The Confession

Chapter 18

His voice was hoarse, but still recognizable. “Damn it, Morrison, there’s nothing to confess. I just need to talk to someone. The police are after me, I’ve left the clinic again, and I don’t know where to turn. River’s Edge is closed, there’s no refuge there. The house in London has very likely already been searched.”

There was a long pause. And then Morrison said, “Why do the police want you, Major?”

“I took a man’s motorcycle. Well, it was the only way I could get out of that clinic and reach London. Then I frightened Cynthia, which I didn’t mean to do. I just wanted to know-never mind that. I sometimes muddle things. It’s getting better, I think, but then there are days of torment, pure hell, when I can barely remember who I am.”

“They’ve come to Furnham. The police. I’ve been told that Ben Willet has been murdered. And possibly Justin Fowler as well. I don’t know what to think. And there’s your mother’s disappearance. Is River’s Edge cursed? Or is it Furnham? I grew up in a quiet village where murder was unheard of. I have no answers to give you.”

“They aren’t connected, if that’s what you’re afraid of. There’s no madman out there picking us off every year or two. It’s the war, people are different. The England I nearly died for is gone. I don’t recognize anything.” There was despair in his voice. “For that matter, I’m not the same either.”

“We must have faith that God in his wisdom-”

“I don’t know that I believe in God any longer. He damned well wasn’t there in the trenches when we needed him. Did you know that Willet has written a book? A novel? I saw something about it in a newspaper a year ago.”

“So it’s true, then. Gossip had it that the French believed it was his father who’d written a book. It caused a great deal of hilarity, I can tell you, among Ned’s friends. Were these books something he was ashamed of? Is that why Ben never told his family about them?”

“I have no idea. Apparently one’s all about smugglers in Essex before the war. I suppose I should have read it. But I wasn’t ready to revisit Furnham. Or River’s End.”

Morrison was still concentrating on the books. “It’s just as well everyone thought it was a good joke. Otherwise it could have got him killed. Jessup hadn’t forgiven Ben Willet for becoming a footman. Putting Furnham into a book would have angered everyone.”

“I doubt it would have led to murder. I saw Willet in London quite recently. Twice, as it happens. The last time there was a crash on Tower Bridge, and I couldn’t get through.”

“What did you talk about?”

“I didn’t recognize him at first. But he knew who I was and spoke. He asked how I was faring, and I asked why he looked so ill. We commiserated on our war, and I told him I’d seen a mention of his book, asked him if he was still writing. He said he was just finishing another manuscript. And then he told me he wished once it was finished that someone would shoot him and put him out of his agony. I told him not to be a fool. I thought he was asking if I’d do it, and I wouldn’t. I couldn’t understand why he believed I could do such a thing. I hardly knew the man.”

“Then why were you meeting him a second time?”

“He told me there was something he must tell me. Before he died.” Wyatt took a deep breath. “I didn’t come here to talk about Willet. Will you risk it, Rector? Taking me in? I can’t ask Nancy to do any more than she has done. She must be afraid her husband will find her out. I had trouble enough persuading her to bring me food in the old church ruins.”

There was another silence.

Russell said irritably, “If you’re afraid I’ll murder you in your bed, I’ll find somewhere else to go.”

“It isn’t that,” Morrison began, then before Russell could speak, he added, “there’s hardly enough room for one in the Rectory. Much less two.”

“I’ll sleep in a chair if I have to.”

But he must have read something in the other man’s face, because without waiting for an answer, Russell went on, “Yes, all right, I understand. I think there’s a bicycle in one of the outbuildings. It was used by the servants. I can manage. At least let me clean up a little. I’ve slept rough too long and I can’t very well bathe in the river in plain sight of anyone coming upstream.”

Rutledge eased the door closed, careful not to let the latch click to, and went back to his motorcar, driving off as soon as he was behind the wheel. Without turning on his headlamps he continued down the dark road until he was certain that neither the rector nor the Major could see his rear light.

Hamish said, “Ye didna’ think to search yon ruins.”

It was an accusation. But there was barely cover enough to conceal a human being. He hadn’t expected it to hide a stray sheep, much less a grown man.

“More to the point, how did he get there?”

“Ye must ask him.”

“I intend to.”

He drove for more than a mile past the gates of River’s Edge, then left the motorcar at the verge, as far into the heavy grass as he dared. Walking back toward the house, he considered where best to set his ambush.

Just past the gates?

But then if Russell knew a shorter way across the marshes-and Rutledge was fairly sure now there must be one-closer to the house would be wiser.

He chose his spot under the windows at the side of the house, leaned against the wall under the drawing room windows, and waited. How long would it take a man to bathe and shave, perhaps drink a cup of tea? An hour then, before Russell appeared.

But an hour passed. And then another.

Had Morrison taken pity on Russell after all, and allowed him to stay the night in the Rectory?

He’d been certain that Morrison wouldn’t change his mind.

Hamish said, “Ye could ha’ confronted him in yon kirk.”

“If Russell had put up a fight, Morrison would have had every reason to raise the question of sanctuary. No, it was better to wait for him here, alone.”

