by Charles Todd
“The policeman is back, is he? We could have been great friends, save for him. All right, I suppose you deserve the answer to one question. It seemed rather cowardly to tell someone after the fact. I suppose I had a religious upbringing of sorts and realized that to confess was not enough. To admit wrongdoing and to show contrition while I was alive had more meaning somehow.”
“And do you feel better, for having unburdened your soul?”
Russell frowned. “Do you know, I thought I would. I’ve kept my secret for a very long time, or so it seemed to me. Screwing up the courage to come to the Yard while I could still manage the effort was a test of my intent. My strength of character, as it were. But it wasn’t quite—as I’d expected.”
“Would you have been happier if I’d clapped you in irons and taken you to trial? Would hanging make a difference?”
“I had rather not hang, although it would shorten a lingering death. And perhaps I felt, after a fashion, that my crime was not as horrific as it had seemed at the time. That’s the war speaking, of course. When one has killed thousands—well, hundreds, although it sometimes seemed like thousands—what’s one more life taken? But do you know, it does make a difference. I think it matters because I had a choice, you see. I could have not killed him. And yet I did. And so I have come to you to confess and set the record straight. Only,” he added, frowning at the remnants of his pudding, “it hasn’t been set straight, has it? Are you quite certain that you must know more about why I killed him?”
“It will have to come out. If there is an inquiry. You’ll be questioned. And if you fail to answer those questions satisfactorily, then we will go in search of the answers ourselves. It will not be pleasant.”
“I hadn’t expected it to be pleasant,” Russell told him. “I had just not anticipated that it would be so very personal. Or public. Least of all, that anyone else would have to be involved. With any luck, I shall be dead before it reaches that stage. Tell the policeman to mind his own business until then. I’ve no doubt you’ll not let this matter drop, but once I’m not there to answer your questions, you won’t be able to do any harm.” He signaled the waiter, and then said to Rutledge, “I’m very tired. It’s one of the curses of my condition. I shan’t be able to see you out.”
“Is there anything that I can do? Help you to your room?”
“Thank you, no. I can still manage that.”
Rutledge rose and held out his hand. “If you change your mind at any point, you know where to find me.”
“Yes, I do. Thank you, Inspector.”
Rutledge turned to walk away, and Russell said, “Actually—there is one thing you might do for me.”
Facing Russell again, Rutledge asked, “What is it?”
“Pray for my soul. It might help. A little.”
Motoring back to the Yard, Rutledge considered Wyatt Russell. If he’d been telling the truth, that he’d come to confess a murder that was weighing on his soul, why had he been so reluctant to tell the whole truth, and not just a part of it?
Was someone else involved?
And that was very likely the answer. But then why not simply continue to live with the secret, and die without confessing it? When Russell learned he couldn’t have it both ways, he had retreated from that confession.
Was that someone else a partner in the crime? Or the reason for it?
As he got out of his motorcar at the Yard, he was examining a map of Essex in his head. North of the Thames, north of Kent on the other side of that river, it was threaded with marshes, the coastline a fringe of inlets and a maze of tidal rivers that isolated the inhabitants in a world little changed with the passage of time. Until the war, the people of that part of Essex had known little about the rest of their county, much less their country, content with their own ways, in no need of modern conveniences or interference in a life that contented them.
As Essex moved inland, it was a different story entirely, with towns, villages, and a plethora of roads. Basildon, Chelmsford, Colchester might as well be the antipodes as far as the marsh dwellers were concerned, as distant to their way of thinking as London itself. And Rutledge, nodding to the sergeant on duty and mounting the stairs to his office, was certain that a murder in villages even in that part of the countryside wouldn’t go unnoticed. Unless, of course, Russell had been very clever indeed at disposing of an unwanted body.
Something had been said about an airfield.
Rutledge walked on past his office and went to find Constable Greene, who had served with a squadron based near Caen.
Greene, a spare, affable man with unruly fair hair that to his chagrin curled when the weather was damp, was thirty-three, coming late to police work. After the Armistice, he had decided to join the Metropolitan Police, and it wasn’t long before he had come to the attention of the Yard. Before the war he had owned a bicycle shop in Reading that had just begun to cater to motorcars when hostilities broke out. He had been mad to fly, but heights had made him ill, and so he had maintained and repaired the machines he loved. In the constant struggle to find parts to keep his pilots flying, he knew most of the other airfields in France. He might well know one in Essex.
Looking up as Rutledge came toward his desk, he smiled. “Afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to borrow your memory. From the war.” He described what little Russell had told him about the airfield and asked, “Can you possibly place it?”
Greene frowned. After a moment he said, “There were several out there. At a guess, I’d say you’re looking at Furnham. On the River Hawking. They had a good deal of trouble there. Not the least from locals wanting them out.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“Wind, for one thing, and low-lying mists on the water. And then there was the burning of hay ricks, sending smoke across the field. Petty theft. Quarrels among the men posted there and their neighbors. Mind you, many of the local girls didn’t object to the newcomers. That may’ve had something to do with it. From what I was told, Furnham is fairly isolated. Change wouldn’t be welcomed.”
