The Confession (6 page)

Rutledge reached for the envelope again and brought out the photograph of the dead man, taken in Gravesend. “I need confirmation that this is, indeed, Wyatt Russell. If you have any reservations, I'll be happy to take you to Tilbury for the ferry to Gravesend.”

“Let me see the photograph, first.”

Rutledge passed it to him. Morrison took it and held it to the faint rays of sunlight coming through the plain glass windows high up in the sanctuary wall.

“But this isn't Russell,” he exclaimed. “What led you to believe it was?”

“It's not Russell? You're quite sure of that? You haven't seen him in six years,” Rutledge countered, making an effort to conceal his consternation.

“I'd stake my life on it!”

Chapter 5

“C
ould this be Justin Fowler?” Rutledge asked.

“I'm afraid not.”

“Then you knew Fowler too?”

“He was a connection of Mrs. Russell's, although I don't believe she had known his family very well. She told me before he came that she'd lost touch with his mother after she married Mr. Fowler. I had the feeling that Mrs. Russell didn't approve of him. That's to say, of the husband. This was just after the solicitor had come to ask her to take the boy in. She said that God in his wisdom had seen fit to give her only one child. But to make up for it, God had sent her the daughter she'd never have and now a second son. I wondered later if she was as happy as she'd expected to be. They weren't that easy to mother. They weren't
hers,
after all. Then she was gone, and the boys—they were young men by that time—left to join the Army. I don't know if Justin Fowler survived or not. I drove him in Mrs. Russell's motorcar to meet the train to London, and that was the last time I saw him. A quiet boy, kept to himself. I didn't know him well. But he was afraid of something. I never knew what it was.”

“Then who is the man in this photograph?”

Morrison frowned as he considered the face again. “I'm sorry. I don't believe I've ever seen him before. But you said he'd come to call on you at the Yard? The man in this photograph? How did you come to believe he was Major Russell?”

“It was the name he gave me,” Rutledge said trenchantly.

“How very odd! And you tell me he was wearing the locket with Miss Farraday's likeness in it when his body was pulled from the river?”

“According to those who found him.”

“Then I should think you ought to find her and ask her if she knows this man.”

“Before I do, what else can you tell me about the Russell household? Are there any of the staff still living in the vicinity? Perhaps in Furnham.”

“There was only a small staff. A housekeeper, of course, and several maids. A cook. An elderly groom. And I believe there was a man who acted as butler when there were guests, but generally drove Mrs. Russell when she went out. The household didn't get on well with the local people and kept to themselves more often than not. The groom died soon after Mrs. Russell disappeared. And the cook went to live with a member of her family, when the house was closed. Mrs. Broadley. I remember how apt her name was. An excellent cook! I don't know what became of the housekeeper, Mrs. Dunner. I was told she found employment in the Midlands. Harold—the chauffeur—stayed on as caretaker in the first few weeks of the war, then was called up. There was no one at River's Edge after that.”

“The maids?”

“I'd nearly forgot. Nancy married a farmer's son on the other side of Furnham. Samuel Brothers. The others went their ways.”

“Tell me how to find this farm?”

“You must drive through Furnham, and when the road curves to the left, just continue along it. The second farm you come to belongs to Brothers.”

Rutledge thanked him and took his leave. Morrison walked with him up the single aisle of the church and to the door, like a good host seeing a guest on his way.

He said as they reached the door, “I hope you can identify that poor man in the photograph. I shall pray for him.”

“Thank you, Rector.”

And then the door was closed behind him, and the rector's footsteps seemed to echo in the emptiness of the sanctuary as he walked back down the aisle.

“He was in love with the lass. In yon locket,” Hamish said as Rutledge crossed the narrow strip of lawn to his motorcar.

“Morrison?”

“Aye, the priest.”

Rutledge remembered the sadness in the rector's eyes as he said that Russell would have married Cynthia Farraday. Russell was more her equal than a country parson. It could explain why Morrison had found it difficult to discuss her.

He paused as he reached for the crank, and in the silence he could hear the whispers in the grass. It was easy to imagine people hidden among the reeds, some of them taller than a man. For that matter, it would be hard to find someone even twenty feet away from where one stood. It explained the difficulty in searching for Mrs. Russell.

