The Confession

Chapter 22

After breakfast with his sister, Rutledge went to the Yard.

She had commented as she poured his tea that he looked tired and asked if he’d slept well.

He had lain awake most of the night for fear he would have a nightmare and start up screaming, frightening Frances. But he smiled and said, “Chief Superintendent Bowles has had a heart attack. The Yard is tense, waiting to see if he’ll return when he’s stronger or if we’ll have a new Chief Superintendent. We all feel it.”

“I’m sure that’s true. You and he never got on, did you? Well, I hope the new man, if there is going to be one, is more sympathetic.”

When he walked into his office there was a message on his desk from Gibson, and attached to it was a cutting of the request for information from the Times.

Rutledge read it again, then set it aside. He wasn’t sure now what sort of response there would be. He doubted that anyone in Furnham read the Times, and he would have to take a copy to them. With what he knew now, he hoped he could finally clear up the murder of Ben Willet. He had a motive now and clear suspects. As for the attack on Russell, it would most certainly no longer be an inquiry for the Yard. It would be turned over to the Tilbury police, now that the Major had survived. The other deaths-if there were others-would have to remain unsolved.

Hamish said, “It willna’ be resolved.”

True enough, Rutledge thought. Tilbury had never solved the disappearance of Mrs. Russell, just as Colchester had never solved the murders of Justin Fowler’s parents.

Still, even though he couldn’t quarrel with the evidence before him, he was not satisfied.

Another question was what Cynthia Farraday would do when Willet’s new novel failed to arrive, even though he’d promised her a copy. Would she raise the matter with his Paris publishers?

He had no more than formulated the thought when there was a tap at his door and Constable Henry stuck his head in.

“A Miss Farraday to see you, sir. And she appears to be very upset.”

He wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t told her about the fabricated article, just in case Fowler tried to contact her.

She came in, her face flushed with anger, and he thought too that she had been crying.

“You didn’t have the courtesy to come and tell me,” she said at once. “I was left to read the news in the Times. I would have gone to him, I would have been with him when he died.”

“I’m sorry. There has been no opportunity to tell you.”

“Did he suffer? Who shot him? When? Where? I don’t know anything!”

He had been standing when she came in, and he offered her a chair. “Sit down. Let me tell you what I know.”

She did as he asked, but her eyes were still blazing with her fury, and he felt a surge of regret for what he was about to do.

He told her how he had finally learned that Russell had gone to Essex. “And I left the church before they could find me there listening. I went on to River’s Edge and waited for him to come. But he didn’t, and I believed that Morrison had relented and let him spend the night at the Rectory. The next morning I spoke to Nancy Brothers, who told me he hadn’t come back to the church ruins, and I went myself to be sure. From there I drove to the Rectory. But neither Morrison nor Russell came to the door. I was just turning toward River’s Edge when I saw Morrison coming from that direction. He’d been looking for Russell as well, and together we went back to the house to search more carefully.”

He glossed over discovering what he’d thought was Russell’s dead body and the difficulty of carrying the wounded man to the motorcar. He said only, “We found him on one of the marsh tracks. We managed to get him to a London hospital, Morrison and I. I don’t believe he ever regained consciousness.”

“And you don’t know who shot him-or why?”

“We’ve had very little luck. That’s why we asked the public for assistance.”

“And you think anyone in Furnham has even seen this article?” She shook her head in disbelief. “First Ben. And now Wyatt.” She angrily brushed away a tear. “And so far you’ve done nothing to stop it. Nothing at all. Scotland Yard, for heaven’s sake! And no better than that poor drunken constable in Furnham. Do you realize that I’m alone now? They’re all gone. Aunt Elizabeth. Justin. Ben. My parents. It’s a frightening feeling, I can tell you. And you didn’t have the courage or the decency to come to me and break the news yourself.”

She began to cry then. He handed her his handkerchief as she fumbled for her own. She rejected it, as if to take it would be to forgive him.

“I can only say how sorry I am.”

“Would you have come at all?” she asked finally.

“I was hoping to reach you before you’d seen the Times.”

