The Confession

Chapter 23

When Rutledge walked into the police station in Colchester, he found that Inspector Robinson was elsewhere investigating a housebreaking. The constable who had been summoned in the inspector’s place didn’t remember the Fowler case-he had come from Suffolk-and spent over an hour searching for it in the cellar archives.

“And you’re quite certain, sir, that the Inspector is willing to allow you to read the file in his absence?”

“He’s knows of Scotland Yard’s interest in these murders.”

He directed Rutledge to a small interview room and ten minutes later reluctantly turned over the box containing the statements taken when Fowler’s parents were killed.

It took Rutledge two hours to sort through the statements. Everyone had been interviewed. The staff in the house, Fowler’s partner, the neighbors, Mr. Harrison, who represented the family, anyone who made deliveries to the house, from the milk van driver to the man who brought the post. Anyone who had worked on the grounds or in the house, from gardeners to painters to the chimney sweep and the coal man.

No one had seen or heard anything. No one knew of any trouble touching the family. The killer had come quietly, finished his work, and left, taking nothing, leaving nothing but death behind.

Hamish said, “If the wife had screamed, and one of the servants had come running, there would ha’ been another murder.”

“Very likely. But I don’t think the killer wanted that.”

He replaced the statements in the box and sorted quickly through the other pieces of evidence in the file. The postmortem report that graphically described the number and placement of the knife wounds in the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Fowler, indicating the savagery of the attack and commenting that Mrs. Fowler’s survival for even a few hours after it had been nothing short of miraculous, although she hadn’t regained consciousness. That was followed by a statement from the doctor who had treated Justin Fowler, describing the severity of his wounds and expressing concern about telling the boy that his parents were dead, suggesting that the police wait until he was out of danger.

A sergeant had meticulously made a list of all the personal correspondence found in Fowler’s desk in the six months before the murders, and another had been compiled of clients he’d dealt with in the past six months. The police had been meticulous, even to keeping a list of those who had called at the hospital in the first few days after Justin had been rushed to Casualty.

And there it was.

A name he recognized.

Rutledge sat back in the chair, telling himself it had to be a coincidence. A faint echo of memory awoke, something that Inspector Robinson had told him. What’s more, it explained why Mr. Waring hadn’t been able to find the right name when he’d been questioned at the school. Another discordant fact had fit well into the whole now.

And other odd pieces began to fall into place, making a pattern.

He just might have found the connection after all.

Armed with this new knowledge, Rutledge asked to use the station’s telephone and put in three calls to London.

When the last of these calls had been returned, Rutledge whistled under his breath.

Gladys Mitchell’s son had been adopted when he was barely a year old-just about the time she met the young man who would later become the father of Justin Fowler. Ridding herself of an encumbrance in the hope of impressing a rich man? But it hadn’t worked out the way she had planned. Meanwhile, the boy’s new parents hadn’t wanted to give him up. Still, they had sent him to the Charity School in London because he had had a scholarship there. They were too poor to do otherwise.

That much Rutledge had already worked out, but for the details.

What he had had no way of knowing was that Gladys Mitchell had become a matron at that same school, using the name Grace Fowler. Had the solicitor, Harrison, been aware of that? It was most certainly when she’d poisoned her son’s mind against the elder Fowler and his family. The boy grew up to follow in his adoptive father’s footsteps as a shoemaker, but he hadn’t prospered. His adoptive mother-Gladys’s sister-died soon after, followed within a year by her husband, and the boy, now a grown man, was penniless, unhappy, and in search of a new life. He had found it in an unexpected place.

Sitting down again at the table, Rutledge stared at the box of evidence in front of him. Hardly able to take it all in.

“Dear God,” he said aloud.

Behind him, Inspector Robinson replied, “He’s not available, but I am. What have you found?” When Rutledge didn’t answer straightaway, he said harshly, “It’s my case. I remind you of that. The Yard hasn’t charged you with this inquiry. You have your own.”

Rutledge turned as he collected the rest of the file and added it to the box. “Quite. I can’t connect my murder to yours. I don’t know why your killer should have shot my victim.” He rose and handed the box to Robinson. “I might add that your predecessor was a careful and thorough man. If anyone should have found this murderer, it was he. The only problem is, we aren’t omniscient, are we? It’s what gives the criminal an edge.”

Taking the box, Inspector Robinson said, “I don’t appreciate your examining this file without speaking to me. What were you looking for?”

