by Charles Todd
“I don’t know. Ned found her locket. He wanted to show it to the police. But I told him not to. I told him to keep it and give it to Abigail. But Ben saw it on his last leave and asked for it. He wanted to put his likeness in it and give it to a girl.”
To Cynthia Farraday? Would it have saved three lives if he had? Or would Ben Willet have been hanged for a murder he hadn’t committed? Rutledge shook his head.
Jessup mistook the shake to mean he wasn’t believed. “He couldn’t give it to Abigail. I can see now it would have got all of us into trouble if he had. But what would a girl in Thetford know about Mrs. Russell? Ben could tell her the locket was his mother’s, and who would think otherwise?”
They were scoundrels, all of them. Living by their wits, doing what they had to in order to survive.
“Do ye believe him?” Hamish asked.
Rutledge found he did. It was probably not the whole truth, but when did the whole truth ever exist?
“Which brings me back to Willet’s letter. He wrote it. He posted it. That much we know. He was leaving for France, he wanted to die there, and at a guess, it told whoever it was to break the news gently to Abigail and her father. What else did it say? And who came to London that last night of his life?”
“It wasn’t me,” Jessup said. “I was in Tilbury, getting a part for my boat.”
“He didn’t write to me,” Barber said. “It must have been to Ned.”
“Ned was too ill to travel to London.” But Rutledge had found his connection now. It was the last piece of the puzzle. “How would he have managed to keep such a letter from his daughter?”
“He was a sly old fox,” Barber said. “He’d have burned it in the cooker. He wouldn’t have wanted Abigail to learn any more bad news.”
And Ned Willet was dead. No one could ask him. Or prove what he’d done.
Jessup said, “He’d have told the priest. By God, he’d have sent the priest to London to persuade Ben to come home to his father.”
“Make sense, Jessup. The priest wouldn’t have killed him,” Barber retorted.
“Why not? They were all of them in love with that Farraday woman. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out the priest loved her too.”
“No. He saw the locket,” Rutledge said. “Morrison killed Mrs. Russell. He believed that Ben Willet knew what had happened to her. And a dying man often wants to unburden his soul. Morrison couldn’t take that risk.”
“Have you run mad?” Barber asked. “The priest? He’s like Constable Nelson, he’s afraid of his shadow.”
“Is he? He came into a house in Colchester one night and butchered Justin Fowler’s mother and father, and stabbed Fowler himself so severely he spent six months in hospital.”
“ Morrison? ” Barber exclaimed. “I sent for him to comfort my wife .”
“You look at the evil your ancestors did, but here is an equal evil right under your nose, and you thought because you could bully the man that he was nothing.”
“Did he have a reason for killing them?” Jessup demanded.
“He believed lies he’d been told by his mother. He thought he was owed a different sort of life. His real father was in prison, but he’d been led to look upon Justin Fowler’s father as his. He saw himself as the rejected son.”
“And you’re sure he killed Ben?”
“It was either you or Morrison. I thought you were angry enough with him that you’d killed him.”
Without warning, Jessup came straight for him as Barber shouted, “Here!” But Jessup shoved Rutledge aside and was out the door before either man could stop him.
“He’ll tell Abigail, she dotes on Rector,” Barber said, and was through the door before Rutledge could reach it.
But Jessup wasn’t heading in the direction of the Barber house. With long, determined, angry strides he went toward his own house.
Rutledge was halfway there when he realized what Jessup was intending to do. It wasn’t the shotgun in his house that he was after, it was the motorcar sitting in front of it.
He turned the crank with the vigor of his anger, got in, and was already gunning the motor before Rutledge reached him. As his hand gripped the door, Jessup used his fist to pound it, and when he couldn’t break Rutledge’s hold, he drove off, throwing Rutledge backward, twisting his arm and then slamming it against the side of the motorcar. Careening as he fought for control of the wheel, Jessup nearly collided with Barber, who was yelling at him to wait. The motor sputtered, caught again, and then Jessup was gone.
