The Confession

Chapter 11

It was after six o’clock when he reached the little village of St. Margaret’s, in Oxfordshire.

The church tower rose above the surrounding houses and shops, a sharp tower, as if to remind people of their duty to God. The clinic, he discovered by stopping at the tiny post office, was on the far side of town. It had once been a graceful country house, with a Dower House across from the main gates. Easily found, the postmistress had assured him.

And it was.

The Dower House was a mellow pink brick, and the late afternoon sun gilded the windows. Faced with white stone, it was set back from the road in a stand of trees, gardens following the short drive up to the door.

Across the road, the contrast was pointed. The gates to the main house were open, and he drove through what had once been a well-landscaped park. Now the rhododendrons were overgrown and dead boughs showed through the leathery leaves like the gray ghosts of other summers. The house too had seen better days, the gardens no longer luxuriant, the window shades uneven, giving the impression that no one had noticed how snaggletoothed this might appear to a visitor.

On the lawns were stone benches scattered here and there, some in the sun, others well shaded. None of them was occupied at present.

He left the motorcar to one side of the door and saw that it, like the gates, stood open.

Hamish said, “They’re no’ afraid that anyone will escape.”

A table stood just inside, in what had been the hall, and a middle-aged woman in a nurse’s uniform sat there, sorting charts and patient folders.

She looked up as he came in, and smiled. “Good afternoon. Have you come to visit any particular patient?”

“I’d like to speak to Matron, if I may. Ian Rutledge.”

“She’s just gone into her office. I’ll show you.”

And she led him down the passage. At one time the spacious rooms had been divided into wards, but the thin partitions had been removed. Only the pale lines on the scratched and scuffed parquet floors marked where they had been.

Matron’s office had been a morning room at one time. Now it was filled with filing cabinets while books crowded one another on a shelf. The desk was utilitarian and well used. An older woman with graying hair was seated behind it, and she looked up as he was shown in, then rose as the nursing sister gave his name.

“Mr. Rutledge,” she said, pleasantly. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you here before.”

“I’ve come to visit a patient of yours, one Wyatt Russell. But before I go in to him, I was hoping you could tell me something about his condition.”

“Are you a relative, Mr. Rutledge?”

He could see that she was reluctant to divulge any information.

“I’m from Scotland Yard, Matron.” He took out his identification and passed it across the desk to her.

“Do sit down, Mr. Rutledge.” She sat as well, then examined his identification before handing it back to him. “I should like to hear why you are calling on Major Russell. Have you come to ask for his assistance? Or is he accused of something?”

“I don’t know how to answer you, Matron. The inquiry is in its early stages. There was a man found dead in the Thames.” He gave her the date when Ben Willet had been pulled from the river. He knew, from the twitch of a muscle at the corner of her eyes, that he had touched a nerve. “The problem was, earlier on, this man had given Scotland Yard his name in another matter-but it was false. The name he gave was Wyatt Russell.”

“I see. But why should he do that? Had he ever met Major Russell, do you know?”

“I can’t tell you how well they knew each other. Slightly, at a guess. But they both lived in Essex, within a few miles of each other. They most certainly were aware of each other’s existence.”

He remembered suddenly something that he should have spoken to Miss Farraday about. “As it happens, this man was one of the search party trying to find Mrs. Russell, the Major’s mother, when she disappeared in 1914.”

“Ah. I see.” She set the file she had been working on as he entered to one side of her desk and folded her hands. “Major Russell,” she began, seeming to choose her words with care, “has a problem with his memory. It is-to put it bluntly-imperfect.”

“Shell shock?” he asked, hearing Hamish loud in his mind.

Please, dear God, he prayed. Let it not be that.

And his prayer was heard.

“Not shell shock, no. He was severely wounded. And while he can function in so many ways that we consider normal-button his clothes, tie his shoelaces, comb his hair, count his money, carry on a seemingly intelligent conversation-he has difficulty with the past. He recalls it in very irregular and sometimes inaccurate ways. For instance, he told me two days ago that he was being called up again, that his train was to leave in a quarter of an hour, and he couldn’t find his uniform. He was quite upset, as you can imagine. And he wouldn’t believe us that the war had ended two years earlier. Another example of his confusion-he was allowed a leave, actually a test of his ability to cope in strange surroundings. This was two months ago, you understand. We sent someone with him to oversee his care. A valet, if you will, or a batman. Actually, this person was a trained orderly, and it was his duty to keep an eye on the Major for us.” She picked up a pen, looked at it, then put it down on the desktop again. “For the first week, he was a model patient. We were greatly encouraged. And then he came home late from a walk in such a state that we brought him back.”

“And he hasn’t been away from the clinic since that time?”

She reached for the pen again, her eyes hidden from him. “We have not sent him out to live on his own since then. No.”

But the door to the clinic stood open, and the gates as well. Would Matron call in the local police if Major Russell-or one of her other patients for that matter-went missing?

Not, he thought, unless they were on a regimen of medicines and their health was put at risk. Or they posed a danger to themselves or to society.

He thanked her for seeing him, and asked again if he could interview Major Russell.

She told him that he could, and rang a little bell on her desk. There was a tap at the door, and a young nursing sister asked, “Yes, Matron?”

“Take Mr. Rutledge to visit Major Russell, if you please.”

And then he was in the passage following the young sister.

They entered a room that had once, he thought, been the billiard room. But there were chairs and small tables set about it now, and men were engaged in board games or cards. A few simply stared into space, their hands dangling over the arms of their chairs, their minds disengaged from the present.

Hamish said, “Ye see yoursel’ still in their faces.”

He did. And the clinic where he’d been kept until his sister had intervened and had him transferred to the care of Dr. Fleming. In that first clinic men who were shell-shocked screamed at night and sat staring at nothing all through the long day. Dr. Fleming had taken a different approach, dragging out of unwilling patients the reasons for their withdrawal from themselves and the world. Rutledge had had to be pulled off the doctor after he had confessed to the death of Corporal Hamish MacLeod, ready to kill the man who had made him face his demons.

In spite of the warmth of the summer day that filled this familiar setting, he felt cold.

The sister went across to one man, broad-shouldered, fair-haired, in every way seemingly normal, and touched him lightly on the arm. “Major Russell? You have a visitor, sir.” He raised empty eyes to her face. She turned and smiled at Rutledge. “If he becomes tired or anxious, you’ll let one of the staff know?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Sister.” He pulled an empty chair nearer to where Russell was sitting. “Good afternoon, Major. My name is Rutledge.”