He left the church, turning toward Furnham.

Who the hell was the man who had come into his office, claiming to be Wyatt Russell and swearing he'd murdered Justin Fowler? More to the point, who had killed that man not a fortnight later? And were the two events related? Or was there something else in the victim's past that had led to his death?

Hamish said, “The lass in the locket will know.”

“Yes, very likely.” But finding her was going to be another matter.

Making a point to look for the turning Morrison had spoken of, he saw it to his left three-quarters of a mile from the church. He drove on, passing through Furnham and out the other side, turning away from the river's mouth toward the farms and pasturage wrested from the marshes. The farms were not large, but they appeared to be prosperous enough. Dairy herds, mostly, he thought, judging from the cows grazing quietly. With only enough acreage for the corn and hay to feed them. He could just see the green tips of the corn in a field beyond, moving with the light sea breeze.

He found the Brothers farm and took the rutted turning that led to the house. Beyond it stood a weathered barn and several outbuildings.

No one answered his knock, and after a moment he walked round to the kitchen door at the rear. There he found a woman in a black dress that had seen happier days, inside a wire pen scattering feed for the chickens bunched and clucking around her ankles. She looked up as Rutledge came toward her, her eyes wary.

It was an expression he was growing accustomed to, here on the River Hawking.

She said, politely enough, “Can I help you, sir?”

“Good morning. My name is Rutledge. I'm looking for Mrs. Brothers.”

“And what would you be wanting with her, when you've found her?”

“I'm trying to locate anyone who knew the family at River's Edge. The rector at St. Edward's, Mr. Morrison, has told me Mrs. Brothers was once a housemaid there.”

Nodding, she emptied the bowl she was holding in the crook of her arm and walked out of the pen, latching the gate behind her. “Come into the kitchen, then.”

He followed her down the path and over the stepping-stones that led between the beds of herbs, flowers, and vegetables flanking the kitchen entrance. Someone, he noted, took pride in the gardens, for they were weeded and the soil between the rows had recently been hoed.

Inside the kitchen, he saw the same care. The cloth over the table was not only clean but also ironed, and both the sink and the cabinets below it were spotless, as was the floor.

“I'm Nancy Brothers,” she said, offering him a chair and going to stand in front of the broad dresser. “Why are you looking for anyone from the house?”

“I'm not precisely sure,” Rutledge answered her. “This locket has been found, and I'm trying to trace the woman shown inside.” He took it from his pocket and held it out to her by the gold chain. “I was told she might have lived at River's Edge.”

Instead of reaching for the locket, Mrs. Brothers asked, “Are you a lawyer, then? Or a policeman?”

He told her the truth. “I'm from Scotland Yard. We don't ordinarily search for the owner of lost property. But in this case, it could help us in another matter of some importance.”

Mrs. Brothers took the locket, found the clasp, and opened it. “Oh.”

“You recognize her?” Rutledge prompted as she stood there staring at the tiny photograph.

“The locket. It brings back memories,” she replied slowly. “I thought I'd put all that behind me.”

“What had you put behind you?”

She sighed, and turned her head to look out the window. “In the end it was a troubled house,” she said finally. “I'd have left if there had been anywhere to go. It's not as if this was London or even Tilbury, where I could have found another position.”

Was she making excuses for staying on, despite her feelings about the house? He wondered whether she was lying to herself or to him.

“How troubled?”

Nancy Brothers took a deep breath. “It's not my place to gossip about my betters.”

“I understand. That's commendable, in fact,” he told her gently. “But it's not a matter of gossip, you see. In a police inquiry, it's your duty to help the authorities in any way you can. If you know something, you must let us decide if it's important or not.”

“Mrs. Russell was wearing this locket the day she disappeared. I know, I helped her put it on, and I saw it at noon that day, when she came in for lunch. She was still wearing it.”

“What happened to Mrs. Russell? Did the police find her? Or failing that, her body?”

