The Confession
Page 3
But there were neither chairs nor benches.
“What a lovely spot,” Frances said, standing beside her brother. “I can imagine sitting here on a summer’s evening, watching the water and talking to friends. Did you know the people who lived here? Is that why you came?”
“No.”
He turned to look up at the house, scanning the windows. But if there was someone inside on the upper floors, he—or she—couldn’t be seen from the terrace below. Heavy drapes had been drawn across the panes on this side of the house, their faded colors somehow sad.
After a time Rutledge turned, and they walked back the way they’d come.
Halfway up the long drive, Frances said, “Ian, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Have you seen Meredith Channing recently? She appears to have gone away. Only the other day, Maryanne Browning was asking if I’d had any news of her.”
Rutledge knew where Meredith Channing had gone. But he shook his head. “Scotland, perhaps?” he said. “There was mention of a brother-in-law there?”
“Yes, that must be it,” Frances said, but there was a touch of doubt in her voice.
At the gates he inspected the pillars. The name of the house hadn’t been incised here. But he was nearly certain it would have been River’s Edge. Unless there was another house ahead?
In the motorcar once more, they drove on.
In another mile or so, a dead tree lifted bare, twisted arms toward the sky, and just beyond, there was a church, a short tower rising from the plain upright brick facade.
Early Victorian, at a guess, Rutledge thought, looking up at the tower. And not a very happy example of village church at that. He wondered what his godfather, the architect David Trevor, would make of it, and he smiled.
The sign between the porch and the road was almost Pre-Raphaelite in its design and would have done justice to an Arthurian legend. It read, in elegant letters set out in gold leaf, THE CHURCH OF ST. EDWARD THE CONFESSOR.
Rutledge regarded that with wry amusement. Very fitting, he thought.
Beneath were the times of services and the name of the pastor: Morrison. Below that was a quotation from the Psalms:
I will lift mine eyes unto the hills . . .
“What is it doing out here? In the middle of nowhere?” Frances asked as they drew even with the signboard. “And there’s no Rectory. No churchyard. How very odd.”
It was not strictly speaking ugly, but there was something about the church that stirred the voice in Rutledge’s head. Hamish had been quiet all morning, and now he was a restive presence in the back of Rutledge’s mind.
Rutledge tried to ignore him. He said to his sister, “Perhaps the village was moved.”
“Yes, that could be, of course. But surely not the churchyard as well?”
He braked, the engine idling. A gust of wind hit the motorcar, shaking it. “It may serve a scattered population.”
“It looks as if it’s been exiled,” she remarked. Then, turning to her brother, she asked, “Ian, what brought you here? And don’t tell me again that it’s curiosity.”
“Actually it was. That much is true. I wanted to have a look at this part of Essex.”
“Then it has to do with an inquiry?”
“More a bit of intuition heaped on suspicion and doubt.”
Above their heads, wind swirled around the tower, and the clapper touched the mouth of the bell with a sound almost like that of a distant buoy.
The church was in good repair. It appeared that there was a priest who conducted services here. But who were his parishioners? The house they’d passed was too far away, and there was no sign of a village in any direction.
“It makes me sad to look at that church. Is there anything beyond here?”
“Let’s find out.”
Driving on once more, they traveled at least another three miles before they reached the first outposts of a village. Which, he realized, surely meant that the deserted house they’d seen must indeed be River’s Edge.
There were no stragglers. One minute nothing but tall grass sweeping in waves before the wind, and then the first dwelling appeared, square, brick, and squat beneath its roof. Seven more bungalows, and they were in the High Street, where on the left, others were interspersed among the shops. Beyond stood a small two-storey inn, and where the road curved to the north, a large plane tree towered over the cottages nearest to it.
To the right-hand side of the road, other buildings stood with their backs to the river, among them what appeared to be a schoolhouse, and just after the pub he glimpsed the water stairs. On the strand beyond, there were fishing boats drawn up, waiting for the tide to turn. One or two were flatter-bottomed craft used to hunt waterfowl.
Although it was a Saturday afternoon, the village street was deserted, and as they reached the bend in the road, Rutledge recognized the hook of land he’d seen on the map at the Yard.
The wind had continued to pick up, and as they followed the bend that took the road inland, the motorcar swayed with the force of it. Here the village ended with a house or two like afterthoughts, and to the right beyond the last of the houses the road rose a little, telling him that this hook of land was higher than the village and therefore possessed better drainage. In proof of it, he saw farms ahead and counted three of them before the road turned inland again and the marshy ground reappeared in the distance. Which of the farms had been the site of the airfield? There were no derelict buildings to tell him which had been commandeered. And all three offered broad stretches of pasturage and a few fields of corn for livestock that were flat enough for aircraft to take off and land. Ideal, then, for a small squadron of night fighters and Zeppelin patrols. What’s more, it was right on the North Sea, with excellent visibility when the sea mists weren’t rolling in.