“I don’t believe you.” She rose to go. “Where do I find the undertaker who took Wyatt’s body? I shall deal with the arrangements myself.”

It was the one thing he hadn’t planned for.

“The hospital is sending that information to us. I’ll see that you get it.”

“Just as you saw to it that I was informed before the Times arrived this morning?”

“No, Miss Farraday. I’ll see that you know in good time. If I must send Constable Henry to you with the information.”

Turning toward the door, she said, “You’ve brought me only unhappiness. When I thought you were Wyatt’s solicitor, I liked you. And then you tried to follow me home, and I was frightened. Since then, nothing has gone the way it should. I hold you accountable.”

He walked with her as far as the street in front of the Yard. “Shall I take you home? My motorcar is just there.”

“I’d rather walk,” she told him, and turned toward Trafalgar Square, leaving him standing on the pavement.

He drove to Essex, feeling the guilt of the liar. Telling himself that what he had done was necessary. But it didn’t help.

On the way he stopped and bought a copy of the newspaper.

Arriving in Furnham, he took the paper, already turned to the proper page, into the cool morning dimness of The Rowing Boat.

Barber was there, and Jessup as well, with four or five others. Rutledge realized that he’d just walked into a planning meeting for the next run to France.

They stared at him with animosity, and he told himself grimly that it was only to get worse.

He put the newspaper down on the bar in front of Barber. “I don’t imagine you’ve seen this,” he said.

With a glance at the others, Barber picked up the newspaper, found the article that Rutledge had referred to, and began to read it. Then he stopped and began again, reading it aloud this time.

There was silence in the room as he put it down. “What’s this got to do with us?” He nodded to the others.

“I should think you’d be interested in helping find his killer. Even if you had no interest in finding Ben Willet’s.”

“Perhaps it was suicide,” Barber said after a moment. “Did you think of that?”

“I should think he would have found it difficult to shoot himself in the back and then walk as far as the house, leave the revolver where he’d found it, and return to the marshes to collapse.”

As he stood there, waiting for them to answer, he found himself wondering if any of the shotguns the runners had carried had come from the gun case at River’s Edge. Something in the faces turned toward him told him they knew the gun case as well as Rutledge did.

Jessup said into the silence, “Why should one of us wish to kill Russell? We hardly knew him. He wasn’t one to come to The Rowing Boat of an evening and drink with us.”

“There have been too many deaths at River’s Edge. Beginning with Mrs. Russell and including Justin Fowler. Bodies don’t disappear in the river, not without a little help.”

Jessup stirred. “Don’t be a fool,” he said after a moment.

“What reason did we have?” another of the men asked.

“I was hoping you would tell me. There is something wrong at River’s Edge. I haven’t found out what it was, but I will.” He gestured to the newspaper as he picked it up. “As this says, any information will be treated with strictest confidentiality. So don’t be afraid to speak up. I should think Miss Farraday will be offering a reward as well.”

He turned, walking out the door, feeling a tightness between his shoulder blades until he had swung the door shut behind him.

At the Rectory, he saw Morrison trimming a hedge that ran along the back of his property. Getting out, he walked past the house and said, when he was in earshot, “I think you’ll want to read this.” Holding up the newspaper, he waited until Morrison had put down the wooden-handled hedge trimmers and joined him by the kitchen door.

“What’s that? It can wait, I’m thirsty. Would you care for a lemonade?”

Rutledge went into the small but tidy kitchen and took the chair Morrison indicated. An oiled cloth in a rather garish shade of green covered the table, and the hutch and the cabinets were old. After a moment he came back with a heavy pitcher in his hands.

“It’s not terribly cold,” the rector said apologetically. “It’s hard to come by ice out here. I’ve taken to keeping the jug in the root cellar.” He poured a glass and handed it to Rutledge. “Now. What is it I ought to read?”

Rutledge thanked him and pointed to the top of the page.

“Dear God,” he said after he’d finished it. “He’s dead? But I thought- Dr. Wade gave him a very good chance of living.”

