The Confession

Chapter 8

There was nothing he could do but stand where he was, his back pressed against the tree trunk, his body braced for whatever he would have to do. There was no time to pull his hat lower to cover the paleness of his face or even to turn away. He carefully ducked his head so that his chin was nearly touching his collar, and waited.

Hamish, his voice a low growl, seemed to be waiting too, just behind his shoulder. But Hamish was not there, and no help if it came down to a fight.

Rutledge watched as the man cut diagonally across the road, grunting as he shifted the haversack a little to ease his shoulder.

Fifty feet. Thirty. Twenty feet and closing.

Near enough now to see him standing there, surely. And the men who had gone the other way were still within hearing. One shout and they’d turn. He could deal with one of them, he even stood a good chance of disarming the man nearest him, given the element of surprise. The other two could bring him down from a distance, and his only hope was to make it out of range before they fired.

Barber had had no qualms about clubbing him to death. These men would shoot first and worry later.

Something in the way the man walked was familiar. Had he seen him before? When he was here with Frances?

Just then, only ten feet away, the man grunted as he shifted the haversack again.

And the haversack was all that stood between them, blocking the man’s view of Rutledge there under the tree. He walked on, whistling under his breath.

It also prevented Rutledge from seeing the man’s face.

He wouldn’t have been able to identify him if his life had depended on it. Not in a courtroom. There was just that instinctive recognition. And it too could be wrong.

A door opened a little farther along on Rutledge’s side of the street and then shut again as quietly as possible. By that time it was too late to move away from the tree to see where the other two men had gone.

Hamish said, his voice seeming loud enough to be heard on the far side of the river, “Ye ken, this is why no one is happy to have Scotland Yard come to ask questions.”

Had they known anything about Ben Willet’s death? Or had they believed that it was only an excuse to look into other matters?

The inn was only a short distance ahead, but Rutledge waited until he was certain there were no watchers guarding the backs of the three men. He was just about to move when someone detached himself from the recessed doorway of The Rowing Boat and turned to jog up the High Street, disappearing into the small village school.

He waited another ten minutes, in case the watcher left the school and went home. Finally, satisfied that he was in the clear, he stepped quietly out of the shadow of the plane tree and walked without haste toward the inn.

Rutledge had seen Barber-or in point of fact, heard him-at the kitchen door of the inn hardly more than an hour ago. Therefore he couldn’t have been one of the three coming up from the river. Nor was he the watcher in the pub’s doorway, for that man was smaller in stature. Still, Rutledge wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Barber was the force behind the smuggling.

Smuggling wasn’t unheard of along the southern coast of England even in this day. Fisherman had long ago learned that they could supplement their meager living from the sea by dropping in at a French port and making quiet arrangements with their opposite numbers. War or peace, men needed to eat, and His Majesty’s Excise be damned. But this last war, with submarines as well as Naval vessels and German raiders patrolling the seas, must have curtailed the usual cross-Channel trade, much less fishing. Times would have been hard for villages like Furnham. The question was, why had the village turned its back on the airfield, which could have brought in much-needed revenue to the shops and pub?

He reached The Dragonfly without incident and, as silently as possible, climbed the stairs to his room. The innkeeper was nowhere in sight. And his room was as he’d left it. No one had come in to search it in his absence.

Rutledge wouldn’t have put it past the inn’s owner.

The next morning, Rutledge was grudgingly served his breakfast in the small dining room overlooking the street. There were five tables, crowded together cheek by jowl, but he was the only guest.

“Tell me about the airfield,” he said to the young woman who was serving him.

She was pretty, fair hair tending to curls in spite of rigorous attempts to keep it out of her face, and her eyes were hazel. He wondered if this was the Molly who had brought news of Ned Willet’s death.

“I dunno much about it, sir,” she said. “I was only twelve when they came to build it, and my mother saw to it that I had nothing to do with the young men who were posted here. She said they’d break my heart by dying, and there was no use to befriend them. And she was right about the dying. We saw three of them go down out over the water, trailing smoke. I was glad I didn’t know them then.”