By half past two, it was clear that Russell wasn’t coming.

A wild-goose chase.

“Then go to yon Rectory now and ye’ll have him.”

It was the only option left to him. By morning Russell could be miles away from this part of Essex. The roads were rutted but flat, and a bicycle could make good time, given an early start.

It was a long dark walk back to his motorcar.

But when he reached the Rectory, there were no lights, and no one came to the door.

A fter an early breakfast the next morning, Rutledge drove to the Brothers farm. He found Nancy cutting flowers for the house, a basket over her arm and secateurs in her hand.

She looked up as she heard the motorcar come up the farm lane, straightening to stare warily at Rutledge as he got out and walked across to the garden. He was beginning to understand why she had been eager to see him go yesterday before her husband had come in from the fields. She was afraid her husband might learn that she was harboring the son of her late mistress, a man wanted by the police. And yet out of her feelings for the family she had served so long, she’d taken the risk.

“Good morning. I’ve come to ask you about Major Russell.”

She set the basket of zinnias and marigolds to one side, trying to decide whether he knew the truth or was merely looking for information. He could read the uncertainty in her eyes.

Rutledge said, “I’ve learned you’ve been taking food to him at the old church. Did your husband know?”

Flushing, she said, “Who told you?”

“You did. Looking back, I should have guessed you were hiding something. Or in this case, someone.”

She made no attempt to deny the truth. “He doesn’t know-Samuel. He was glad the house at River’s Edge was closing just as I was marrying him. That was my old life, he said, and this was the new. He didn’t want me keeping up any acquaintance with the others. Mrs. Broadley, the cook, and I were friendly, and Mrs. Dunner, the housekeeper, helped me sew my wedding gown. They told me they wouldn’t mind hearing from me from time to time. But Samuel told me he’d rather I didn’t. They were in service still, you see, and I was a farmer’s wife now. And so I never wrote to them. When the Major came, I hardly recognized him. I couldn’t turn him away, could I? And I couldn’t take him in, neither. I didn’t know what Samuel would have to say about it. Instead I agreed to feed him. I’d take sandwiches and fruit and a jug of tea to him, whatever I could spare that wouldn’t be missed.”

“That was rough living for a man like the Major.”

“Don’t I know that? But he said he’d learned to do without while in the trenches. That he’d be all right. And I couldn’t go as far as River’s Edge without taking the cart.”

He could see her quandary.

“Was this the first time you’d seen him since the war?”

“Since my wedding, in fact. He gave me away. I was that grateful. I couldn’t turn him away, could I?” she asked again.

“What did he tell you? How did he get out here to Furnham?”

“He came with the van from Tilbury that brings the meat to the butcher’s shop. It comes twice a week. He’d remembered that.”

“Didn’t you wonder why a Russell would be reduced to traveling in the butcher’s van? He owns a motorcar, I’m told.”

“I did wonder, but he told me that the doctors wanted him to stay in hospital, and he’d left instead. He said it would be all right, they’d stop looking and he could go his own way. I believed him. Why should I not? He’s not one to lie. I never remember him telling a lie to anyone at the house.”

“It’s true. What he told you. As far as it goes.”

“He’s not done anything wrong. He just didn’t want to be found and made to go back to hospital. He said he’d heal better on his own, if they’d leave him to it. I could understand that.”

“Did you ever see Russell come to blows with Justin Fowler?”

“Mr. Justin?” She was surprised at the shift in subject. “They weren’t as close as Mrs. Russell had hoped. But there was never any hard feelings between them. There was a time when Mr. Wyatt was jealous over Miss Cynthia, and all that. But it was silly nonsense. Like two cockerels discovering the new hen. I’ve seen it happen before and since.”

“Did Russell blame Fowler for his mother’s death?”

She stared at him. “What did Mr. Justin have to do with that?”

“I must depend on you to tell me.”

Shaking her head, she said, “I never heard any such thing.”

“Then what happened to Mrs. Russell?”

“You asked me that before, when you showed me the locket. The good Lord knows. I don’t. Samuel said once there must be a murderer in that house, but that’s nonsense. I don’t believe it for a minute. Who could do a thing like that?”

“Yet she disappeared.”

“I know. It troubled all of us. The Major most especially, as you’d expect. I never knew a suicide before that. But it was the most likely thing.”

She glanced over her shoulder, and Rutledge knew she was anxious that her husband not see her speaking to the man from Scotland Yard. Then, looking back at him, she said, “I thought you came here about Ben Willet’s death. Not about the Major. Unless you’re looking to take him back to hospital.”

“I’m more concerned about his welfare than returning him to hospital.”

“Then you should know he wasn’t there when I went to the church this morning early. I didn’t know what to make of it, unless he decided that he’d be better off going back. He hadn’t said anything last evening about leaving. He just said he’d give much for hot water and a razor. I asked if he wished me to buy a razor for him, and he said, best not.”

He thanked her and left, intending to go directly to the Rectory now. Instead as he came through Furnham, he was hailed by a furious Sandy Barber, standing outside the door to The Rowing Boat. He looked haggard and out of patience.