“Any tangible evidence that could be useful. A name, a coincidence, an irregularity, anything out of order.”

“If an answer comes of what you’ve discovered, I want to know.”

“There’s no real proof, Robinson. Only a faint hope.” He was on his way to the door. “What I’m afraid of, if you want the truth, is that if I’m not careful, they will hang the wrong man. And even if I’m careful, that could still happen.”

Inspector Robinson was a zealot when it came to this particular crime, and there had to be some way of proving what he, Rutledge, suspected, without involving Justin Fowler or having him taken up for desertion. Rutledge didn’t approve of what the man had done, refusing to go back to France. But that was a matter for Fowler’s conscience.

He left then, faced with the dilemma of what to do with the information he had.

Wyatt Russell could probably tell him what he needed to know. But Russell hadn’t seen his assailant. And Rutledge wasn’t eager to put words in his mouth.

Who could answer his question?

Nancy Brothers?

When he came to the junction with the road to the Hawking River, he took it.

But halfway to Furnham, he changed his mind. Leave Nancy Brothers out of it. Go straight to Constable Nelson.

The rector was wheeling his bicycle along the road, on his way from Furnham to the Rectory. Rutledge slowed to keep pace with him.

“Back again, are you?” Morrison asked.

“I’m afraid so. Willet’s death is still a mystery.”

“I thought you’d all but settled on Jessup.”

“In truth, I’ve yet to place him in London. But all in good time.”

They had reached the Rectory drive. Morrison went ahead and leaned his bicycle against the side of the cottage. “Come in. I’m making a pot of tea.”

Rutledge followed him inside and walked to the window to look out as Morrison brought down the teapot and filled it with cold water.

“I need more information. I considered speaking to Nancy Brothers or Constable Nelson. It’s possible you can help me as well.”

“If I can.”

“When did you take up the living at St. Edward’s? Were you here before Cynthia Farraday came to live at River’s Edge?”

“I don’t believe there was a priest here then. There hadn’t been since 1902, I think it was. I refused the living twice myself before my bishop convinced me it was my duty to bring God back to this benighted place. Or words to that effect. He’s dead now. I often wonder what he would have to say about my dealings with the people of Furnham. I’m not the most successful shepherd, I grant you, but this is not the general run of flock.”

Rutledge laughed. “What about Nelson? When did he come to Furnham?”

“About five years before the war, I should think. 1908? 1909? But you were asking me about Cynthia Farraday. I’ve told you most everything I can think of. Is there anything in particular?”

“I’ve spoken to her a number of times, and I’ve begun to think that she’s still in love with Justin Fowler. She refuses to believe he’s dead. She feels he must be among the missing. What she doesn’t know-I didn’t care to be the one to tell her-is that he’s been listed as a deserter by the Army.”

Morrison’s surprise was genuine. “Has he been, by God?”

Rutledge finished his tea. “Now I must beard Jessup in his den. Do you know where he lives?

“The house just past the bend in the road. On the right.”

But when Rutledge stopped in front of that cottage, he changed his mind. Reversing, he went instead to The Rowing Boat. It appeared to be closed, but he knocked at the door. There was no answer.

From there he drove to Abigail Barber’s house. She came to the door, and as soon as she recognized him, she said, “My father and my brothers are dead. There’s no more bad news to bring to me.”

“My apologies, Mrs. Barber. I need to ask you again. You had no word from your brother for months?”

“That’s true. I expect he didn’t want to tell us he was dying.” Her eyes filled at the memory. “He was so thin, lying there under that sheet. It broke my heart to see him.”

“Someone paid him a visit in London. The night before he died. He’d written a letter, and the visit must have been prompted by that.”

“He couldn’t have written. Sandy would have told me. Nor would he have gone to London without me. Not if it was Ben he was seeing. He wouldn’t have gone to London without me!”

“Your father was ill,” he reminded her.

“He would have taken me to see Ben. I’d have found someone to sit with my father. It would have been all right.”

He reminded her of the date again. “Was your husband away at that time?”

“No, of course he wasn’t. Besides, there’s the pub. He doesn’t trust anyone else to manage it.”

“Your uncle, then.” When she hesitated, he added, “I know about France. It’s not important.”

Her face wasn’t good at hiding what was going through her mind. He had his answer. Jessup had been away. But where?

Mind reading couldn’t put Jessup in London, and it was clear that Abigail Barber had no idea where her uncle had gone.