Frances was saying, “Did you notice? There’s no church to be seen in the village. And no churchyard. How odd! Where do they bury their dead? And there’s no real hotel, is there? Only that tiny inn. It can’t have more than six rooms, and most likely only four. And the way people stared at us, they aren’t used to strangers, are they? I doubt we’ll be dining here after all.”
She was right, he thought. There was no welcome in Furnham. He turned the motorcar and drove back to the village. A few weathered sheds stood back above the tide line, beyond where the boats were drawn up, and a track led out to them.
He pulled up the brake and got out. Frances came to join him and quickly put her hand on her hat. Here the sweep of the wind was fierce.
She hurried back to the motorcar, saying, “You aren’t walking down to the water, are you? It’s about to rain.”
“No.” He could see all he needed to see from where he stood. The wind-whipped water was frothy, as if seething just below the surface. Looking over his shoulder, he could see that rain was imminent, and with it would come colder air. He stayed for a moment longer, watching the boats rock as the tide toyed with them. Beyond was the narrow estuary, and a line of mild turbulence where the river met the sea. Returning to the motorcar, he drove on.
Behind the pub, he glimpsed a seawall where larger craft were tied up, bobbing at anchor, their masts swaying. Slowing again, he watched as a man in a heavy fisherman’s sweater and wool cap came up between two houses, moving briskly along what must be a path. Without looking in their direction, he turned toward the shops and disappeared into one of them.
“I feel overwhelmed by the warmth of our reception,” Frances commented wryly. “Are we leaving, do you think?”
“Not just yet,” Rutledge answered. He wasn’t sure what he’d hoped to find here in Furnham. Whatever it was, he was still unsatisfied.
There were others on the street now, and the feeling that the village must be as deserted as River’s Edge lessened. But the air of friendliness often encountered in summer was still missing. Frances was a very attractive young woman, and yet none of the men had even glanced her way. It was almost as if they wished to discourage any excuse for personal contact.
Not “Can I help you?” or “New to Furnham, are you?”
“Actually,” Rutledge answered, pulling up, “we were wondering where we might have lunch.”
The man considered them. “We don’t run to restaurants,” he replied. “Not here. You might find something more to your liking back the way you’ve come.”
But there was nothing back the way they’d come. Not for miles. While over the man’s shoulder, Rutledge could see what appeared to be a small shop of no particular distinction perhaps, but most certainly catering to the local people. He thanked the man, who walked on without another word.
Rutledge pulled to the far side of the street, indicating the shop.
“We might try our luck here,” he suggested. “Not precisely the Michelin Guide, but we could do with a cup of tea, don’t you think?”
“Ian,” Frances said quietly, “I really feel we ought to take the none-too-subtle hint and be on our way. In fact, I’ve rather lost any appetite I might have had.”
“Quite,” he answered but nodded toward the shop as two women stepped out and turned up the street, not looking at them. “All the same, it could be two hours or more before we find a suitable restaurant. Let’s take our courage in our hands and go inside. Those women seem to have survived the experience.”
Frances laughed. “You are impossibly optimistic.”
Coming around to open her door for her, he added, “Surely not everyone in Furnham is churlish. There could even be a friendly smile inside that door.”
But as they stepped into what turned out to be a small tearoom-cum-bakery, he caught the quick look the woman behind the counter gave them and watched her mouth turn down, as if she resented their intrusion.
It was cozy enough, inside out of the wind. Pretty blue checkered linen covered the tables, and the chairs were painted white. A large mural along the back wall showed the sea on a sunny day, the water as blue as the sky, and white puffs of cloud sailing along the horizon. A man and a woman sat on the strand, a picnic basket between them, while three children splashed in the water or built sand castles with the aid of a small green bucket and a white shovel. It was unexpectedly good workmanship. A local artist, or someone from the flying field?
The woman was saying, “Sorry, love, we’re just closing.” In spite of the friendly words, her voice was cold.
The three elderly women sitting in the far corner turned to look in Rutledge’s direction, taking in what his sister was wearing, and then turning away, as if they’d lost interest.
“I expect,” he said pleasantly, “that you could provide a cup of tea for two travelers who have lost their way.” He ushered Frances to a table and stood waiting for the woman to answer.
With poor grace, she said, “A cup of tea then.”
Frances was about to protest, saw her brother’s expression, and sat down in the chair he was holding for her.
As he joined her at the table to await their tea, Frances said quietly, “This is Yard business, isn’t it?”
Without denying it, Rutledge looked out the window at the buildings straggling along the riverfront across the way. One, he thought, was indeed a small schoolhouse, and another appeared to be a shoemaker’s shop, a third a chandler’s. Furnham gave him the impression that it hadn’t changed since Queen Victoria’s day. And its inhabitants seemed to be intent on keeping it that way.
And yet the airfield must have provided the decent if overgrown road that he had followed out here, keeping to the river most of the way and turning only when it opened into the sea beyond. There would have been officers to house, and the pilots. Had there also been an antiaircraft battery? The crews who kept the aircraft flying, the men who fed all of them, saw to their needs, maintained the fields they used for runways, and kept up the buildings they lived in must, at a guess, have doubled the population of Furnham. They must also have brought with them the breath of an outside world the local people were so intent on shutting out. Yet there was no sign as far as he could tell that the airfield had ever existed. As if on the day the war ended, those who had lived and worked there were as eager to make their escape from this isolation as their neighbors were to be rid of them, and like the Arabs, folded their tents and quietly melted away. He could almost envisage Furnham mustering to a man to tear down and obliterate this thorn in their side.