Reluctant to take the time to soothe Barber’s ruffled feathers, Rutledge weighed putting him off, then decided against it. Until now they had maintained a workable truce, and that had to be considered. He pulled up in front of the inn and got out. Barber said almost as soon as he was in hearing, “Why the hell did you take my wife to see her brother’s body?”

“She asked to be taken. I tried to persuade her not to go, but she was adamant. When we got there, I saw to it that the body was presentable and there were no other corpses in the room.”

“Yes, well, that’s as may be, but she couldn’t sleep last night. She sat in the parlor and cried. There was no comforting her. I went to find Morrison, finally, but he wasn’t at the Rectory. I came back home and sat up with her. First her father and then her brother. I wish to hell she’d never found out about him.”

“She has asked to have the body brought to Furnham. I’ve given permission for it to be released for burial.”

Barber swore. “Another funeral. We’ve not got over the first.”

He paced away from where Rutledge was standing and stared out to the mouth of the river, then paced back again. “Are you any nearer to finding out who killed Ben?”

“No. The question is, did his killer know Willet was dying? Would it have made any difference?”

“Why wasn’t he in Thetford where he belonged? Why was he wandering about in London? Abigail just told me some faradiddle about Ben wanting to be a writer of books.”

“Apparently he’d lived in Paris after the war. He wrote a book about a man who smuggled goods between England and France. This man met a girl on one of his journeys, and he went to look for her during the war. The book was published in France.”

“I’ll be damned. Abigail never told me that. And there was a girl he mooned over for weeks.” Another thought struck him. “Here, was it Furnham he wrote about?”

“I haven’t read the book.”

“Does Jessup know about this yet? He’d be spitting mad.”

“Will he indeed?”

Barber paced away and back again. “When Ben went to be a footman, Jessup asked Ned if he thought the boy could keep his mouth shut, and Ned said he would. Jessup said the last thing we needed was for Furnham to become notorious. He said people would come just out of curiosity, and if one or two of us was hanged, even better.”

“I hardly think Furnham would become notorious over a few bottles of brandy and the like. Still, do you think Jessup could have killed Willet?”

“God, no. I’m not suggesting that. Look, you’ve stirred up feelings here that we thought had ended with the war, when they dismantled the flying field. That’s all. The Blackwater and the Crouch are drawing holidaymakers from London. We’ve seen what that does to a village. We don’t want it to happen here.”

“Then help me find Ben Willet’s killer. You do want him found, don’t you? The dead man isn’t a stranger, he’s your wife’s brother.”

It was clear that Barber simply wished that the whole matter would go away. But he said, “Yes, all right, I do. For Abigail’s sake. And her father’s. I liked the old man.”

“Was the killer one of your merry band of smugglers?”

Barber grimaced. “We can get the things we need easier from France than from London. What’s so wrong with that? We don’t pay the tax on them, but we don’t go about with a barrow selling them in the streets either, do we? A bit of tobacco, a few bottles of spirits, some lace or a length of cloth. Where’s the harm?”

“The men go armed.”

Barber’s face changed. “You’ve seen them?”

“ ’Ware!” Hamish said in the back of Rutledge’s mind. “Ye canna’ tell them.”

And Rutledge himself saw the danger he stood in. “Don’t they always? Swords, muskets, shotguns. It doesn’t matter. Men in that line of work know the risks.”

The tension in Barber’s face eased. “True enough. You don’t always know what you’ll be dealing with at either end. Back to Ben Willet. If I knew who had killed him, I’d tell you. But I don’t.” And with that he walked off.

Rutledge watched him go as Hamish said, “D’ye believe him?”

I don’t know, Rutledge responded silently. I haven’t forgot the club.

“Aye, and it’s no’ wise to forget.”

Anxious now that Barber had also been unable to raise the rector, Rutledge considered his next step. Russell hadn’t come to River’s Edge last night. And Nancy Brothers had looked in vain for him in the church rubble. Morrison, in spite of his vows, had been uneasy about giving the man houseroom. Where was he now? More to the point, what had become of the rector?

The question was, how well had Nancy Brothers looked in the ruins?

They were on his way, and it would take no more than ten minutes to be sure. He drove there, got out, and made his way through the tumble of stones in the thick grass, a snare for unwary feet. He had to keep his mind on what he was doing, but he reached a slight depression where two of the larger stones formed a sort of wedge. He hadn’t come this far in his earlier exploration, and it was a place he would have chosen if sleeping rough. Well protected without being a trap. The nights were warm enough, and the weather had been dry. Russell had been lucky on that score. Squatting, he looked at the flattened stems. And watched an ant busily dragging away a tiny crumb of bread. Just outside he saw the pit of a plum, where it had been cast aside.

Satisfied, he rose and scanned the terrain. Then he walked back the way he’d come, to the road.

He found Jessup leaning against the wing of his motorcar, arms crossed.

“What’s so interesting about yon ruin?” he asked, his voice neutral.

“A habit of mine, looking at ruins,” Rutledge said easily. “My godfather happens to be an architect.”

“Is he, now?” Jessup asked, insolently measuring Rutledge with his eyes.