“He was in France,” she said finally. “He goes, sometimes.”

He thanked her and left.

“Now ye must ask the man himsel’,” Hamish warned him. “Before yon lass asks him.”

“I’d have preferred not to. He’s spoiling for a fight, and I’m not.”

“Aye, he is that.”

This time Rutledge walked up the path to Jessup’s door. Before he could knock, Jessup opened it in his face.

“I saw you before, trying to gather your courage. I won’t ask you in. It’s my house, and I’m rather particular about who I invite to step across my threshold.”

“Yes, I rather thought you might be,” Rutledge said easily. “Where would you prefer to go instead? The strand there, where everyone in Furnham can watch you being taken into custody for obstructing the police in the course of their duties? Or shall we retire to the churchyard, where only the dead will be disturbed by your humiliation?”

Jessup measured his chances. They were nearly of a height, Rutledge slightly taller, while he himself was running to fat around the middle and could give Rutledge at least a stone.

Rutledge said, “You’re wasting my time, Jessup.”

“Talk.”

“What did Ben Willet tell you in his last letter? That he was writing a book about The Dragonfly? About the plague and the burning of the church with a hundred souls inside? Is that why you went to London and killed him?”

Rutledge had prepared for any reaction. What he got was a frowning stare.

“What last letter? What do you mean, he was writing a book about The Dragonfly? God, if I’d known that I’d have killed him myself. Bloody coward. Are you sure? Damn it, he swore to me and to his father. He swore he would say nothing.” He was furiously angry, striking the frame of the door hard with the edge of his fist. “Is that why he was afraid to come home before Ned died? Did Abigail know this?”

“She did not. I don’t know why he never told her about his books.”

“He’s the one they were talking about in France,” Jessup said suddenly. “Not Ned. I thought they were putting us on. Georges and his son. They’re bastards, but they get what we want. How did they know when we didn’t? Besides, I thought they said the book was about smuggling.”

“They knew because the books were published in France under the name Edward Willet. Smuggling was in his second work. Dragonfly would have been his third.”

“If you’re lying to me, I’ll kill you.”

“Someone knew. Someone met him in London. There’s a witness to the fact that he wrote that letter. The same witness can swear to the fact he met someone the night before he died.”

“I got no letter. He’d write to Sandy, not me. Or to Abigail.” His gaze moved toward the pub.

Looking up the street Rutledge saw Sandy Barber in the doorway of The Rowing Boat, watching them. He said, “Who found Mrs. Russell’s body?”

“Found-she was never found.”

“But the locket was, wasn’t it. Her locket.” He watched the man’s eyes, and they gave Jessup away. “And who found Justin Fowler floating in the river and never reported it?”

Jessup looked toward Barber again. “Nobody.”

“You didn’t want the police asking questions. That’s why you didn’t report the locket. Or Fowler’s body. Who killed them, Jessup? Your merry band of smugglers? Or someone else?”

“Get the hell out of Furnham,” Jessup said through clenched teeth. “I’m warning you.”

“You’ve intimidated Constable Nelson, but you can’t intimidate Scotland Yard. I will have a dozen men here to search every house and question every person in this village. We’ll drag the river as well and tear every boat apart. The London newspapers will be kept abreast of our efforts, and when we’re finished, Furnham will be changed forever. And your name will be synonymous with the evil your ancestor did. I read the manuscript, Jessup. ”

He knew that he’d pushed too far. If the shotgun had been to hand, Jessup would have used it.

Hamish warned him, and he realized that while he’d been speaking, Sandy Barber had come up behind him. He moved slightly so that he could watch both men, waiting for whatever would happen next. But he’d been angry with the intransigence of these men, the obstruction at every turn. And it was time to end it.

Into the hostile silence, Barber said, “If we tell you, will you leave us in peace?”

“No!” Jessup said explosively.

“We’re making a spectacle of ourselves.” Barber shouted at him in his turn. “There’s no one in The Boat. We’ll settle it there.”

Barber waited, and Rutledge held his tongue.

Jessup was struggling to get himself under control. He seemed to realize through the haze of fury that villagers going in and out of the shops were staring at the confrontation on his doorstep.

Rutledge could almost read the thoughts passing though the man’s mind, that this was too public a place to do murder.

Finally he nodded curtly, shoved Rutledge to one side, and walked off toward the pub. He didn’t look to see if anyone was following him.