“Still, the airfield must have changed the way of life in Furnham. By sheer numbers if nothing else.”

She cast a wary glance toward the kitchen door, firmly shut. “It did that. There was a scuffle or two between some fishermen and the men up at the farm. After that, they were ordered to stay behind the fence, and we were left to ourselves. Still, we got to hear things. How they carried on in London on leave, like there was no reckoning tomorrow. How they took up with the girls and ruined them. How they made the younger lads restless and eager to try things they had no business trying. One of my brothers ran away to enlist. He was mad to fly, but he was only fifteen. My father had to go and fetch him home. It was a terrible time, really. The men would roar up the road in their motorcars and motorcycles, and three or four even had boats of their own, and it was hard enough fishing without them stirring up the river. We were that glad when the war ended and they went away.”

Someone in the kitchen began to bang pots and pans. She reached for his empty toast rack and hurried toward the kitchen to refill it, putting an end to any conversation. Over the racket he could hear a male voice shouting at her.

Rutledge found himself thinking that to the people of Furnham, isolated and insular, the murder of an unknown archduke in Sarajevo held little importance in the course of their lives. The arrival of strangers in their midst-some of them volatile and living only for today because they couldn’t count on tomorrow-was immediate and personal. Furnham hadn’t wanted change-or to change. And it was thrust upon them without a by-your-leave.

Finishing his tea, he didn’t wait for his toast. But as he walked out of the dining room into Reception, he heard someone crying in a corner behind the stairs. He thought it was very likely the young woman who had served him.

There was nothing he could do, and trying would only have made matters worse.

He went out to his motorcar and drove back to the farm where he had trespassed the night before.

He found the farmer in the milking shed, busy washing down after the morning milking. The man was ruddy-faced and broad in the chest, a little taller than Rutledge. He looked up suspiciously as the stranger walked into the shed, followed by the black dog busy wagging its tail as if it were well acquainted with the newcomer.

“I thought you were here to protect us,” he said to the animal, then turned to Rutledge. “And what is it you want?”

Rutledge said easily, “My name is Rutledge. And you are-?”

“Name’s Montgomery.”

“Good morning, Mr. Montgomery. I understand your farm was taken over during the war for use as an airfield.”

Montgomery bristled “I had no choice in the matter. Your lot took my land without a word to me, just walked in and told me that my best pastures and the marshes nearest the sea were now the property of His Majesty’s Government. Near enough. And I had to find somewhere else for my cows to graze where those damned aeroplanes wouldn’t frighten them into fits. And somewhere else to grow my corn and my hay for the winter. One of the aircraft crashed and caught fire. The blaze nearly touched off my roof. You won’t persuade me to anything you could have in mind. So you might as well turn around and walk out of here before I lose my temper.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not here to ask anything of you other than information. I’m interested in learning how Furnham felt about the field.”

“I don’t know why it should matter to you. But the fact was, I was vilified. Threatened. You’d have thought I’d written to the King personally and begged the lot of them to come here. I was damned whichever way I turned. If it hadn’t been for Samuel Brothers and the other farms, I’d have lost everything. As it was, it took me nearly a year to clear away the broken glass, uproot the foundations, and turn the landing field back to pasturage. The latrines soured the land, and there was oil and petrol everywhere. I did it myself, and no one volunteered to help me. The rabble-rousers were all for sabotage, but nothing came of that. Still, there were clashes. I’d not have been surprised to see murder done on either side. The fliers called this a hardship post. No one wished to be assigned here. We even had a few American aviators from Thetford, and three of them died here. That upset my wife, I can tell you. When a man burns, the smell doesn’t go away for days.”

“You mentioned Americans coming in from the field in Thetford. Did you know that Ned Willet’s son was in service there?”

“Ben? I can’t tell you when I last saw him. It was before the war, I know that. Is he coming down for the funeral? Ned was a decent sort. I was that sorry to hear he’d died.”

“Ben Willet himself is dead. He was found floating in the Thames nearly a week ago.”