“When did the church burn?”

“When it was struck by lightning.”

“How old was it?”

“Old enough for the timbers to be dry.”

And that, Rutledge thought, must be true.

He walked past Jessup and bent down to turn the crank.

“On your way back to London, are you?”

“Not until I find the man who killed Ben Willet and tossed his body into the Thames.” He straightened and went around to open the driver’s door.

“He was killed in London. Not here. You should be looking there.”

Rutledge corrected him. “He was put into the river in London. But is that where he was killed?”

“Ben hasn’t been in Furnham since the war. You can ask his sister.”

“Perhaps he tried to come and was waylaid. When was the last time you were in London?”

Jessup’s eyes narrowed. “None of your business.”

“I can make it my business,” Rutledge told him, his voice harsh now. “And before you make a decision to take me on, speak to Sandy Barber. He’ll tell you it isn’t worth your while.”

He got into the motorcar, and Jessup put his hand on the other door, then thought better of it. He stepped away, and Rutledge drove on.

“A dangerous man,” Hamish said, echoing Morrison. “He likes playing the bully.”

“Because no one ever had the courage to face him down.”

At the Rectory, Rutledge stopped and pounded on the door. There was no answer. The door was unlocked and he looked inside, but there was no sign of a struggle, and the remains of breakfast for one still sat on a table in the corner facing the back garden.

Where, then, was the rector? Called to a sickbed? And what had become of Russell? Frowning, he stood outside for a moment. It would be hard to explain another disappearance in Furnham. Whatever the police had concluded in 1914.

Hamish said, “Were ye’ o’er hasty last night? Did he come later than expected?”

It was possible. Possible too that after his own breakfast, Morrison had taken one to the house for Russell, since it was too far for Nancy Brothers to venture.

He had just reached the Furnham road when he saw the rector bicycling furiously toward him from the direction of River’s Edge. Morrison hailed him frantically, and Rutledge waited at the crossroads for him to come within speaking distance of the motorcar.

“I can’t find the Major,” he called. “Do you have him in custody? Or has he gone away? Back to London?”

“I haven’t arrested him. Or anyone else. When did you see him last?” Rutledge waited, giving the rector time to catch his breath and interested to see how he would explain himself without admitting to speaking to Russell in the church last night. But Morrison answered without prevaricating, indicating no confession had taken place after all.

“He came to the church last evening, quite catching me by surprise, and we talked. Why didn’t you tell me he was in Furnham?” Without waiting for an answer, Morrison went on. “He was in a shocking state, and I didn’t know who he was at first-the scratches on his face, all the blood on his clothing-he looked like a scarecrow. But he explained about the motorcycle and why the police were hunting for him. He also told me about the clinic. To tell you the truth, I can’t see that it’s doing him any good.”

“Where did he go when he left the church?”

“I took him to the Rectory. He needed a bath, a shave, and a night’s sleep. But he couldn’t sleep. After pacing for an hour or more, he came to my room and asked if I’d bring him some food this morning to the house. I didn’t think it was a very good idea for him to leave in the middle of the night, and I told him so. He promised to reconsider. But five minutes later, I heard the door open and close. I got up and looked out the window, and he had set out on foot-to River’s Edge, or so I thought. But he’s not there. And I’m worried.”

“What time of night was it when he left?”

“I don’t know. A little after one o’clock, I suspect?”

But Rutledge had waited until well after two.

“How long would it take Russell to reach the house, if he took a shortcut through the marshes?”

“I’m not sure. At a guess, no more than half an hour? I’m really not very familiar with the marshes. Walking around in all that tall grass makes me claustrophobic. Forty-five minutes if he went by the road. What ought we to do?”

“Leave your bicycle here. I’ll drive.”

Morrison hesitated, then set the bicycle by the side of the road before joining Rutledge in the motorcar.

“Which door did you try?”

“He told me to come around to the terrace overlooking the water. He’d be waiting for me there. But he wasn’t. The door was ajar, I thought he was inside, that tired as he was, he might still be asleep. I called several times, and then went to look for him. I disliked walking in unannounced, I can tell you. Still, I searched, and there was no indication that he’d slept in a bed. I left as quickly as I could, to find you.”

They drove in silence until they had reached the gates. Rutledge said, “We’ll leave the motorcar outside.”

It was easy to see that Morrison had been here this morning. A new path had been beaten through the undergrowth. But then the rector hadn’t been concerned with being seen.

Rutledge led the way, and when they reached the terrace, he pointed to the edge of the lawns. “If you’ve searched the house, then we should begin with any shortcut the Major could have taken.”

“That looks promising. See over to the left of that stunted tree? I should think you could make your way in just there.”

They walked to the stunted tree. “Ah-someone has been through here, and fairly recently. Those broken stems haven’t withered in the morning sun.” Rutledge touched one of them.

“Haven’t they? No, you’re right. Although I should think it was a dog that came through, not a man.”

“Let’s see how far in it goes.”

“Perhaps I should wait out here. In the event you can’t find your way out again.”