When he was out of earshot, Barber snapped, “Why did you make him so angry? He could have killed you.”

“He could have tried,” Rutledge said, and strode to the pub in his turn, with Barber hastily falling in beside him.

“Was the book that explicit?” he asked. “God, I never-he went to be a footman. That’s all Ben wanted. What happened?”

“I expect it was going to France that changed him. The war. He must have kept a diary. He wrote a memoir after it was over, and someone in Paris published it.”

“Damn the war,” Barber said as Rutledge opened the door into the pub. “And damn the French while we’re about it.”

Jessup was waiting. He said to Barber, “What are we going to do with him? He has to be stopped.”

“You fool, do you want to hang? They know where he is. The Yard does. If he goes missing, he’s right, they’ll come down on us and tear Furnham apart. Tell him what he wants to know. Tell him, or I will. Then make him promise.”

The flush on Jessup’s face was a measure of his rage. “They won’t know what he knows. They can’t.”

“There are the boxes Willet left behind. The manuscripts are in them,” Rutledge said. “You’ll be taken up for the murder of Benjamin Willet when they come to light. What’s more, the murder of Justin Fowler and the attack on Wyatt Russell happened here, not in London. You have that to answer for as well.”

“You selfish bastard,” Barber said. “You’ve got us into this. Get us out of it.”

There was a long silence as Jessup weighed alternatives.

Rutledge saw the man glance once at the windows that looked down on the river. Then he shook his head as if to rid it of the thought. Instead, he grappled with the realization that he had no choice at all.

“All right,” he said finally. “We found Fowler floating, already dead. We thought at first he was a German spy come to grief on the river. But it wasn’t all that long after the old woman vanished, and we didn’t want the police here again. We towed him to the mouth of the river and turned him loose.”

“Who told Willet that Wyatt Russell had killed him?”

“It must have been Ned,” Barber said. “I can’t think who else could have told him.”

Jessup cut across his words. “It wasn’t Ned. I wrote to him in France and mentioned there’d been a falling-out between Russell and Fowler, and we’d heard a gunshot. Just in case the body washed up somewhere else. He wanted to know if they’d quarreled over Miss Farraday, and I answered that it was likely.”

“You told him-damn it, you never told me, ” Barber said angrily.

“It was to cover us. I thought it best.”

Rutledge said, “Willet believed you. That’s why I was drawn into this inquiry in the first place. He came to the Yard and told me that Wyatt Russell had killed Fowler. Willet knew he was dying. My guess is he wanted Miss Farraday to learn what had become of Fowler, and he could hardly tell her himself. He must have known how she felt about the man, and it was a way to repay all she’d done for Willet himself.” He smiled grimly. “You brought your own house crashing down around your ears, Jessup.”

“Willet wasn’t dead,” Jessup said. “Not when you came to Furnham that first time.”

“I was curious,” Rutledge countered. “Who killed Mrs. Russell?”

“I don’t know. Ned found her locket. He wanted to show it to the police. But I told him not to. I told him to keep it and give it to Abigail. But Ben saw it on his last leave and asked for it. He wanted to put his likeness in it and give it to a girl.”

To Cynthia Farraday? Would it have saved three lives if he had? Or would Ben Willet have been hanged for a murder he hadn’t committed? Rutledge shook his head.

Jessup mistook the shake to mean he wasn’t believed. “He couldn’t give it to Abigail. I can see now it would have got all of us into trouble if he had. But what would a girl in Thetford know about Mrs. Russell? Ben could tell her the locket was his mother’s, and who would think otherwise?”

They were scoundrels, all of them. Living by their wits, doing what they had to in order to survive.

“Do ye believe him?” Hamish asked.

Rutledge found he did. It was probably not the whole truth, but when did the whole truth ever exist?

“Which brings me back to Willet’s letter. He wrote it. He posted it. That much we know. He was leaving for France, he wanted to die there, and at a guess, it told whoever it was to break the news gently to Abigail and her father. What else did it say? And who came to London that last night of his life?”

“It wasn’t me,” Jessup said. “I was in Tilbury, getting a part for my boat.”

“He didn’t write to me,” Barber said. “It must have been to Ned.”

“Ned was too ill to travel to London.” But Rutledge had found his connection now. It was the last piece of the puzzle. “How would he have managed to keep such a letter from his daughter?”