“He’ll kill him!” Barber exclaimed. “He’s that angry.”
Rutledge looked up the street. A grocer’s van was stopped in front of the tea shop, its motor running, and he sprinted for it, Barber at his heels.
Rutledge swung himself inside, realizing as he did that he’d damaged his elbow fighting to hold on to the motorcar’s door. Ignoring the pain, he began to roll and heard Barber swear as he struggled to join him, sprawling across the stack of boxes in his way. As Rutledge reversed the van and started out the London road, they could hear the van’s owner screaming at them from the tea shop door.
Barber said, almost out of breath, “I don’t think he’s ever killed anyone. Jessup. But it’s been a near run thing, a time or two.”
“I want Morrison alive.”
“But how did you know?”
“A curate by the name of Morrison tried to visit young Fowler in hospital. An alert constable kept a list of all callers. They were afraid the killer might come back. And he did. Only no one guessed. Later he wrote an anonymous note.”
“But Morrison was here, wasn’t he?”
“No. He accepted St. Edward’s when he learned somehow that Fowler was going to be sent to River’s Edge. He’s cagey about the time he arrived in Essex. But I’ll have London document the date and his background, now that we know where to look.”
“Why did he kill the others?”
“Morrison had killed the Fowlers out of jealousy. But when Justin survived and came to River’s Edge to live with a new family, it must have seemed doubly unfair. Two families when he had none. He made certain that Mrs. Russell died first, a warning to Fowler that he would be next. And when Russell finally came back to River’s Edge, another opportunity presented itself. The man was clever enough to be patient. He’d got away with murder before and he intended to get away with it again. Look-Jessup is just turning into the Rectory drive! We’re in time.”
But Morrison saw the motorcar, came to the cottage door, and then frowned when he realized that Jessup was driving.
“What’s happened?” he called. “Where’s Rutledge?” He turned to stare at the van barreling toward them.
Jessup was out the motorcar door, and Rutledge saw that he had the heavy torch that lived under the passenger seat.
Rutledge brought the van to a skidding stop and raced to intercept Jessup. Morrison, looking from one to the other as Rutledge used his shoulder to slam into the older man, took himself inside the Rectory, slamming the door shut.
With a roar of rage, Jessup recovered his balance and ran the short distance to the cottage door, hitting it with his own shoulder and bursting inside. Rutledge and Barber were just behind him, but he’d already cornered Morrison, who was standing with his back to the wall, glaring at Jessup. It was impossible to tell if he was armed or not. Rutledge prayed all three revolvers were still at River’s Edge, safe in the gun case.
“What’s this all about?” he demanded, looking to Rutledge for his answer. “I thought-”
“I’m arresting you for the murders of Justin Fowler’s parents,” Rutledge broke in, putting himself between Jessup and Morrison. “He’s my prisoner,” he said, turning to Jessup, “you can’t touch him.”
And then everything happened at once. Barber yelled something and then there was a deafening explosion almost in Rutledge’s ear. He was momentarily back in the trenches, stunned into memory. Only vaguely aware of Jessup swearing and Barber racing past him, he fought to hol
d on to the present. Then Morrison fired again, and Barber was stumbling backward, his hands outstretched, as if to ward off a blow.
The third shot, meant for Rutledge, went wild as he shook off the war and grappled with Morrison for the revolver. Morrison fought with all the violence of a cornered animal, growling incoherently as Rutledge reached out for the weapon. It went off again, and Rutledge heard a window breaking, glass raining down on the floor.
And then he had Morrison’s wrist, driving him back against the wall and battering his arm against the low mantel. Morrison cried out in pain but held on to the weapon. It took all the strength he could muster for Rutledge to bring the arm down hard on the oak edge of the mantelpiece, expecting to hear it snap. Instead, Morrison’s fingers flew open as the blow hit a nerve instead, and the revolver went thudding to the floor. Morrison fell back, nursing his arm, and for good measure, Rutledge hit him hard on the edge of his jaw. The rector slid down the wall, unconscious, sprawling there in a heap.