“ Ben? Now that’s sad news.” He shook his head. “My wife called him a changeling. Nonsense, of course, but he wasn’t like the rest. He came here with his father one summer, needing work. A boy of twelve, mucking out the stables and the like. She lent him books, and I found him once in the loft, reading. He was that upset, thinking I would sack him.”

“Did you know Wyatt Russell or Justin Fowler?”

“I knew who Russell was. And his father before him. Who was Fowler?”

“He came to live at River’s Edge when he was orphaned.”

“I doubt I ever set eyes on him. What do they have to do with young Willet drowning?”

“I don’t know. Scotland Yard is looking into his death. That’s why I’m here. Before he died, Willet came to the Yard and gave his name as Wyatt Russell, saying that he had information about the murder of Justin Fowler.”

“He claimed he was Russell? Now why would he go and do such a thing?”

“We haven’t discovered why. Did you often see Cynthia Farraday in Furnham?”

Something in the man’s expression altered. “My wife, Mattie, never liked her.”

“Why not?”

“She never would say. Except that she brought trouble in her wake.”

“And did she, do you think?”

He glanced over Rutledge’s shoulder, as if making certain his wife wasn’t within hearing. But he didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said, “When Mattie’s bitch had a litter, Miss Farraday came here asking if she might buy one of them. I was all for letting her have her pick, but my wife wouldn’t hear of it. Women do take odd notions sometimes. She said the pups would be better drowned than given to her. I found other homes for them.”

It was a harsh judgment.

As if suddenly aware that he’d been led off the subject, Montgomery added, “For Scotland Yard to be interested in Ben Willet’s death, it must mean that he was murdered.”

“He was. We can’t find the connection between him and the Russell family at River’s Edge, but there must have been one.”

“Here, you didn’t tell Ned before he died that his son was murdered! He didn’t deserve that. Ned was a hard man but a fair one. And he was proud of that boy.”

“I didn’t tell him. I don’t know if anyone else did.”

“Was Ben still in service at Thetford? What was he doing in London?”

“His family thought he was still there. I’ll be speaking to his employers. Do you by any chance know their name?”

“I couldn’t tell you if I’d ever heard it mentioned. Why did you come here to the farm? It wasn’t just the airfield that brought you, was it?”

Rutledge smiled. “I was getting nowhere in Furnham. I thought you might have a different perspective.”

“That lot wouldn’t help the devil put out the fires of hell. I never knew what Abigail saw in Sandy Barber. But there’s no accounting for tastes.”

Rutledge thanked Montgomery and walked back to his motorcar, the black dog trailing at his heels.

He went next in search of Sandy Barber and found him scrubbing down the floor of the pub. The man looked up as Rutledge approached, his mouth turning down in a sour scowl. Getting to his feet, he stood there, waiting.

“I kept my part of the bargain,” Rutledge said, without greeting. “I said nothing to Ned Willet. As far as I know, he died at peace. Now I want you to tell me what you know about his son, Ben.”

Setting his mop to one side, Sandy Barber said, “I know nothing about Ben. Or his death.”

“Look. I’m not here to hunt down smugglers-”

“Who have you been talking to?” Barber demanded. “Who told you such a wild tale?”

“I didn’t need to be told. Not after you nearly took a club to me. If you hadn’t killed Ben Willet, there was only one other reason to be afraid of a policeman. Here on the Hawking, France just across the water? The airfield must have been quite a problem. They’d have been patrolling the river and the estuary. You wouldn’t have stood a chance getting past the Coastguard with contraband goods. It follows that someone resumed this business as soon as the airfield was evacuated.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Suit yourself.”

“And as for murdering Ben Willet, what reason would any of us have to go after him? Look in London. Or Thetford. It would make a hell of a lot more sense.”

“How often did he write to his sister? Or his father?”

“He hardly ever did. We got a letter after he was demobbed, and he said he would get in touch with us again as soon as he’d settled in Thetford. That was that. Ned tried to say he was too busy, but Abigail thought there could have been a girl he was fond of, and he spent all his free time with her.”

“What connection did he have with the Russell family at River’s Edge?”

“He didn’t. Not so far as I know.”