Rutledge stepped into the thick grasses that quickly yielded to reeds. He was a tall man, but the fronds moving in the light breeze were chest-high in places, and several times brushed his face. For a while he believed he was following where someone had walked before him, and then twice lost the trail and had to cast about to find it again.

Morrison called anxiously, “Anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Perhaps he decided to go back to the church ruins. It was closer. And he was used to it.”

“I was just there. So was Jessup. But not the Major.”

He moved on, using his sense of direction to guide him toward the road he couldn’t see, keeping the water on his right.

He’d gone perhaps three hundred yards into the grass when he realized that the track no longer led anywhere. Stopping, he looked about.

“I’ve been following a false trail,” he said aloud, irritated. “There must be another way in.”

Hamish answered him. “Nearer to the drive?”

“Yes, very likely.”

Morrison called, “What have you found? Who are you talking to?”

Rutledge shook his head and began to make his way back, trying to follow the bent grass stems that had marked his progress. A hare broke cover just in front of him, tearing off in a zigzag before darting into a thicker clump of reeds and disappearing.

He changed his mind after some ten yards, and cut toward the water, where he thought it might be less confining. Once more he had to force his way through, but he did find that a muddy water line where the river lapped into the weeds provided damp but easier going. It turned out to be better than the original track he’d taken. Once back at the lawns, he could start again.

Coming to a thin stream, drainage that fed into the river, he saw that just beyond was a larger inlet where the river had eroded the land. Swearing, he realized that to ford it, he would have to wade. There was nothing for it but to strike out inland once more. He quickly discovered that he would be wiser to follow the inlet a short distance or fight his way through a thicker stand of reeds.

The print of a boot in the soft earth warned him that he wasn’t the first to come this way recently. It was very like the one he’d seen on the floor of the garden room, but not sharp enough to be definitive.

Casting about for more, he found the Major some ten paces farther on.

Russell was lying on his side, curled into a fetal position, as if he had been in great pain, and Rutledge could see the spread of a bloodstain on the back of his coat.

He shouted to Morrison and bent over the body. It was cold to the touch as he reached out to roll the Major onto his back. And then Russell groaned, without opening his eyes.

“My God, is he alive?” Morrison asked, starting toward Rutledge.

“Go to one of the sheds. Find something we can use to bring him out. He’s bleeding and in a bad way. Be quick about it!”

Rutledge was already ripping open the man’s shirt to get a better look at his wound. And it was a gunshot wound to the chest. High enough not to kill straightaway, to the side where the ribs might not have protected the lung. There was a chance. Slim, but they had to hurry.

There was no doctor in Furnham, and Rutledge doubted that Tilbury could deal with such a wound. London, then. If Russell could be kept alive that long. And that appeared to be very doubtful.

Morrison came finally with a heavy horse blanket, struggling through the marsh grass, losing his way once but grimly persevering. His face was flushed and set from the effort. They got Russell onto it and managed between them to carry him as far as the lawns.

Bent over, his hands on his knees as he fought for breath, Morrison said, “We’ll never make it to your motorcar. Just the two of us?”

“We have to try,” Rutledge said bleakly, and they lifted the corners of the blanket again. The overgrown lawn was easier, but the drive was daunting.

Russell wasn’t a light man. They were both breathing hard and sweating heavily by the time they reached the gates, their coats left where they dropped them, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. The grass and thick undergrowth of the drive seemed to be diabolically intent on making every step twice as difficult as it should have been.

Collecting himself, Morrison said, “We’ve probably killed him. I’m afraid to look.”

“Out there where I found him, he’d have died regardless. This is the only chance he has.” Rutledge hesitated, conscious of Hamish’s firm grip on the rear seat, and then he said, “In the back with him. Are you coming? I can’t make good time without you.”

“Yes, of course.”

It took precious minutes and an energy they no longer possessed, but in the end Russell was settled in the motorcar, supported by Morrison.

Rutledge ran back to retrieve their coats and then they set out for London.

M iraculously, Russell was still alive-and still unconscious-by the time they had reached the nearest hospital of any size on the outskirts of the city.

Hamish was saying, “Ye ken, the first time he wasna’ hurt. This time…”

His voice faded as Rutledge sprinted into Casualty and brought nurses and a wheeled examining table back with him.

As the medical staff took over, Morrison sank into the nearest chair. “My God,” he said. “I don’t know when I’ve been so completely exhausted. Do you think he’ll pull through? Or at least wake up long enough to be questioned?”

Rutledge, pacing the floor, said, “I’d give much to find out who shot the man.”

“Don’t ask me,” Morrison said. “You’re the policeman.”

“He’s been lying there for hours. Possibly since the middle of the night. Or else someone came to the house this morning. From the look of the wound, my guess is last night. The blood in his clothing had dried a little.”

“I didn’t hear a shot fired.”

“You wouldn’t, indoors, if the wind was the other way.” Nor had he, Rutledge thought, which meant that it must have been fired after he’d left River’s Edge.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right-” Morrison broke off as a doctor came through the door where Russell had been taken, glanced around, and then spoke to Rutledge.

“You’re the man who brought in the gunshot victim?”

“Inspector Rutledge. Scotland Yard. Yes.”