“He was a sly old fox,” Barber said. “He’d have burned it in the cooker. He wouldn’t have wanted Abigail to learn any more bad news.”

And Ned Willet was dead. No one could ask him. Or prove what he’d done.

Jessup said, “He’d have told the priest. By God, he’d have sent the priest to London to persuade Ben to come home to his father.”

“Make sense, Jessup. The priest wouldn’t have killed him,” Barber retorted.

“Why not? They were all of them in love with that Farraday woman. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out the priest loved her too.”

“No. He saw the locket,” Rutledge said. “Morrison killed Mrs. Russell. He believed that Ben Willet knew what had happened to her. And a dying man often wants to unburden his soul. Morrison couldn’t take that risk.”

“Have you run mad?” Barber asked. “The priest? He’s like Constable Nelson, he’s afraid of his shadow.”

“Is he? He came into a house in Colchester one night and butchered Justin Fowler’s mother and father, and stabbed Fowler himself so severely he spent six months in hospital.”

“ Morrison? ” Barber exclaimed. “I sent for him to comfort my wife .”

“You look at the evil your ancestors did, but here is an equal evil right under your nose, and you thought because you could bully the man that he was nothing.”

“Did he have a reason for killing them?” Jessup demanded.

“He believed lies he’d been told by his mother. He thought he was owed a different sort of life. His real father was in prison, but he’d been led to look upon Justin Fowler’s father as his. He saw himself as the rejected son.”

“And you’re sure he killed Ben?”

“It was either you or Morrison. I thought you were angry enough with him that you’d killed him.”

Without warning, Jessup came straight for him as Barber shouted, “Here!” But Jessup shoved Rutledge aside and was out the door before either man could stop him.

“He’ll tell Abigail, she dotes on Rector,” Barber said, and was through the door before Rutledge could reach it.

But Jessup wasn’t heading in the direction of the Barber house. With long, determined, angry strides he went toward his own house.

Rutledge was halfway there when he realized what Jessup was intending to do. It wasn’t the shotgun in his house that he was after, it was the motorcar sitting in front of it.

He turned the crank with the vigor of his anger, got in, and was already gunning the motor before Rutledge reached him. As his hand gripped the door, Jessup used his fist to pound it, and when he couldn’t break Rutledge’s hold, he drove off, throwing Rutledge backward, twisting his arm and then slamming it against the side of the motorcar. Careening as he fought for control of the wheel, Jessup nearly collided with Barber, who was yelling at him to wait. The motor sputtered, caught again, and then Jessup was gone.

“He’ll kill him!” Barber exclaimed. “He’s that angry.”

Rutledge looked up the street. A grocer’s van was stopped in front of the tea shop, its motor running, and he sprinted for it, Barber at his heels.

Rutledge swung himself inside, realizing as he did that he’d damaged his elbow fighting to hold on to the motorcar’s door. Ignoring the pain, he began to roll and heard Barber swear as he struggled to join him, sprawling across the stack of boxes in his way. As Rutledge reversed the van and started out the London road, they could hear the van’s owner screaming at them from the tea shop door.

Barber said, almost out of breath, “I don’t think he’s ever killed anyone. Jessup. But it’s been a near run thing, a time or two.”

“I want Morrison alive.”

“But how did you know?”

“A curate by the name of Morrison tried to visit young Fowler in hospital. An alert constable kept a list of all callers. They were afraid the killer might come back. And he did. Only no one guessed. Later he wrote an anonymous note.”

“But Morrison was here, wasn’t he?”

“No. He accepted St. Edward’s when he learned somehow that Fowler was going to be sent to River’s Edge. He’s cagey about the time he arrived in Essex. But I’ll have London document the date and his background, now that we know where to look.”

“Why did he kill the others?”

“Morrison had killed the Fowlers out of jealousy. But when Justin survived and came to River’s Edge to live with a new family, it must have seemed doubly unfair. Two families when he had none. He made certain that Mrs. Russell died first, a warning to Fowler that he would be next. And when Russell finally came back to River’s Edge, another opportunity presented itself. The man was clever enough to be patient. He’d got away with murder before and he intended to get away with it again. Look-Jessup is just turning into the Rectory drive! We’re in time.”

But Morrison saw the motorcar, came to the cottage door, and then frowned when he realized that Jessup was driving.

“What’s happened?” he called. “Where’s Rutledge?” He turned to stare at the van barreling toward them.