“What became of the airfield when the war ended?”
“I expect it was turned back to the farmer who owned it.”
Rutledge nodded. “Makes sense. All right, thank you, Greene.”
“Anything come up about Furnham? I can’t say I’d mind going there to see it for myself.”
“Some mention was made of the airfield over lunch. I was curious,” Rutledge said easily and went to his office.
He debated whether to initiate an official inquiry into the murder that Russell had confessed to, and then decided against it. He wasn’t completely certain about the man’s motive in coming to the Yard.
But his own curiosity had been aroused, and it would do no harm, he told himself, to look into it unofficially. If more information turned up, he could bring in the Yard.
Two hours later, the reports on his desk finished, he went to Somerset House to look up Justin Fowler and Wyatt Russell.
Chapter 3
Set on the banks of the Thames below The Strand, Somerset House had become the repository of records for births and deaths and marriages in England and Wales. Named for a Tudor palace long since demolished, it had been designed with the intent to collect in one place offices of government formerly scattered across London, from Inland Revenue to the Admiralty. Nelson was said to have had rooms there, although it was unlikely.
Rutledge spent three-quarters of an hour looking for Justin Fowler. The name had been passed down through three generations in one family, and there were six more unrelated Fowlers who could also have been the murder victim.
Finally settling on Justin Arthur Ambrose Fowler, who was only two years older than Russell appeared to be, he discovered that there was no date of death registered. And no marriage.
Wyatt Russell was easier to find, again with no date of death. But he had been married to a Louisa Mary Harmon, who had died barely a year later in childbirth.
T
here appeared to be a connection between Fowler and Russell—their grandmothers shared the same maiden name—Sudbury. And from what Rutledge could determine, going back through records, the women were cousins. Fowler’s parents died in the same year and within two days of each other, when Fowler was eleven.
Russell had been born at River’s Edge in Essex, Fowler in Colchester.
He spent another half hour looking at various branches of the family but found nothing else that seemed to connect the two men in any way.
Thanking the clerk for his assistance, Rutledge went back to the Yard to find a map of Essex.
River’s Edge was not shown, which very likely meant it was the name of a house, just as Russell had indicated, and not a village. But he did find Furnham at the mouth of the River Hawking, set on a hook of land that curled out into the water. Like the Thames, the Blackwater, and the Crouch, Zeppelin navigators used the Hawking to find their way to London for raids. But unlike the Thames, the Blackwater, and the Crouch, the Hawking had never become popular with yachtsmen or possessed a Coastguard station at its mouth. Until the airfield had been built, it had probably remained little changed for hundreds of years.
So far, it appeared, the story Russell had told seemed to hold up.
Where was Justin Fowler? Alive and well in Colchester, or even Cornwall, for that matter? Or was he dead, his body as yet undiscovered?
Rutledge considered the upcoming weekend. He’d promised his sister Frances to take her to a concert on Friday evening—she was an accomplished pianist in her own right, like their mother, and the program included Liszt, one of her favorite composers.
But once that duty was done, the rest of the weekend was his.
It turned out not to be as simple as he’d expected.
Frances enjoyed the concert immensely, as well as the light supper he’d arranged when it was over. Finishing her wine, she said, “Ian, do you think we could drive into Kent tomorrow to call on Melinda?”
Melinda Crawford was the elderly woman who had been a friend of Rutledge’s parents. Rutledge had known her since he was a small boy fascinated by the treasures in her house. For she had lived in India until her husband’s death and traveled widely thereafter, collecting whatever struck her fancy, from jewels to swords to ivory figures of Chinese Immortals.
He had avoided Melinda since the war, although he had been thrust into her company from time to time by unexpected events. She knew him too well. And he feared that she would read in his face more than he cared for her to know about his war. As a child she had survived the Great Indian Mutiny, and having seen death at first hand, she was not as easily put off by his assurances that he was whole. If anyone could have understood about Hamish MacLeod, it was undoubtedly Melinda Crawford. And yet Rutledge couldn’t bring himself to confide in her. He still carried the shame of Hamish’s death, and that was something he could not confess to anyone, much less the widow of an officer twice decorated for gallantry.
“I was thinking of driving into Essex instead,” he said lightly.
His sister put down her glass and turned to face him. “Essex?” she said, and he could almost read the list of names passing through her mind as she considered their acquaintances. Failing to come up with a possible connection, she added, “Where in Essex?” And in her eyes he could see speculation that her unmarried brother had met someone of interest.
He laughed. “The marshes. Out along the River Hawking.”
“Then it’s related to Yard business.”
“No. Put it down to curiosity.”
Intrigued, she said, “Is lunch on offer? If it is, I’ll go with you.”
“I’ll do my best. But I have no idea what we’ll find in the way of likely places to dine.”
She considered the warning. “I’ll take the risk,” she answered finally.
And so it was that at eight on the Saturday morning, he arrived at his sister’s house—which had belonged to their parents—and found her dressed for the country and ready to go. As he held the door of the motorcar for her, she said, “The day doesn’t look promising.”