“Then why was he wearing a locket that had belonged to the late Mrs. Russell? With a photograph in it of Cynthia Farraday as a young girl?”

“Good God,” Sandy Barber said blankly, staggered by what he’d just been told.

Rutledge took the slender chain from his pocket and passed it to Barber. The man fumbled with the delicate clasp that closed the locket. Finally, when it lay open in his fingers, he stared at the photograph as if half afraid it would vanish before his eyes.

At last he said, “How do you know the locket belonged to Mrs. Russell?”

“I asked someone who knew her well enough to have seen her wear the necklace every day of her life. It was presumed that she was wearing it the day she disappeared.”

“But there must be dozens of lockets like this one. How can anyone be sure-not after what? Six years? It was the summer before the war began that she died, if I remember right?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“It makes no sense. How did Ben come by such a thing?”

“Who was in charge of the investigation into her death?”

“The family called in an inspector from Tilbury. None of us think much of Constable Nelson. He’s drunk half the time these days and stays in his cottage minding his own business.”

“Then why haven’t you asked for him to be replaced?”

“You know damned well why. Nelson turns a blind eye because he has a taste for French brandy.” There was contempt in his voice. “And better the devil you know…”

“Where can I find Constable Nelson?”

“He lives in a cottage half way down Martyr’s Lane.”

“Can you tell me the name of the family Willet worked for in Thetford?”

“Damned if I know.”

Rutledge couldn’t judge whether he was telling the truth or deliberately being obstructive.

“I’ll speak to Nelson then.”

As he turned to leave, he had the feeling that Barber was about to say something more, but the man thought better of it, and Rutledge let it go.

He’d said nothing about witnessing the smuggling run.

Making what appeared to be an educated guess about the resumption of the contraband trade, even on such a small scale, was one thing-having proof that it still went on was another.

Three short lanes ran north from the High Street, away from the river. Barber himself lived on the nearest of these. The last was Martyr’s Lane. About halfway down it stood a weathered cottage with a bedraggled front garden surrounded by a wrought iron fence sadly in need of paint.

Hamish said skeptically, “It’s no’ verra’ promising.”

Rutledge stopped before the gate for a moment, then reached over, lifted the rusted latch, and made his way up the overgrown path. He knocked several times and finally tried the door.

It wasn’t locked, and he opened it, calling, “Constable Nelson?” as he stepped inside.

The hall was dusty but presentable enough. In contrast, the front room of the cottage looked to Rutledge as if the constable had lived in it. Used dishes sat on every flat surface, a quilt had been thrown over one chair in front of the hearth, and the carpet looked as if it hadn’t been swept in months. A stained and creased shirt had been thrown on the floor, and a crumpled pair of stockings had been tossed into a corner. The desk, where the constable was expected to conduct official business, was littered with teacups, opened tins of fruit, and several pairs of boots in need of polish.

A thick fug-a combination of cigarette smoke, unwashed clothing, and brandy- made him cough.

The room appeared to be empty, and Rutledge was on the point of trying another when his shod foot collided with an empty bottle, sending it spinning under the nearest table. It was then he saw the constable on the floor behind the divan.

His first thought was that the man was dead.

He strode to the constable’s side and knelt to feel for a pulse. Just then Nelson snored raucously, and Rutledge realized that he’d passed out.

The constable lay where he must have fallen, his face turned to the wall, his collar undone, and his tunic unbuttoned. His shirt was stained with food, and his boots appeared not to have been polished for some time, the toes scuffed and dull.

Rutledge rose, and touched the man with the toe of his boot, and none too gently.

“Constable Nelson?”

The man didn’t move.

“Constable Nelson!”

It was the voice of command this time, and Nelson’s body jerked; his lids fluttered and then revealed a pair of bloodshot eyes that could barely focus.

“Who are you?” he demanded in a hoarse croak.

“Scotland Yard. Get to your feet, man, you’re a disgrace to your uniform.”

Nelson tried to rise, fell back, and vomited profusely.

Disgusted, Rutledge said, “I’ll give you an hour. Clean yourself up and present yourself at The Dragonfly. I’ll be waiting.”