Jessup was out the motorcar door, and Rutledge saw that he had the heavy torch that lived under the passenger seat.

Rutledge brought the van to a skidding stop and raced to intercept Jessup. Morrison, looking from one to the other as Rutledge used his shoulder to slam into the older man, took himself inside the Rectory, slamming the door shut.

With a roar of rage, Jessup recovered his balance and ran the short distance to the cottage door, hitting it with his own shoulder and bursting inside. Rutledge and Barber were just behind him, but he’d already cornered Morrison, who was standing with his back to the wall, glaring at Jessup. It was impossible to tell if he was armed or not. Rutledge prayed all three revolvers were still at River’s Edge, safe in the gun case.

“What’s this all about?” he demanded, looking to Rutledge for his answer. “I thought-”

“I’m arresting you for the murders of Justin Fowler’s parents,” Rutledge broke in, putting himself between Jessup and Morrison. “He’s my prisoner,” he said, turning to Jessup, “you can’t touch him.”

And then everything happened at once. Barber yelled something and then there was a deafening explosion almost in Rutledge’s ear. He was momentarily back in the trenches, stunned into memory. Only vaguely aware of Jessup swearing and Barber racing past him, he fought to hold on to the present. Then Morrison fired again, and Barber was stumbling backward, his hands outstretched, as if to ward off a blow.

The third shot, meant for Rutledge, went wild as he shook off the war and grappled with Morrison for the revolver. Morrison fought with all the violence of a cornered animal, growling incoherently as Rutledge reached out for the weapon. It went off again, and Rutledge heard a window breaking, glass raining down on the floor.

And then he had Morrison’s wrist, driving him back against the wall and battering his arm against the low mantel. Morrison cried out in pain but held on to the weapon. It took all the strength he could muster for Rutledge to bring the arm down hard on the oak edge of the mantelpiece, expecting to hear it snap. Instead, Morrison’s fingers flew open as the blow hit a nerve instead, and the revolver went thudding to the floor. Morrison fell back, nursing his arm, and for good measure, Rutledge hit him hard on the edge of his jaw. The rector slid down the wall, unconscious, sprawling there in a heap.

Wheeling to examine the injured, he heard Barber say with an effort, “See to Jessup. I think I’ll make it.” But his face was already pale with the pain, and he was clenching and unclenching a fist.

Jessup was still, and Rutledge bent over him. The shot had struck him in the stomach, but as Rutledge examined him, he said, “It’s bad. I’ve seen worse. We need to get him to hospital as soon as possible.”

He turned to look at Barber’s chest wound, but it was high enough that he said, “You’re right. You’ll live. With care.”

“Damn good thing he was a poor shot. That close? By rights we should all be dead.”

“A knife is his weapon,” Rutledge said grimly, busy doing what he could for both men, using whatever linens he could find in the cottage.

He got Barber into the motorcar, and the man said, “What will we do about the van? And there’s my wife.”

“There’s no time to worry about it. I’ll deal with it later when I come back to Furnham.”

“And Morrison?”

“I’ll leave him here until I can retrieve him. I don’t want him in the motorcar.”

Jessup was a big man, and it was harder to carry him outside, but then he opened his eyes, appeared to know what Rutledge was trying to do, and managed to get himself into the seat, his face pale and clammy from the cost in pain.

Morrison was only just coming to his senses when Rutledge was tying his hands and feet, looping the ropes through the pair of open windows and back again. Standing to one side, he regarded his handiwork. There was no way for the man to free himself without ripping out the heavy boards that separated the two windows. He didn’t think Jessup and Barber together could break them.

He took up the revolver-there was one shot left-and stowed it in the boot of his motorcar.

He drove carefully on the rutted road, avoiding the deeper holes where he could. Listening to the grunts of pain from Jessup and Barber, he could still hear the low growl of warning from Hamish, crowded from his accustomed place.

Rutledge tried to think what he had overlooked, and failed. Shutting out everything except making the best time he could, he concentrated on his driving. His elbow was hurting like the very devil, and every time the wheel shook in his hands over a particularly rough patch, he could feel the knifing pain. But he shut that out as well.

There was a Casualty Ward in Tilbury, accustomed to dealing with men injured on the docks. He walked in and asked a nursing sister for help with two men suffering from gunshot wounds. It was an unpleasant reminder of bringing Russell to a similar ward in London. There would have to be a retraction in the Times about that, Rutledge reminded himself ruefully. The newspaper wouldn’t care for it, but he hoped Fowler would see it, wherever he was hiding.

