The Confession (23 page)

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

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

“Yes, of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn't hear a shot fired.”

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

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

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

“Inspector Rutledge. Scotland Yard. Yes.”

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

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

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

“You didn't find the bullet?”

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

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

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

“He ran a Triumph into a ditch.”

“Yes, that fits.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So much for the information that Rutledge needed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing.”

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

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

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

“God, no.”

“Did you kill Ben Willet?”

“Told you. No. Refused.”

Hamish said, “Do you believe him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.” He put up the receiver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What news is there of Chief Superintendent Bowles?”

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

“What do the Yard punters have to say?”

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

Rutledge smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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