“Dr. Wade. It’s not as bad as it could have been. Dehydration. Loss of blood. Damage to the ribs, the left lung nicked. Somehow the bullet missed the major arteries, and he’s got a fair chance of surviving. What happened?” He looked the two men up and down. Rutledge realized that he and Morrison were in a sorry state.

“We don’t know yet. We found him in the marshes up the River Hawking. I’d like to speak to him. Is he awake?”

“We’ve already given him a sedative to help with the pain. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t find the bullet?”

“No, it went straight through. But judging from the wound, my guess is that it was a. 45 caliber. An inch either way, and he’d be dead. What’s more, he was shot in the back. Cowardly thing to do.”

Rutledge said, “It was dark. And a warm night. He was wearing his coat, unbuttoned-it was that way when I found him. In the high grass he’d have made a very poor target at any distance. How long ago? Could you tell us roughly when he was shot?”

“From the clotting around the wound, I’d guess around three in the morning. Give or take an hour. He was cut and scraped as well. An earlier accident, was it? Or a drunken brawl?”

“He ran a Triumph into a ditch.”

“Yes, that fits.”

“Major Russell also suffered a head wound in the war. He’s sometimes confused.”

“I noticed that as well. He’s lived a charmed life, the Major has. I don’t think he’ll be riding his Triumph again anytime soon. With that head wound, he really shouldn’t be riding one at all.”

Rutledge indicated Morrison. “This man is the Major’s priest. I should like to leave him here, in the event that Russell comes to his senses and can describe his attacker. Will you see to it that Mr. Morrison is allowed to stay with him at all times?”

Morrison was on his feet, about to protest. “I’m needed-Mrs. Barber-”

“In good time,” Rutledge finished for him. “I have to leave, but I’ll be back by late afternoon.” He turned back to Dr. Wade. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Sorry, no. Not at this time. It’s a watching brief at the moment, with surgery a possibility if those ribs press into the lung or there’s more internal bleeding. He’s lost enough blood that I’d rather not risk costing him more. We’ll see.”

Rutledge thanked him and left. Morrison, resigned, walked with him to the door.

“Should I ask for a constable to come in and sit with Russell? Or bring in a sister to hear whatever he has to say?”

“He’s not confessing, Rector. Either he can identify his assailant or he can’t. If he dies, we’re back to where we began. If he names someone and then dies, you’re a reliable witness.”

“Yes, I see. I must admit,” he said wryly, “I’m still a little shaken. Seminary doesn’t prepare one for police duties.”

Rutledge smiled. He cranked the motorcar and got in as Morrison hurried back into Casualty to begin his watch.

But he sat there for fully five minutes after the rector had closed the door behind him.

There hadn’t been time to go back into the house and look at the contents of the gun case.

There was also the fact that Jessup had been waiting for him at the ruins of the old church. Had he discovered that Russell had been hiding there? And had he come to gloat, because he knew that Russell was now lying in the marsh near River’s Edge? It would fit. But why should he wish to shoot Russell?

It was Hamish who answered that. “Ye ken, in the dark, he thought the Major was you.”

Rutledge let out the clutch and drove on to his flat to change his torn and bloody clothes.

He went to The Marlborough Hotel and put in a call to the Yard, asking for Sergeant Gibson.

Gibson was not at present in the building, he was told.

So much for the information that Rutledge needed.

He rang off, left the hotel, and drove back through London to the hospital where he’d taken Major Russell.

When he found his way to the ward where the patient had been transferred, he saw Morrison sitting next to the Major’s bed. Rutledge thought the rector was asleep in his chair, but as he came down the aisle, Morrison looked up. He waited until Rutledge was standing by his side to say quietly, “He was awake. Briefly. I don’t think he knew where he was or why.”

“It could be that he will recall more details later. How is he?”

“The doctors are worried about infection. Where he was lying was not helpful on that score. Damp, marshy land, and God knows what festering in it. Otherwise the wound appears to be clean enough. And they don’t believe there’s as much internal bleeding as they feared in the beginning. He has a fair chance of making it.”

“He’s lucky his assailant was a poor shot. Or possibly he came up on Russell sooner than he’d expected-” He broke off as he saw Russell’s eyelids fluttering.

And then he was fully awake, grimacing in pain. Recognizing Rutledge, his gaze swung around the room, eyes wide with alarm. Then he made a sudden movement, as if to sit up, and sucked in a breath between teeth clenched in a grimace as he fought the fire that seemed to explode in his shoulder. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he lowered himself gently onto the pillows again.

“Lie still,” Rutledge admonished him. “The doctors are worried enough, and so am I.”

“The motorcycle?” Russell asked, his voice rough and without much force. It was clear that he had lost track of everything since going into the ditch with the Triumph.

“You survived that well enough. Someone tried to kill you at River’s Edge. You’re in a London hospital where you were brought from there. Do you remember anything at all about going to the house?”

The Major struggled to assimilate that bit of information. Finally he managed to say, his gaze on Rutledge’s face, “Shot?” as if it was as alien as the fact that he didn’t recognize his surroundings. “When?