“I was there yesterday. Just before his fever shot up. I’ve shown this to Barber and Jessup and a few of the others. And as you can see, I’ve kept your name out of it. I thought it best.”

“Thank you very much. I can do without any other quarrel with my parishioners. But this is sad news. After all our efforts to get him to a Casualty Ward. Did he ever remember anything more?”

“Apparently not.”

“Well, that will just make your task harder, I should think. Much as I hate to say it, it must have been one of the villagers.” Morrison shook his head. “But there’s no motive. He hadn’t been here for years. Why shoot him?”

“Perhaps because he’d seen Ben Willet the night before he was killed. With someone from Furnham.”

Morrison’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you sure? In London? That’s a long journey for someone from Furnham. None of us has the luxury of your motorcar.”

“There are vans that come to the butcher’s shop and the greengrocer’s shop. Someone must come for the milk out at the farms. There are ways.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. Well, then, it should be easy enough for you to find out. Still-I know these people, Rutledge. Which one have I failed to understand?”

“You told me that Jessup was dangerous.”

“Yes, that’s true, he is. He will hammer you within an inch of your life if you cross him. His fists are his weapon of choice.”

“Nevertheless, one of your flock shot Russell.”

“All right, yes. I just don’t want to think that men I’ve known and argued with and cajoled into coming to a service or letting a son or daughter be baptized are killers. Is it possible that someone from London followed him here? There was that business of the loose mare.”

“Probably very slim at best.” Rutledge could appreciate Morrison’s concern for the souls in his keeping, whether they wanted his keeping or not.

Finishing his lemonade, he asked, “Did you know the history of the church that preceded yours?”

Morrison roused himself from whatever he was thinking about the men of Furnham. “I was told it was struck by lightning and burned. Flat as it is out here, a steeple is the tallest point around. Not surprising.”

“Jessup told me the same story.”

“It’s one of the reasons why the new church, St. Edward’s, has a truncated tower. I suspect the beams were ancient and as dry as several hundreds of years could make them. They’d burn in a flash. I asked if it had been a Sunday, if anyone had been trapped in it. But apparently not, it was in the evening.”

Rutledge left it at that. Picking up the newspaper, he said, “I’m going to River’s Edge. It’s possible that in our concern for Russell we overlooked something.”

“I can’t imagine what. Do you want me to go with you? Two pairs of eyes and all that.”

“It’s just as well if I go alone. And then I’ll carry on straight to London.”

“Will you tell me when the funeral will be? I’ll take the service, if Cynthia-Miss Farraday-wishes me to.”

He was prepared this time. “The body won’t be released straightaway.”

“Yes, I understand. But you’ll pass along my offer, I hope.”

Rutledge promised, thanked him for the lemonade, and left.

“Are ye going to River’s Edge? Ye’ll be a target, if ye do, and no one to help.”

He answered Hamish aloud. “If it’s someone from Furnham, he’ll follow me to London. And there I won’t see him coming.”

“Aye. But watch your back.”

Rutledge stopped at the gates of River’s Edge, walked up the drive and around to the terrace. And although he stood there for nearly three-quarters of an hour, he saw no one. No one took a shot at him.

All the same, he could feel eyes watching him. From the high grass? Among the reeds across the river? Or concealed in the dozens of inlets and coves barely deep enough for a small boat?

He hadn’t thought to bring his field glasses. And he cursed himself for that.

Debating the wisdom of spending the night in the empty house, he decided against it.

Hamish said, “Yon Major was shot after dark.”

“If I’m to be shot and killed, it won’t matter if I see who it is in broad daylight.”

“Aye, there’s that.”

“When next I come, I’ll bring Constable Greene with me.”

The drive to London lay ahead. Reluctantly he walked back to the motorcar. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find his tires slashed. But they were not, the crank turned and the motor caught, and nothing at all happened.

He didn’t feel reassured by that.

I t was too late to return to the Yard by the time Rutledge reached London. But he stopped at his flat to look in on Russell. He was sleeping, and Sister Grey, who had been nodding in her chair by the bed, assured Rutledge that there were no changes in his condition.

He found Frances waiting for him.

