The Confession

by Charles Todd

  “Do you know where Justin Fowler stayed, when he was on leave during the war?”

  “There was a hotel in London he liked. A little out of the way for my tastes, but it suited him, he said. Cynthia went there to dine with him, I think. But don’t trust that memory. I was jealous and could have imagined it.”

  “I’m told the hotel was destroyed in a Zeppelin raid.”

  “Was it?”

  “Did he go back to River’s Edge, after it was closed?”

  “I ran into him in France and he told me he’d gone down to Essex a last time before being sent over with his regiment. That it was all right. I’d heard that one of the raids had taken out a windmill and some houses, but he told me that that was on the Blackwater. Or maybe the Crouch. I don’t remember.”

  “When was this?”

  “Early in 1915, I think. He’d seen some fighting, and I was in the relief column. He told me he’d borrowed my motorcar and driven out to Essex.”

  “Did he stay at the house? Or just spend a few hours there?”

  “He built a fire in my mother’s sitting room, he said. It was damned cold, the house had been shut up for months. He’d brought tea in a Thermos and a packet of sandwiches, and he ate them by the fire rather than on the terrace as he’d planned. I asked if the chimneys were all right—I didn’t relish the idea of the house burning down. But he’d checked them first, he said, and made certain the fire was out before leaving.”

  “When next did you see or hear from him?”

  “Someone told me he’d been wounded. Late May? It earned him a ticket home, I expect. He wrote once from hospital. He’d heard that we were expecting a child, my wife and I. They’d done surgery on his knee and he was hoping to be released for duty by late August. He told me he might drive down to Essex again, if he could manage it.” Russell lay still, closing his eyes. “I never heard from him again as far as I recall. But letters get lost.”

  “Do you know if he survived the war?”

  “You must ask Cynthia that. She kept track of both of us and Harold Finley as well. Why the interest in Justin? You don’t think he shot me, do you?” He had opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on Rutledge. “Why on earth should he do that?”

  It was clear that he’d forgot what Rutledge had told him about Willet’s confession.

  “I’m still investigating Willet’s death. Were you in England during that summer of 1915?”

  “I was in France. No, that’s not true. I was sent home on compassionate leave when my wife died.”

  “Did you go down to River’s Edge? Or look up Fowler in hospital?”

  “I don’t think so. It was—I don’t remember much about that time.” He grimaced. “I was ridden by guilt. I hadn’t loved her. She died because of me. I didn’t think I’d made her happy.” He turned his head aside. “Go away. Leave me alone.”

  Rutledge was on the point of saying something more when Morrison came back.

  “There you are,” he said, stepping in. “Is he asleep?”

  Rutledge answered, “Yes, I think so. The nurse warned me not to disturb his rest. We should leave.”

  He rose and got Morrison out of the room. Walking to the motorcar, Morrison asked, “Could you talk to him? Did he tell you anything else?”

  “Only that he doesn’t know what happened to Fowler. It may be that he will never be able to remember. If he’s guilty of murdering him, Russell could well go free.”

  Morrison digested that, then said, “You don’t intend to take him into custody?”

  “Suspicion isn’t truth. I need facts.”

  Morrison cranked the motorcar for Rutledge and then got in. “How, I wonder, did Ben learn about Fowler’s death and Russell’s role in it?”

  “I don’t know. But the fact that he did tells me that whatever happened, happened in River’s Edge. Or somewhere along the Hawking. Not in London or Dover or Portsmouth. I told you before I don’t believe in coincidence. And it would have been difficult to kill someone and get rid of the body where hundreds of men are collecting and boarding their transports. But the River Hawking is rather isolated. If it swallowed up Mrs. Russell, it could swallow Fowler just as easily.”

  “Then why wasn’t Willet killed in Essex as well?”

  “I haven’t worked that out yet. Perhaps someone didn’t want him to reach Essex.”

  “We don’t know he was intending to go there.”