“Last night. Do you remember sleeping in the church ruins outside Furnham? Being brought your meals by Nancy Brothers?” It took some time to take Russell step-by-step from the crash of the Trusty to leaving the Rectory in the middle of the night. Finally Rutledge asked, “Who shot you? Do you know?”

He shook his head slightly, as if afraid the movement would bring back the fierce pain. “He-betrayed me,” he said, his gaze moving on to Morrison’s face.

“In point of fact, he probably saved your life. He came for me when he couldn’t find you this morning.”

“Told me-he told me he couldn’t lie if you asked-if you asked where I was.”

“If we hadn’t found you in the marsh, you’d be dead by now. As it was, it was a close run thing.”

One hand lifted vaguely in the direction of his chest. “Dying?”

“Probably not. But we need to know who shot you. Do you remember anything?”

“Nothing.”

“If there’s anything on your conscience, I’d advise you to clear it. Morrison will hear your confession, if you like.”

Russell closed his eyes. “Hurts. The very devil.”

He asked Morrison to summon one of the nursing sisters. When he was out of earshot, Rutledge said in a low voice, “Before I go, I must ask you. It’s my duty. Did you kill Justin Fowler?”

“God, no.”

“Did you kill Ben Willet?”

“Told you. No. Refused.”

Hamish said, “Do you believe him?”

Rutledge didn’t answer him. Morrison was coming back with the sister, and she carried a tray with water and a small medicine cup.

Russell’s good hand tried to clutch at Rutledge’s arm, his fingers grasping at air.

“As I fell. Silhouette. I remember now.” He paused, and when the sister was about to hold the water to his lips, Russell shook his head, still watching Rutledge’s face. “Am I-will they send me back to St. Margaret’s?”

“Speak to Dr. Wade. He will have to work that out.”

Yet Rutledge understood how the Major felt about the clinic. He himself had left Fleming’s clinic a month before the doctor felt he was ready. And the doctor, as it turned out, was right, he hadn’t been prepared for Warwickshire.

Russell leaned back, taking the medicine the sister had brought. Rutledge waited until he had swallowed it, and then he left, promising Morrison to drive him back to Essex as soon as possible.

As he walked back to where he had left his motorcar, he debated his next move. And he came to a conclusion. He drove back to the center of London and once more availed himself of The Marlborough Hotel’s telephone, reluctantly shutting himself into the tiny closet and putting in a call to someone he knew in the War Office.

George Munro listened to what Rutledge had to say, then replied, “Do you know what you’re asking?”

“I do. A great deal of time and work. My present inquiry revolves around finding the answer. ”

He could hear the sigh down the line. “I know. I owe you, Ian. I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.” He put up the receiver.

George Munro had been a fellow officer during the third battle of the Somme. The bullet that tore through the femoral artery in his leg should have killed him. But Rutledge had managed to stop the bleeding and drag him back to his own lines, sending him to a forward dressing station where a doctor named MacPherson and three nursing sisters had saved Munro’s life-and more important than that to Munro, his leg. He walked with a permanent limp thereafter and had complained bitterly when he was sent to the War Office after his release from hospital rather than back to the front lines. In the end, he’d stayed in the Army and at the War Office, glad of the decision that had taken him where his knowledge of strategy and tactics had seen him promoted.

Meanwhile, his wife had named their first son Ian MacPherson, in gratitude for her husband’s life.

He had been absent from the Yard long enough. Reluctantly Rutledge left his motorcar in the street and climbed the stairs to his office.

No one seemed to have noticed his absence. Gibson had come in and taken several of the files on his desk, replacing them at some point with several more. He sat down and scanned them, added his signature to two, and noted that two others were ready to be filed.

Someone tapped at his door, and Sergeant Gibson came in.

“Sir. Constable Greene told me he thought he’d seen you.”

“What news is there of Chief Superintendent Bowles?”

“Resting comfortably. It was a near run thing. It appears now that he’ll live. But whether he’ll come back to the Yard-or when-is uncertain at best.”

“What do the Yard punters have to say?”

Gibson grinned sheepishly. “As to that, sir, it’s currently five to one against his returning. Much of that may be wishful thinking.”

Rutledge smiled.

“Superintendent Williamson has taken over as of this morning, and Chief Superintendent Bowles has been placed on medical leave for the present.”

Rutledge had not had many dealings with Williamson. The jury was out on whether he was a good man kept on a short leash by Bowles, or whether he was a weaker imitation of Bowles.

“At any rate,” Gibson was saying, “we’re to go on as we were. Any questions, his door is open. Otherwise, he expects us to do our duty as if the Chief Superintendent is here.”

Rather trusting of him, Rutledge thought, but said nothing. The Yard as a whole was professional and responsible. And Williamson was wise not to appear too eager to step into his predecessor’s empty boots.

It was clear that Gibson was waiting for him to comment.

“Good man,” he said, then asked, “Any progress on the requests I’ve put in?”

Gibson frowned. “I’ve not been able to find this Justin Fowler. He appears to have dropped out of sight. Last known address as far as I can judge was River’s Edge, the Furnham Road, Essex.”