Wheeling to examine the injured, he heard Barber say with an effort, “See to Jessup. I think I’ll make it.” But his face was already pale with the pain, and he was clenching and unclenching a fist.
Jessup was still, and Rutledge bent over him. The shot had struck him in the stomach, but as Rutledge examined him, he said, “It’s bad. I’ve seen worse. We need to get him to hospital as soon as possible.”
He turned to look at Barber’s chest wound, but it was high enough that he said, “You’re right. You’ll live. With care.”
“Damn good thing he was a poor shot. That close? By rights we should all be dead.”
“A knife is his weapon,” Rutledge said grimly, busy doing what he could for both men, using whatever linens he could find in the cottage.
He got Barber into the motorcar, and the man said, “What will we do about the van? And there’s my wife.”
“There’s no time to worry about it. I’ll deal with it later when I come back to Furnham.”
“And Morrison?”
“I’ll leave him here until I can retrieve him. I don’t want him in the motorcar.”
Jessup was a big man, and it was harder to carry him outside, but then he opened his eyes, appeared to know what Rutledge was trying to do, and managed to get himself into the seat, his face pale and clammy from the cost in pain.
Morrison was only just coming to his senses when Rutledge was tying his hands and feet, looping the ropes through the pair of open windows and back again. Standing to one side, he regarded his handiwork. There was no way for the man to free himself without ripping out the heavy boards that separated the two windows. He didn’t think Jessup and Barber together could break them.
He took up the revolver-there was one shot left-and stowed it in the boot of his motorcar.
He drove carefully on the rutted road, avoiding the deeper holes where he could. Listening to the grunts of pain from Jessup and Barber, he could still hear the low growl of warning from Hamish, crowded from his accustomed place.
Rutledge tried to think what he had overlooked, and failed. Shutting out everything except making the best time he could, he concentrated on his driving. His elbow was hurting like the very devil, and every time the wheel shook in his hands over a particularly rough patch, he could feel the knifing pain. But he shut that out as well.
There was a Casualty Ward in Tilbury, accustomed to dealing with men injured on the docks. He walked in and asked a nursing sister for help with two men suffering from gunshot wounds. It was an unpleasant reminder of bringing Russell to a similar ward in London. There would have to be a retraction in the Times about that, Rutledge reminded himself ruefully. The newspaper wouldn’t care for it, but he hoped Fowler would see it, wherever he was hiding.
He got the two fishermen inside, and a doctor arrived to examine both of them. He looked up at Rutledge. “How did this happen?”
“Apprehending a killer. These men were caught in the cross fire.” Wincing, he pulled out his identification and showed it to the doctor.
“You did a fair job of bandaging them. In the war, were you?”
“Yes.”
The doctor nodded. “Field dressing. I recognize it. Sit down, you don’t look very good yourself.”
“I’m all right,” Rutledge protested, but the doctor wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Someone brought him a cup of tea and insisted he drink it. Then the doctor was back. “They will survive. Both men have serious but not life-threatening injuries. We can deal with them. Any next of kin to notify?”
“I’ll see to it. Thank you.”
“Are you hurt?” the doctor said, looking him up and down.
“I’m all right,” Rutledge said again, and the doctor reluctantly let him go.
But he was stopped once more as he was about to leave the ward. A very angry man stood on the threshold, asking for the gunshot victims.
He was Inspector Hayes of the Tilbury Constabulary, and he’d been in the maternity ward with his wife when he heard there had been a shooting.
It took Rutledge another quarter of an hour to pacify him. “It’s Inspector Robinson’s case, in Colchester,” Rutledge said. “If you disagree, take it up with him.”
And as he walked out the door, he was fairly certain that Hayes would indeed contact Robinson.
Once more in his motorcar, he cursed Hayes for wasting precious time. He was fairly sure that Morrison would be unable to escape, but he felt an urgency he couldn’t explain.
