Russell had killed him?”
“It must have been Ned,” Barber said. “I can’t think who else could have told him.”
Jessup cut across his words. “It wasn’t Ned. I wrote to him in France and mentioned there’d been a falling-out between Russell and Fowler, and we’d heard a gunshot. Just in case the body washed up somewhere else. He wanted to know if they’d quarreled over Miss Farraday, and I answered that it was likely.”
“You told him-damn it, you never told me, ” Barber said angrily.
“It was to cover us. I thought it best.”
Rutledge said, “Willet believed you. That’s why I was drawn into this inquiry in the first place. He came to the Yard and told me that Wyatt Russell had killed Fowler. Willet knew he was dying. My guess is he wanted Miss Farraday to learn what had become of Fowler, and he could hardly tell her himself. He must have known how she felt about the man, and it was a way to repay all she’d done for Willet himself.” He smiled grimly. “You brought your own house crashing down around your ears, Jessup.”
“Willet wasn’t dead,” Jessup said. “Not when you came to Furnham that first time.”
“I was curious,” Rutledge countered. “Who killed Mrs. Russell?”