  “I’ve discovered that he was.”

  That silenced Morrison. After a time, he said, “I’m tired. I’ll shut my eyes for a bit, if you don’t mind.” He leaned his head against the window strut.

  Rutledge was grateful for the chance to think. With his eyes on the road, he let his mind review everything he knew.

  Hamish said, “There’s no answer.”

  “Exactly. And there’s only one reason I can think of to explain that. Somewhere is a piece of the puzzle we haven’t found. Not yet. And I’m not sure where to look.”

  “Aye. Ye must start at the beginning.”

  By the time he’d passed the gates of River’s Edge and made the turning to the Rectory, Morrison was awake and complaining of being stiff.

  He said, preparing to get out of the motorcar, “I never thought he would live.”

  “Nor did I. But if he had died, the inquiry on Justin Fowler would have to be closed. Without Willet and without Russell, there is no case.”

  Morrison shook his head. “I watched you question a man who was in great pain. How do you live with the fact that the person you take into custody will be tried and judged and very likely hanged? Do you never feel merciful?”

  “It’s not a question of mercy. I don’t judge people. I leave that to the courts. It’s my task to collect the facts that will help them arrive at the truth.”

  “That’s very self-righteous, don’t you think?”

  And then he was gone, shutting the Rectory door behind him.

  Rutledge continued into Furnham, realized he’d eaten nothing since breakfast, and stopped by the tea shop-cum-bakery. But it was already closed, and he went on to the inn.

  The clerk told him that he hadn’t asked for dinner, and so there was none to be had. But when Rutledge offered to pay him well for a meal, he agreed to prepare something. When the tray was brought to his room, Rutledge found under the cloth covering several sandwiches, a dish of fruit, and a square of cheese with rather stale biscuits.

  He ate his meal sitting by the window, where the cool evening air made him drowsy. Setting the empty dishes outside his door, he went to bed.

  But the drowsiness seemed to evaporate as soon as he blew out the lamp and got into bed.

  Instead, his mind went over and over what he knew about the three murders and the attack on Russell. And he didn’t like what he was beginning to conclude.

  Cynthia Farraday had wanted River’s Edge, but not its owner. It would have been easy for her to murder the unsuspecting Mrs. Russell. But despite his protestation of his love, Wyatt Russell married someone else for the sake of an heir. If that was her motive, it didn’t make sense for her to kill Fowler or Ben Willet.

  Wyatt Russell had the best motive—jealousy. He could have killed the men he perceived to be his rivals. But why kill his own mother?

  Jessup, for reasons of his own, could have killed Mrs. Russell, her son, and his own nephew. But why murder Fowler?

  And if the person who killed Fowler’s parents intended to return one day and murder the son as well, why had it been necessary to kill the Russells and Ben Willet?

  Was it possible that there were two people at work here?

  He was close to the answer when sleep overtook him.

  And then he was back in France, the sound of the guns loud in his ears, the screams of the wounded and the dying all around him while the machine gunners whittled away the numbers coming toward them until only Rutledge was left on his feet, and struggling through the mud toward the gunners, his revolver in his hand and determination giving him the streng
th to keep going despite the bullets plowing into his body. But when he reached the nest, there was only one gunner, nothing but bones grinning at him from behind the gun sight. And Hamish’s voice at his ear was shouting to him, trying to make him understand that he too was dead.

  “Fall down and let it be over,” the Scots voice cried. “For God’s sake, let it be over!”

  Rutledge fought against it, clinging to life, struggling against the darkness that was overwhelming him, reaching out for a handhold and unable to find it. For he could see that the River Somme was filled with blood, and he would drown in it, in spite of all he could do.

  With a shock he came wide awake, wrestling the bedclothes, crying out in the darkness.

  He could feel the cold sweat drying on his body, and his chest was heaving as he tried to breathe again.

  In the quiet room, unseen, Hamish said, “It will never go away. Not even when ye die. The dead dream too.”