He got the two fishermen inside, and a doctor arrived to examine both of them. He looked up at Rutledge. “How did this happen?”

“Apprehending a killer. These men were caught in the cross fire.” Wincing, he pulled out his identification and showed it to the doctor.

“You did a fair job of bandaging them. In the war, were you?”

“Yes.”

The doctor nodded. “Field dressing. I recognize it. Sit down, you don’t look very good yourself.”

“I’m all right,” Rutledge protested, but the doctor wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Someone brought him a cup of tea and insisted he drink it. Then the doctor was back. “They will survive. Both men have serious but not life-threatening injuries. We can deal with them. Any next of kin to notify?”

“I’ll see to it. Thank you.”

“Are you hurt?” the doctor said, looking him up and down.

“I’m all right,” Rutledge said again, and the doctor reluctantly let him go.

But he was stopped once more as he was about to leave the ward. A very angry man stood on the threshold, asking for the gunshot victims.

He was Inspector Hayes of the Tilbury Constabulary, and he’d been in the maternity ward with his wife when he heard there had been a shooting.

It took Rutledge another quarter of an hour to pacify him. “It’s Inspector Robinson’s case, in Colchester,” Rutledge said. “If you disagree, take it up with him.”

And as he walked out the door, he was fairly certain that Hayes would indeed contact Robinson.

Once more in his motorcar, he cursed Hayes for wasting precious time. He was fairly sure that Morrison would be unable to escape, but he felt an urgency he couldn’t explain.

He was already into the turning for Furnham and the River Hawking, when he saw the van coming toward him. He didn’t know the driver, but he recognized the van. He’d left it sitting outside the Rectory.

Someone from the village had found it, and he had a sinking feeling that whoever it was had found Morrison as well.

Picking up speed, driving with attention fueled by the certainty that he was too late, he covered the miles as best he could. But he could see even before he’d reached the Rectory that Morrison was free. His bonds lay scattered across the grass, and the cottage was empty when he stepped inside.

Rutledge took the time to search each room as well as the back garden, alert for an ambush at any moment.

Where had Morrison gone? To the village?

No, he couldn’t be sure who beside Jessup and Barber knew the truth. The village was for all intents and purposes a trap.

“In the van,” Hamish said. “As far away as he can go.”

Possible. Very possible. Still, he hadn’t been driving. And Rutledge had a feeling he hadn’t chosen to go that far. Not yet. There was unfinished business to attend to first. He knew Rutledge would be coming back for him, and he intended to choose his ground for that encounter.

Rutledge had taken Morrison’s revolver. But there were other guns in the case in the house at River’s Edge.

Had the van carried him that far? Or had he gone by way of a shortcut through the marshes? He’d said once that he didn’t know his way through them, but that had been a lie. The only way he could have reached River’s Edge ahead of Major Russell was to take an even shorter path.

Retrieving his torch from where Jessup had dropped it, Rutledge went back to his motorcar.

When he reached River’s Edge, he left his motorcar by the gates for what he hoped would be the last time. And after removing the revolver from the boot and shoving it under his coat, he walked up the overgrown drive.

There were shotguns in the glass case in the study. The question was, did Morrison know where to find the shells?

“Ye ken, he was in and oot of yon house often enough. It wouldna’ take him verra’ long to find them and load.”

As carefully as he’d trod the dark approaches to No Man’s Land, looking for snipers, Rutledge walked toward the house.

The sun was bright, but not bright enough to penetrate the deeper shadows. He moved cautiously, watching for movement, for the slightest sign that he had been seen. There was nothing he could do about the upper windows overlooking the drive. And so he ignored them. The undergrowth and the untrimmed trees offered more immediate danger.

The final sprint across the open lawn leading to the main door took him to the shelter of the house, and he pressed himself against the warm brick while he caught his breath.

Still no sign of Morrison.

Perhaps, Rutledge thought, I was wrong. He was in that van, out of sight among the crates and boxes.

But he had to be sure, and after two minutes, when nothing had happened, he quietly moved around the house toward the riverfront and the terrace, ducking under windows where a watcher could see him.

He reached the corner of the house, pausing again before leaning forward to peer around the edge.

He stopped, moving back out of sight.

For down by the water, at the landing, a launch he’d seen before was tied up and swinging gently with the current.