The Confession (22 page)

“Will he indeed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The men go armed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye, and it's no' wise to forget.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When did the church burn?”

“When it was struck by lightning.”

“How old was it?”

“Old enough for the timbers to be dry.”

And that, Rutledge thought, must be true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Rutledge had waited until well after two.

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

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

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

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

“Which door did you try?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let's see how far in it goes.”

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

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

Morrison called anxiously, “Anything?”

“Nothing.”

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

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

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

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

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

Hamish answered him. “Nearer to the drive?”

“Yes, very likely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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