“That was the odd thing. They never found any trace of her. Her son saw her walking toward the landing stage at two o'clock, but no one knew she was missing until I went up to help her dress for dinner.” She turned to set a bowl that had been draining in the sink up on a shelf. “They questioned all of us, the police did. Was she anxious about anything? Was she worried? Was she frightened? Did anyone harbor hard feelings toward her? She could be a trial, sometimes, to tell you the truth, but she was getting older, and crotchety. At least it seemed so to me at the time, young as I was. Sometimes she fussed over her hair until I was fit to be tied, wanting it to be thick and pretty as it was when she was eighteen. Or the ashes hadn't been swept out proper, when I could see they had. But you don't do someone a harm for that, do you?”

“Was this same photograph in the locket when Mrs. Russell wore it last?”

“No, it wasn't. It was her and her late husband. On their wedding day.”

“Then how can you be sure this is the same locket?”

“I must have touched it a thousand times. Settling it around her throat, under her hair. Making sure it was hanging proper. She took it off each evening and put it on each morning. Even if she was wearing other jewelry, this was still around her throat.” She reached for the kettle and filled it with cold water. “Can you tell me how you came to have it? Does this mean you've found her body? And who put that other photograph in it?”

“We haven't found Mrs. Russell. Someone else was wearing the locket.”

“How did
she
come by it?”

“Before I answer your question, will you give me the name of this woman?”

She was measuring tea for the pot, but she lifted the spoon and pointed with it. “That's Cynthia Farraday. She came to live with Mrs. Russell when her own parents died.”

“What became of her?”

“She went to live in London after Mrs. Russell disappeared. She said it wasn't fitting to live in the house without a chaperone. Mr. Russell proposed marriage, but she didn't want that. She wanted to be free, she said, to live her own life.”

“Who else was in the house—besides the staff ?”

“Mr. Justin, of course. He was another cousin come to live at River's Edge. After Miss Cynthia came. They weren't related, those two. She was connected through the Russell side, while Mr. Justin's grandmother and Mrs. Russell's were cousins. I heard it said that Mr. Justin's mother had died of the consumption. Her lungs was bad. I never heard anything about his father.”

“What became of Mr. Fowler?”

“He went off to war and as far as I know never come back.”

“I see.” As the kettle began to whistle, Mrs. Brothers turned to fill the teapot. Watching her, Rutledge said, “And Mr. Russell, himself ?”

She stirred the leaves in the pot, peering at them as she spoke. “All I know is, he survived the war. But I don't know that he ever came back to the house. A shame, that was. It was a lovely house. I wish you could have seen it when I was in service there. They had money, the Russells did. I often wondered how it was the family built that house out here, in the marshes. It could have been set down anywhere.”

While the tea steeped, Rutledge said, “I have a photograph to show you. It isn't a pleasant photograph, but perhaps you will be able to identify the man in it.” He took out the envelope from Gravesend, opened the flap, and passed it to her.

She reached inside tentatively and pulled out the photograph. He saw her grimace as she looked down at it.

“He's dead, isn't he? This man.”

“Yes. He was found in the river.”

“The Hawking?” She glanced from the photograph to Rutledge's face. “My husband never said anything to me about a body being found.”

“It was the Thames. Do you know him?”

“He's changed so much I hardly recognized him at first. He was just a lad when last I saw him, all arms and legs, and polite enough,” she said slowly. “I didn't go into Furnham that often, but he came to River's Edge a time or two. From the village. As I remember, his father was a fisherman. I'm sorry I can't put a name to him after all this time.” She turned away from the photograph, and Rutledge put it back in the envelope.

“Do you remember anything else about him?” When she hesitated, he added, “Was he a troublemaker? Was there gossip about him?”

“If there was, I don't remember it now,” she answered. “But of course we didn't mix all that much with the villagers. The staff at River's Edge.” She smiled wryly. “We thought ourselves above them. And here I wound up marrying one of them. You never know, do you? But at the time, Mrs. Russell encouraged us not to go into Furnham. On our days off, every other week, she'd let us go into Tilbury for the day. Let us have the use of the cart, even, as long as Harold Finley drove it. And she cautioned us to stay well away from the docks.”

“You are sure this man isn't Major Russell?”

“Oh, no, I'd know Mr. Russell anywhere. Even after all this time. I was a maid in that house for fifteen years, until Mr. Brothers come along. Yes, I'd recognize him even today, for certain.”