He turned and walked out, slamming the inner door and then the outer one, knowing full well the shock to Nelson’s ears.

But it was easy to see what had happened to the man. Shunted aside by the villagers, paid in contraband to eke out his meager resources and keep him too dulled to interfere, and without the strength to stand up for himself in these circumstances, he had accepted his lot. Someone must have seen to it that he was sober and presentable if or when the need arose, or the Chief Constable would have got wind of his condition and replaced him long since.

The question was, even fully sober, could Nelson still function?

Hamish said, “More to the point, he wouldna’ be trusted by the ithers.”

There was that as well.

Rather than return directly to the inn to wait, Rutledge made a detour to Barber’s house. He could see the black crepe that had been hung over the door, and several neighbors were just leaving, embracing Abigail Barber as they stepped outside. Behind them, the rector was preparing to leave also. As Rutledge approached, he heard Morrison asking a last question about the service for Ned Willet, and from the shadows of the front room someone answered. He could see the outline of a head and broad shoulder, but not the face. It wasn’t Barber. He was nearly certain it was the man he had seen twice before, once when he had come to Furnham with Frances, and once when he had tried to find someone willing to identify the photograph of Ben Willet. Whether he had been one of the smugglers coming up from the river in the middle of the night, Rutledge couldn’t be sure under oath, but he had a strong feeling he had been.

The rector offered a last word of comfort to a tearful, red-eyed Abigail Barber, touched her briefly on the arm, and with a nod to the man just behind her, walked away. As he reached the lane, he looked up and saw Rutledge waiting.

“Good morning,” Morrison said, surprised.

Rutledge said, “I thought you were not welcomed in Furnham.” They fell in step, walking to where Morrison had left his bicycle leaning against the nearest tree.

“I thought you had returned to London.”

“I still haven’t solved the riddle of a dead man.”

“I understand.” Morrison collected his bicycle and pushed it along with him as they continued toward the High Street. “Ned was one of my parishioners. He was always one to question, but he came to believe that he was safer in the church than out of it.”

Rutledge smiled. “A wise man, I think.”

“A careful one. Abigail liked to attend services with him, and Sandy tried to put his foot down, but Ned told him to worry about the state of his own soul.”

“Who was the man standing behind Mrs. Barber as you were leaving just now?”

Morrison had to think for a moment. “I expect it must have been Timothy Jessup. He’s Abigail’s uncle. Her mother’s brother. Not what you would call the friendliest of souls. The Jessups have always kept to themselves. But for all that, the rest of the village listens to them when they do voice an opinion. I’ve never quite worked out why, but there you are. Villages have their own hierarchy inherited down the generations, I should think.”

Rutledge waited until they had moved out of earshot of several women carrying dishes covered with linen cloths, on their way to the Willet house, then said, “When I left the church yesterday I decided to look in at River’s Edge. I expected to find the house closed and empty, as it was before. Instead Miss Farraday was there. She gave me to understand that she was interested in purchasing the house, if Russell intends to put it up for sale.”

“Cynthia Farraday?” Morrison turned to stare at him. “I had no idea…” He left it there, busy coming to terms with this piece of news. “I had no idea,” he said again.

They came to the High Street, and Morrison pulled his bicycle around, preparing to mount it. “You said Miss Farraday, ” he went on, concentrating on adjusting the band around his trouser legs. “That must mean she never married.”

“Apparently not.” But he had not asked her name, he had greeted her by it. And she had not contradicted him or used we in her subsequent conversation.

“I see.” With a nod to Rutledge he pedaled briskly out of Furnham.

Rutledge watched him go. He hadn’t told the rector the identity of the face in the photograph. It was up to Barber to find the right opportunity to break the news to his wife first.

Hamish commented. “Yon priest. He’s afraid to linger.”

And yet he’d ventured into the village to offer comfort to Abigail Barber, and would very likely conduct the service for her father.

Why had he stayed so long in a parish where hope was outpaced by the knowledge that he was not wanted here?

“Like yon constable, he hasna’ anywhere else to go.”