  He got out of bed and thrust his head out the window, letting the night air blow away the last remnants of the night terror.

  Finally he dressed and went out to walk until the sun brightened the horizon, not caring if the smugglers had made a run in the night. It wasn’t until he could see his hand clearly before his face that he went back to his room and, without undressing, fell into a deep sleep.

  In the morning he went to see Nancy Brothers, spending half an hour in her pleasant kitchen, and when he had the information he wanted, he thanked her and left.

  And then, because he didn’t think he could spend another night in the room at The Dragonfly Inn, he packed his valise and drove out of Furnham.

  When he finally reached London, he went directly to Somerset House and began his search.

  The first name on his list was Mrs. Broadley, the cook at River’s Edge. According to Nancy Brothers, she had gone to live with her sister when the house was closed.

  He hadn’t expected to encounter quite so many Broadleys, but it appeared to be a fairly common name in some counties. Finally he found the one he was after.

  She had died in a village north of Derby during the influenza epidemic of 1918.

  He turned next to Mrs. Dunner, who had taken another post in the Midlands.

  There was no record of her death. And he had the address that Mrs. Brothers had given him.

  The last name on his list was the young chauffeur, Harold Finley.

  There was no record of his death.

  It had taken him two hours, but he felt satisfied with the results.

  On a whim, he also looked for Gladys Mitchell, Fowler’s first wife. Her death was recorded here, and he jotted down in his notebook the name of the sanitarium.

  He found the name of her husband in the marriage records and looked at his death date.

  He had died in prison, just as the solicitor in Colchester had said.

  If there was a child, he couldn’t find it.

  Satisfied, he thanked the clerk who had been assisting him and left.

  At the Yard, he went to a telephone, and after some effort on the part of the operator, he found the house in the Midlands where Mrs. Dunner had taken up another position. When he was put through to the number, a butler answered, and Rutledge identified himself before asking for Mrs. Dunner.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector. Mrs. Dunner is no longer housekeeper here. She is now the housekeeper for Mr. and Mrs. Linton’s daughter, who lives in London.”

  “Is she indeed?” Rutledge asked, relieved to be spared the long drive north.”I should like her direction, if you please.”

  The butler told him, then inquired, “Is there any problem concerning Mrs. Dunner? She’s always been an exemplary employee.”

  “Not at all. We are looking for information about a family she once worked for in Essex. We’re hoping she can help us locate other members of the staff at that time.”

  The butler thanked him and rang off.

  Rutledge looked at the address in his hand. Belvedere Place.

  Cynthia Farraday hadn’t chosen a house at random when she was intent on eluding him. She had chosen the residence where Mrs. Dunner was employed. It was not surprising that the constable he’d spoken to hadn’t recognized Miss Farraday’s name. She didn’t live there and she wasn’t a regular visitor to the Linton family. Hamish was echoing his own thinking: Miss Farraday was too clever by far.

  By the time he’d reached Belvedere Place, it was nearly the dinner hour, but he lifted the elegant knocker, and when a maid in a starched black uniform opened the door, he stated his business.

  She hesitated, repeating “Inspector Rutledge? Of Scotland Yard? To see Mrs. Dunner?”

  He was tired and felt an urge to ask if any of the silver had gone missing, but resisted the temptation. Instead he repeated what he’d told the butler in the Midlands.

  “The family has only just gone in to dinner.” She looked over her shoulder, then said, “If you’ll come this way?”

  She led him through to the servants’ quarters, and tapped on the door of the housekeeper’s small room. Mrs. Dunner was just finishing her accounts, and she looked up as the maid came in. She was tall and slim, her dark hair only beginning to show gray, although he thought she must be well into her fifties.

  “What is it, Daisy?”

  “An Inspector Rutledge from Scotland Yard to speak to you, Mrs. Dunner.”

  “Thank you, Daisy. They will be looking for you in the kitchen, I think.”