“I didn’t know if you were coming here again tonight. What did you do with the boxes? Take them with you this morning?”

“They’re evidence. I put them in the attic for safekeeping.”

“I’m glad they’re out of sight. I’m starving. Will you take me to dinner? I’m afraid you still owe me a lunch.”

At the restaurant, they met several friends, but sat at a table for two. Rutledge was just as glad. The four people they had spoken with as they came in often included Meredith Channing in their dinner plans. He couldn’t sit there and listen to speculation about where she might be or why she was away so long. He’d told himself a hundred times to put her out of his mind. But it was harder to do than he’d ever imagined. The wound was still too raw.

Hamish’s voice, without warning, spoke from just behind him. “You willna’ walk away. It’s safer to love someone ye canna’ have. You willna’ have to tell her about me.”

Frances said, “A penny for your thoughts.” Stretching out her hand, she put a copper penny in front of his plate.

Collecting himself, he recognized the profile of Edward VII staring up at him and managed a smile. To gain time, he handed it back to her. “What else is there to think about? The Yard.”

She made a face. “Put it aside for tonight. Listen, the orchestra is starting to play. Talk to me, or I shall make a fuss until you dance with me.”

Laughing because she expected it, he cleared his mind of everything except for the ever-present Hamish and tried to pretend it was before the war and the golden summer of 1914 had lasted forever.

The next morning he went to the Yard early and found an envelope on his desk. Sergeant Gibson’s name was on the front, in care of the Yard. There was no return address.

Rutledge took out the single sheet of paper. I saw the request for information in the newspaper. Will you meet me? Just by St. Martin-in-the-Fields will do. 2:00?

It was unsigned.

The hunt was beginning. And he had a feeling he was the prey. But who was the hunter?

He walked out of the Yard at one-thirty and made his way to Trafalgar Square. He stood there for a quarter of an hour, surveying the people coming and going, trying to spot anyone looking for him as well.

At five minutes before two o’clock, he walked to the west door of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, its white facade bright in the afternoon sun.

He stood there until well after two o’clock, and no one came.

Giving it up, he turned and walked back toward the Yard. He was waiting at the corner to cross the street when someone came up behind him and said quietly, “Don’t turn around. You aren’t Sergeant Gibson. Who are you?”

“Inspector Rutledge. I put that request in the Times. Sergeant Gibson was merely the contact. What’s your name?”

“No, I told you, don’t turn. In exchange for what I know, I want one thing. Immunity from prosecution for desertion. Can you arrange that?”

A break in the traffic was coming, but Rutledge stayed where he was.

“I don’t have the authority to make such an arrangement.”

“Then you don’t need to speak to me.”

“Wait!” Rutledge said quickly. “I’ll do what I can. Give me twenty-four hours.”

“I’ll give you until dark. Come back alone. I know what you look like now. If you try to see me, it’s finished.”

“Very well.”

Another break in the traffic came.

“Go,” urged the voice behind him. And Rutledge crossed the street with six or eight other people hurrying on their way. Even before he reached the far side, he knew he was alone.

The encounter had yielded several pieces of information. He had met a deserter, for one. And he was absolutely certain the Army wouldn’t offer immunity in exchange for information that would bring a murder inquiry to an end. And finally, he hadn’t recognized the voice at his back.

Was it a trick? A deserter seizing the opportunity to help himself ? The man claimed he knew Sergeant Gibson. Or had someone actually come forward and been clever enough to ensure he himself wasn’t tricked?

Rutledge tried to replay the voice in his mind. Low, but not deep. Most certainly male. It reminded him of Ben Willet’s, the same timbre, the same cultured overtones. Willet was a good mimic, the voice of a gentleman coming naturally to him. But he was also dead, and his sister had identified the body.

Rutledge sent a message round to his sister’s house to say that he would be late. And then he went to see Major Russell.

“Someone contacted me,” he said as he came into the bedroom. “It wasn’t such a wild idea after all.”

Russell said quickly, “Who was it?”

Handing him the envelope, Rutledge said, “Do you recognize the handwriting?”