And that would fit with what Rutledge had been told, that Justin Fowler had been the last to leave the house, save for Finley, the driver. Had he felt obliged to go so that the house could be closed, the servants released from their duties?

“Where did he go when on leave?” Hamish asked.

His family home in Colchester had been sold, the money put in trust for him. And it was doubtful that he would have wished to return there, given the memories of his parents’ deaths in the house. Unless he’d taken a flat or bought a house in London, River’s Edge was his home.

Was that why he had gone there while on leave in 1915? Because he needed to remember a happier time before the war? He couldn’t have stayed there, but he could have spent a few hours on the grounds or in the house, if he still had a key.

And that brought up another problem Rutledge hadn’t considered until now. How had Fowler reached the River Hawkins?

Aware that Sergeant Gibson was still talking, Rutledge said, “Sorry! I was fitting together pieces of the puzzle. Go on.”

Gibson said, “Have you spoken to Miss Farraday or Major Russell? I should think they ought to know where Fowler is.”

“They’ve been less than helpful. If he’s alive, where is Fowler now? If he’s dead, why hasn’t it been reported?”

“In my view, sir-for what it’s worth-you must assume the worst.”

Twenty minutes later, Rutledge set the last of the folders in the basket for filing. There had been no telephone call from Munro, although he’d given the man more than an hour. Not a good sign, as Hamish was pointing out.

There was one other person he needed to speak to before he went back to the hospital and from there to Essex.

Miss Farraday was at home. She said, when he was shown into her sitting room, “I’ve had enough unpleasant news. I hope you aren’t here to add to that.”

“Where did Justin Fowler live, after the house at River’s Edge was closed?”

“He went into the Army in late September, I think it was, and on his first leave he took rooms at the Prince Frederick Hotel. He invited me to dinner one night, and we talked. Mostly about the Army and about our years at River’s Edge. I asked if he’d like me to write to him, and he said he thought it would be better if I didn’t. He was still quite upset about Aunt Elizabeth’s disappearance. I think one of the reasons he stayed on at the house after Wyatt and I left was the hope she might come back and someone ought to be there if she did.”

“And after that?”

“The Prince Frederick was flattened in one of the Zeppelin raids, worst luck, because in my opinion, the hotel restaurant was the best in London. I don’t know where he stayed after that or even if he came to London at all. If he did, he never got in touch with me. His name never appeared on the lists of killed, wounded, and missing. I’ve heard since that not all of the missing and dead were ever accounted for.” She looked away. “Perhaps he found someone he liked and spent every minute of any leaves with her.”

He detected the faintest note of jealousy.

“His solicitors have had no word of him. I’ve spoken to them.”

There was a sadness in her voice that she couldn’t quite conceal. “Justin went his own way, and Wyatt has been damaged by the war. Ben is dead. It makes me aware of how fleeting life is. How little we can hold on to anyone or anything. I wish I could understand why he’d been the way he was. What the shadows were in his life.”

It wasn’t his place to tell her about Justin Fowler’s past. But he said, “Something happened before he came to River’s Edge. The shadows were there before you knew him.”

She nodded. “Thank you for telling me that. It helps. I always had the feeling that he was waiting. For something to happen or someone to come. It was one of the reasons he didn’t go into Furnham. He liked the isolation of River’s Edge. He told Aunt Elizabeth once that he felt safe there. I know, because I happened to overhear him.”

He thought about the boy Justin Fowler had been. His parents had been murdered, he himself had nearly been killed. Was he afraid that the unknown killer would come for him one day and finish what he’d begun? It was a dreadful burden for a child to bear.

“If he went to River’s Edge on one of his leaves, how would he have got there?”

“Aunt Elizabeth’s motorcar. Harold Finley brought it to London when he enlisted and stored it in the mews behind Wyatt’s house. All of us used it from time to time. Mostly it just sat there, of course. But I drove it to Dover once, and another time to Cornwall for a friend’s wedding.”

“Do you remember who used it in the summer of 1915?”

“No, of course not. Not now. I can tell you that the few times I wished to borrow it, it was always there in the mews.”

As he rose to leave, she said, “There’s something I just remembered. The first warm weather we had, after he’d come to River’s Edge, we went swimming in the river. I saw Justin’s chest. It was horribly scarred. I asked him what caused them. He said he’d been in hospital for a long time. I thought he meant he’d had some sort of surgery. It explained how pale and thin he was. I was young, easily put off. But I realize now the scars were not the sort that come from surgery. I helped with the wounded during the war-reading to them, writing letters, keeping their minds off their suffering. It never occurred to me at the time-those scars of his were wounds.”

He said nothing.

“Did his parents-were they responsible?”

“Not his parents,” Rutledge replied. “A stranger.”

“Dear God. I wish someone had told me. I wish I’d known.”

“I don’t think Mrs. Russell wanted you to know. She understood that it was important to forget.”

“But did she tell Wyatt?”

“Probably not. For the same reason.”

She took a deep breath. “If you find him, will you let me know-if he’s all right?”

“If that’s what he wants me to do.”

And she had to be satisfied with that.