  The maid nodded and went away as Mrs. Dunner invited Rutledge into her room and shut the door behind him. “What has brought you to Belvedere Place, Inspector? Is there a problem with one of our staff?”

  “Not at all,” he assured her. “It’s about the staff at River’s End. I’ve spoken to Nancy Brothers, and now to you.”

  “How is Nancy?” she asked. “I had hoped to hear from her from time to time, but she’s never written to me.”

  “I expect she’s been busy.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Does she have any children, do you know?”

  “I don’t believe she has.”

  “A pity. And now you have found me as well. What is it you need to know about River’s Edge? I believe the house has been closed since the war began. What interest does Scotland Yard have in it?”

  But he thought she knew what he was about to ask her.

  “You were there when Mrs. Russell disappeared?”

  “I was. It was a terrible day. I don’t think I shall ever forget it.”

  “What do you believe happened to her?”

  “The most obvious conclusion was suicide, of course. But I could never reconcile myself to that. I found it hard to believe in murder, as well. Still, it seemed to be the most logical explanation.”

  “Why murder?”

  “Because Mrs. Russell wouldn’t have deserted her children. Yes, I know what was said about her belief that her son would die in the war that was coming. And I can tell you it was very distressing for her. She’d lost her husband. The thought of losing Mr. Wyatt as well was insupportable. There was no question but that he would join the Army once war was declared. He was his father’s son. She couldn’t forbid it. She was trying to make peace with her fears.”

  “Did you tell the police what you believed?”

  “I didn’t feel it was my place to stir up more trouble for the family.”

  “If you were willing to consider murder, there must have been someone you believed was capable of it. Who could have wished her dead?”

  There were tears in her eyes as she answered him. “That’s just it, you see. I couldn’t imagine it. Not one of the staff, certainly. All of us had been with her for years. Everyone that is but Harold Finley, but he was a quiet, responsible young man. And as for the people in Furnham, why should they want to harm her?”

  “What about the family?”

  He could see a shocked expression in her eyes.

  “Justin Fowler, for one,” he suggested.

  “Oh, no, not Mr. Justin.”

/>   “Why not?”

  “Poor child, he had nightmares when he first came to us. Mrs. Russell would go in and wake him up, then comfort him. It was terrible. My room was just over his, and I could hear his screams. Some nights she got no sleep.”

  “Did her son or Miss Farraday know about this? Were they jealous, do you think?”

  “How could they be? Mrs. Russell had put him in a room nearest hers, so they wouldn’t be disturbed.”

  “What if they came looking for her, and she wasn’t in her room?”

  “I doubt that ever happened. Mr. Wyatt was a deep sleeper. As for Miss Farraday, she never was one to need pampering. An independent little thing from the first time I saw her. I was told she was accustomed to her parents going away and leaving her with the servants.”

  “Did you like her?” he asked, hearing an undertone in her voice.

  “Not to say didn’t like her. She was such a pretty child, everyone liked her. Still, she wasn’t one to come down to the kitchen and beg a treat, or ask me to sew her ribbons on for her. Little things, but they endear a child to you. She lacked that quality.”

  “Why did Justin Fowler have nightmares?”

  “I asked Mrs. Russell, and she told me that he had been ill in hospital and I was not to worry, it would pass when he regained his health. But I always wondered, you know, if his father beat him. He had such fearsome scars. Not to speak out of place—but Mrs. Russell told me she was pleased that he had more of his mother in him than his father. I had the feeling Mr. Fowler had a dark past.”

  “What sort of past?”

  “She never said as much outright, but I gathered Mr. Fowler had been involved with a woman of the streets. It was a reflection on his character.”

  “Did he marry this woman? Or live with her?”

  “He couldn’t have married her, could he? She already had a husband and a child. It didn’t stop him from taking up with her.”

  It was the first he’d heard of a child. Harrison, the solicitor, had assured him there was no issue in the bigamist marriage.

  “A child of his? Or by her husband?”