He was already into the turning for Furnham and the River Hawking, when he saw the van coming toward him. He didn’t know the driver, but he recognized the van. He’d left it sitting outside the Rectory.
Someone from the village had found it, and he had a sinking feeling that whoever it was had found Morrison as well.
Picking up speed, driving with attention fueled by the certainty that he was too late, he covered the miles as best he could. But he could see even before he’d reached the Rectory that Morrison was free. His bonds lay scattered across the grass, and the cottage was empty when he stepped inside.
Rutledge took the time to search each room as well as the back garden, alert for an ambush at any moment.
Where had Morrison gone? To the village?
No, he couldn’t be sure who beside Jessup and Barber knew the truth. The village was for all intents and purposes a trap.
“In the van,” Hamish said. “As far away as he can go.”
Possible. Very possible. Still, he hadn’t been driving. And Rutledge had a feeling he hadn’t chosen to go that far. Not yet. There was unfinished business to attend to first. He knew Rutledge would be coming back for him, and he intended to choose his ground for that encounter.
Rutledge had taken Morrison’s revolver. But there were other guns in the case in the house at River’s Edge.
Had the van carried him that far? Or had he gone by way of a shortcut through the marshes? He’d said once that he didn’t know his way through them, but that had been a lie. The only way he could have reached River’s Edge ahead of Major Russell was to take an even shorter path.
Retrieving his torch from where Jessup had dropped it, Rutledge went back to his motorcar.
When he reached River’s Edge, he left his motorcar by the gates for what he hoped would be the last time. And after removing the revolver from the boot and shoving it under his coat, he walked up the overgrown drive.
There were shotguns in the glass case in the study. The question was, did Morrison know where to find the shells?
“Ye ken, he was in and oot of yon house often enough. It wouldna’ take him verra’ long to find them and load.”
As carefully as he’d trod the dark approaches to No Man’s Land, looking for snipers, Rutledge walked toward the house.
The sun was bright, but not bright enough to penetrate the deeper shadows. He moved cautiously, watching for movement, for the slightest sign that he had been seen. There was nothing he could do about the upper windows overlooking
the drive. And so he ignored them. The undergrowth and the untrimmed trees offered more immediate danger.
The final sprint across the open lawn leading to the main door took him to the shelter of the house, and he pressed himself against the warm brick while he caught his breath.
Still no sign of Morrison.
Perhaps, Rutledge thought, I was wrong. He was in that van, out of sight among the crates and boxes.
But he had to be sure, and after two minutes, when nothing had happened, he quietly moved around the house toward the riverfront and the terrace, ducking under windows where a watcher could see him.
He reached the corner of the house, pausing again before leaning forward to peer around the edge.
He stopped, moving back out of sight.
For down by the water, at the landing, a launch he’d seen before was tied up and swinging gently with the current.
Chapter 24
Cynthia Farraday had chosen today of all days to return to the house on the River Hawking. Because of the Times article, because she mourned Russell?
Rutledge swore under his breath, his eyes scanning the lawns and the edges of the marshes.
Where the hell was she?
And where was Morrison?
He waited, forcing himself to stop and to think. His mind was tired, Hamish hammering at the back of it.
If he’d been wrong about Morrison, if the man had cut his losses and escaped while he could, she was safe enough.
If he’d been right, was Cynthia Farraday already dead? Shot or stabbed, it wouldn’t matter if Morrison had found her there. He would kill her, just as he’d killed the others. Rutledge needed to find out before he could know what his options were.
If Morrison was still expecting him, the launch was there waiting when it was over-or as a last resort if everything went wrong. If there was sufficient petrol in it, Morrison could very easily reach France or farther down the coast, past the mouth of the Thames and into Kent.
Were they inside?
It was where Rutledge would wait, in the same circumstances. There was no other way into the house without breaking a window or forcing a locked door and alerting his quarry. If Morrison had found the shotgun shells, he could wait in the garden room and control his field of fire.