After studying it for a moment, Russell said, “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

“Would you know Findley’s hand? Or Fowler’s?”

“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anything in Finley’s handwriting. And it isn’t Justin’s. His had more of a slant to it.”

Rutledge told him what had transpired, ending with, “He asked for immunity from prosecution for desertion.”

“Good luck to him,” Russell said. “The Army will never agree to that. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn it’s someone from Furnham. You did see to it that they knew about the Times? All right then. I’ve dealt with soldiers from isolated villages. Some of them were so homesick they would have deserted if they hadn’t been too afraid to try.”

Rutledge himself had dealt with raw troops facing battle for the first time. “Or it’s a trap?” he said slowly. “I’m to meet him again when it’s dark.”

“What would he have done,” Russell asked, “if this man Gibson had met him? He’d have been prepared to put him off, wouldn’t he, and make certain that you would come.”

It was an interesting point.

“Take someone with you,” Russell added. “That’s my advice.”

“I’ll ask Constable Greene. I can’t risk taking Gibson with me.”

“No need to frighten him off. Have a service revolver, do you? The clinic took mine away. Carry it with you.”

“Good advice.” But policemen were not expected to go armed.

Later when Rutledge asked Constable Greene to accompany him to the meeting, the man said, “It’s my wife’s birthday, sir. I don’t think she’d forgive either of us.”

Constable Henry had already left for the day, and Sergeant Gibson was closeted with the Acting Chief Superintendent.

Rutledge left the Yard on his own, walking through the quiet streets back to St. Martin-in-the-Fields.

He wasn’t sure what he was facing. Still, he hadn’t brought his revolver. He would take his chances without it.

Arriving at the church, the first thing he saw was a white square of paper pinned to the door.

Taking it down, he walked to the pool of light cast by a streetlamp, unfolded the half sheet, and tried to read what was written there.

The words were a black scrawl. Not at all the neat writing on the first message. He thought, this must be the man’s true hand. Or else he’s apprehensive, afraid of a trap.

With Hamish uttering a warning in his mind, Rutledge finally deciphered the tangle of words. Walk another quarter mile north, and I’ll find you.

Whoever it was, he was being very careful. But then the price for desertion was death.

Rutledge continued north, out of the square, coming finally to a dark street where trees blocked the light of streetlamps, casting long black shadows across the road. Half seen beneath one of the trees stood a tall slim man in country clothing, a cap pulled down over his eyes.

He was suddenly reminded of Furnham, when he had waited under another tree, this one by the bend of the road until three men with sacks over their shoulders had come up from the river. He’d been alone, tense, prepared for trouble, then had watched it walk directly toward him and knew that he stood no chance if he was caught there.

Rutledge understood what the other man was experiencing, knew the price he’d paid to come to this meeting. Stopping some ten feet from him, Rutledge waited for him to speak. All he could see was the pale glimmer of a face beneath the cap but no distinguishing features.

“They aren’t offering me anything, are they?” the man said after a moment, resignation in his quiet voice.

“I’m sorry. No.” He could see a faint lift of his shoulders as the man accepted the bald truth.

“Well. I’ll have to take my chances, won’t I?”

“I’ll do what I can. But I make no promises. Still, I need whatever information you can give me. I can’t find a killer without it.”

There was a pause, as if the man was considering how to begin. Finally he said, “All right. My name is Harold Finley. I worked at River’s Edge until it was closed and stayed on as caretaker until I was called up.”

Rutledge stayed where he was, waiting for an errant breeze to shift the leaves a little and show him the man’s face. It had nearly happened once already.

“I came back to the house twice after that. When my training was finished and I was given leave. And later in the summer of 1915, when I’d recovered from my wounds. I knew Justin Fowler was already in England, so I wasn’t surprised to find the terrace doors open. There was no one inside, and I decided to walk down to the water, and I stood there for a while. I was beginning to wonder where Fowler had got to, and just in case he’d brought in supplies at the kitchen landing, I thought I might go along and help him carry boxes up to the house. Do you know where it is, this landing?”

“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 the 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 find 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.