Their tea was brought on a tray painted with wildflowers tied in a bunch by a pretty ribbon. The woman set down a pot and two cups, spoons, a bowl of sugar and a small jug of milk without a word. As she went back to her counter, Rutledge saw a young couple start to enter the shop, notice the strangers by the window, and turn away.
Frances drank her tea with an air of enjoying it, and Rutledge was amused. He rather thought she was determined to make the shop owner, if that was who she was, suffer their presence for as long as possible. He caught the glint in her eyes as she leisurely accepted a second cup and made light conversation as she drank it. Finally, with no tea left in pot or cup, she smiled at him and thanked him.
“That was lovely, Ian. Not quite the luncheon I was promised, but a very nice interlude indeed,” she added sweetly, just loud enough for the woman behind the counter to hear.
He paid for the tea, then escorted his sister from the shop. Outside, she said in a low voice, “I swear there must be at least a dozen daggers in my back. Will you pull them out? If looks could kill, I ought to be dead by now. And you as well.”
Laughing, he said, “Thanks for being a good sport.”
They were walking back to their car when another man, dressed in corduroy trousers and an old shirt, stopped them and asked, “Looking to find property hereabouts, are you?”
Surprised, Rutledge said, “Why do you think we’re interested in property?”
“People like you who come here generally are. Possibilities, that’s what they said at the end of the war. Turn Furnham into a holiday town for the East End of London looking to enjoy the seaside. Well, you can see for yourself there’s not much in the way of seaside, is there? The river’s swift and the marshes run down to it, save for here in Furnham, where we’ve had boats as long as anyone can remember. We make our living from the river, it’s true, but there’s not much on offer for strangers wanting to amuse themselves.”
“A friend,” Rutledge said slowly, “was here during the war. He told me that Furnham was a very unfriendly village. That’s not likely to bring holidaymakers rushing to visit here, is it?”
“Yet you came, didn’t you?” the man retorted. “In spite of our being unfriendly.”
“Yes, well, I thought he might have been mistaken. I was—curious, you see.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Just why did you come, then?” He glanced at Frances, standing to one side, then turned back to Rutledge. “We’re at the end of a long road. It wasn’t happenstance brought you here.”
“I told you. Curiosity.”
“Was it the house with the gates? The ones with pineapples on the posts? It’s not for sale. Whatever you may have heard. Someone saw you walking there.”
“A fine view to the river,” Rutledge said, as if agreeing with him. “But I prefer neighbors whose rooftops I can see.”
“Then you’ll be on your way back to wherever it is you came from. I’ll bid you and your lady good day.”
And he walked on, leaving them standing there.
Frances said, “Ian, it’s not amusing any longer. I’d like to go.”
As he walked with her to the motorcar, she added, “What are they hiding? For surely it must be that.”
“A murder,” he said. “At a guess. But whose and when and why, I don’t know.”
“Then I was right, there in the shop. It was Yard business that brought you here.”
He shut her door and went to turn the crank. “I’m not quite sure what made me come here,” he said, joining her in t
he motorcar. “A man walked into my office recently and confessed to a murder. I’m not sure I believe him.”
“But why would he confess, if there was no truth to it?”
“A good question. To protect someone else? To cover up another crime? To settle a property dispute? Or just to see what we knew—or didn’t know—about someone’s death?”
“We’re back to curiosity, again. His—and yours.”
“Exactly. But the Yard can’t investigate a crime just because someone tells us it happened. There’s no body, for one thing. Nor proof that it ever existed.”
The rain arrived at last with steady lightning and heavy thunder, explosive drops striking the windscreen and blinding him as he concentrated on following the nearly invisible road. They ran out of the storm into a wind-driven downpour that pounded the motorcar, ending any conversation. Eventually that passed as well, leaving behind a steady drizzle that was more manageable. He was glad to be out of the marshes now, low lying and no bulwark against a rising river.
Frances said, replying to what Rutledge had been explaining just as the storm broke, “And yet you drove all the way out here. There must have been something about him that made you wonder.”
“He told me he was dying. From the look of him, that part may well be true.”
“You think, once he’s dead, the thread will be lost? Is that why you are looking into this on your own?”
“I expect I didn’t care to be made a fool of. With the truth—or with lies.”
“But what have you learned? How did this jaunt help you?”
“I now have a feeling for this part of Essex that I didn’t have before. And I was grateful for your company. A man on his own would have drawn far more attention, and the last thing I wanted to suggest was Scotland Yard’s interest.”
His reply satisfied her. But as he drove on, he wasn’t sure he’d satisfied himself.
Chapter 4
Ten days later, Rutledge was in his office finishing reports when Sergeant Gibson knocked at the open door and came in.