It was true. Clouds had banked over the city, and as they drove east toward Essex, the clouds seemed to follow at their heels. The brightness far out over the North Sea dimmed, and by the time they were well out into the countryside, the sky was slate gray over their heads and the increasingly marshy landscape was colorless and drab with no features of interest. It wasn’t suitable for cultivation or pasturage, and Rutledge decided the people who lived farther out on the hook of land that followed the length of the river must make their living from the sea.
Frances said, “Is this where your curiosity is taking you?”
Rutledge found the turning he was after. “Call it a sudden and irresistible desire to explore. I don’t know this part of Essex.”
“Then how did you know that turning was there?”
“Ah. As it happens, I was looking at a map.”
Just here the river was out of sight beyond the widening stretch of marsh grass and a few wind-stunted trees. But they could see it glinting like pewter from time to time and knew it was there, moving silently and swiftly, the current dark and smooth.
“I’m not sure I like this place,” Frances said after a while, gazing out toward the river. “Whatever possessed you to want to come here?”
“Curiosity,” he answered. “I told you.”
“Yes, well, you must be in desperate need of entertainment. Couldn’t we have explored in Surrey? Or perhaps Oxfordshire? There are some lovely restaurants in Surrey. And Oxford, as well.”
“I think you’ll change your mind before the day is out,” he said. But he had a feeling that she wouldn’t.
The road had begun to narrow before he saw the gates. He thought there had probably been more traffic here during the war, but now the verges were overgrown and uneven.
The tall stone posts were overgrown as well, a rusted chain stretched between them to bar visitors. A handsome pair of stone pineapples, the symbol of hospitality, capped the posts. A vine had twisted itself around the pineapple on the left, while the one on the right was chipped and white with bird droppings. His first thought was that someone had shot off the top. It had that sort of look to it.
Drawing up in the shallow space before the gates, Rutledge said, “Wait here. Do you mind? I’d like to explore a little.”
“I can just see the roof of a house behind those trees. Is that where you’re going?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll come with you,” she replied. “I’d rather not sit here alone. I could almost believe eyes are watching our every move. You could hide half a battalion in that grass across the way. I should have thought German spies by the dozens would have found this to be a wonderful landing place. How far is the North Sea, do you think?”
“A few miles. I’m sure this part of Essex was heavily patrolled by the Coastguard for that very reason,” he said. “I’m told there was an aerodrome somewhere out here. They’d have been doubly watchful. Are you certain you want to trek through that tangle?”
She smiled. “Of course I don’t.”
He helped her out of the motorcar and lifted the heavy chain for her to pass under it. They tramped through the high grass and weeds, Rutledge leading the way to break a path for her, and moved up what had once been the drive. Briars caught at her skirts and pulled at the hem of her short jacket.
“Really, Ian!” she said at one point. But they followed the drive for perhaps a quarter of a mile before they reached the trees. Walking through them was easier, but the undergrowth hadn’t been cleared for some time, and at one point a fallen tree blocked their way. Helping her over it, he looked beyond where they were standing and realized that he could see the house clearly now.
It was tall, brick built, with peaked roofs, long windows facing him, and an array of chimneys. He could just pick out the swing of the drive before the main door.
The windows were blank gray spaces against a gray, sunl
ess day, giving the house an abandoned look. By the time they reached the broad steps up to the black painted door, it was clear that the house hadn’t been lived in for some time.
Looking up at the date incised into a plain scroll set into stone above the door, Frances read, “1809. It’s really a rather handsome house, isn’t it? What a pity that it’s been left to wrack and ruin. I wonder what happened to the family that lived here?”
“The heir probably died in the war.”
“Sadly, yes. Very likely.”
A pair of unclipped bushy evergreens grew to either side of the steps, and he pushed his way through the scraggly branches of the one to his left in order to peer through the nearest window. “Dust sheets,” he reported. “But there’s a wide entry, with doors to either side, and a staircase rising just beyond. Elegant ceiling, what I can see of it.”
From the condition of the drive and the closed look to the house, it was clear that Wyatt Russell was not living here now. And it was obvious the house hadn’t been reopened after the war. Why had he given Essex as his address, if he was currently living in The Marlborough Hotel, not just staying a few days there?
Rejoining Frances, Rutledge added, “Shall we walk round to the water? There may be a bench or two where we can sit and admire the view.”
“I’m withholding all expectations,” she said dubiously, “but lead on.”
A broad terrace faced the river, with long windows looking out to it and large urns marking either side of the steps. Whatever had once been planted in them, they were empty now. From here, across the overgrown lawn running down to the river’s edge, the view was spectacular: a broad sweep to marshes on the far side that seemed to come alive with color when the sun broke through the clouds for a moment. On the rotting boards of a landing stage at the bottom of the lawn, a heron stared down at his reflection in the mirrored darkness of the silently moving water. Then in one swift, fluid action, his neck stretched down and came up with a small fish, silvery in his beak. And then the sun went behind the clouds once more, and the view seemed diminished.
