by Charles Todd
And that, he thought, must mean that she had a reason to cover her tracks.
W hen he reached the Yard, he set Sergeant Gibson the task of locating Cynthia Farraday and Wyatt Russell.
“I thought Mr. Russell was dead in Gravesend,” Gibson reminded him.
“So did I,” Rutledge answered grimly. “But it appears the man is actually one Ben Willet.”
“But he said-”
“I’m aware of what he said. The question now is, where is the real Mr. Russell? And was Willet even telling the truth about a murder in 1915?”
“It could explain why this man Willet was killed. He’d come to the Yard with what he knew. Even if it was muddled, like.”
But from what Rutledge had been able to discover in Furnham, it wasn’t clear whether the two men’s paths had ever crossed during the war. Then how had Willet learned about what Russell had done? More to the point, why should it matter to him? And why the charade?
“Find Russell, and we could have a few answers.”
He thanked Gibson and walked on down the passage to his own office. The Duty Sergeant had already informed him that Chief Superintendent Bowles was not on the premises, “his being called to a murder scene in Camdentown.”
It was a reprieve of sorts, offering Rutledge an opportunity to think through the problem before having to present it to his superior. Bowles was not noted either for patience or for understanding. He demanded answers without a thought given to the difficulty involved in finding them. And Rutledge had already had a taste of the man’s hasty interpretation of information brought to him.
He sat down at his desk and turned his chair so that he could look out the window, his view blocked by trees in leaf. They cast cool shadows across the pavement as the sun settled in the west.
River’s Edge was isolated and had stood empty for upwards of five years. A perfect site for a quiet murder. Perhaps it had already seen one. Mrs. Russell.
He thought again that it would have made more sense if Willet had come to the Yard to confess to murdering her.
The question was, had Ben Willet been killed because of the past-or for something else completely unrelated to his visit to Scotland Yard? He wouldn’t have been the first-nor the last-man to have a finger in too many pies.
Hamish said, “D’ye believe the woman, that she wished to purchase yon estate?”
“It was a sound enough reason to explain her trespassing. I’d have said yes, it was the truth-until she played that game in Belvedere Place. If she had nothing on her conscience, she wouldn’t have cared whether I discovered where she lived or not. But what does she have to do with a footman from Thetford who washed up in Gravesend?”
He set himself the task of finishing the paperwork waiting on his desk, but his mind kept coming back to the riddle of Ben Willet.
Mrs. Brothers had recognized his face but couldn’t put a name to it. That would say that Willet could have come home to Furnham from time to time, but not often enough for Nancy Brothers to know who he was. And the men in The Rowing Boat had been reluctant to identify Willet in the photograph. True, Barber’s father-in-law was dying, and the family had no wish to upset him with the news of his son’s death. But was that another convenient lie? One that the man from Scotland Yard could investigate for himself, and then accept at face value? If so, the people in that village held a poor view of the police.
The barkeep at The Rowing Boat had been ready to kill to keep the truth from coming out. But what truth? That Willet was dead? Or that someone in Furnham recognized him?
Hamish said, “Ye ken, verra’ likely it’s no’ the fact that Willet was dead but why he died.”
They had come full circle.
Signing the last of the papers in front of him, Rutledge rose and carried them down the passage to hand them over to Constable Benning.
Back in his office once more, he asked aloud, “Where is Wyatt Russell?”
It had been a rhetorical question, but on the other hand, if Ben Willet had felt safe in impersonating the man, it could well mean that Russell too was dead.
“Miss Farraday didna’ appear to think he was deid.”
Rutledge left his office and went in search of Sergeant Gibson. “If anyone wants me, I’m going back to Essex. I expect to return tomorrow afternoon.”
“Where will you be staying, if I should need to reach you?” Gibson asked.
“I doubt there’s a telephone within thirty miles of Furnham,” Rutledge said.
Hamish said something that he missed as Gibson asked, “Would it be best, then, to speak to the Chief Superintendent before you leave?”
“I think not,” Rutledge replied, and walked on.
On the stairs he realized what it was that Hamish had tried to interject.
If there was no way the Yard could reach him while he was in Furnham, then it would be equally impossible for him to reach the Yard in the event there was trouble.
R utledge went home, packed a small valise, and set out for Essex once more. The sun was low on the horizon now, and ahead lay the dark lavender clouds of the North Sea, where evening had already begun to encroach on the day. And it was fully dark and very late when he pulled into yard of The Dragonfly Inn. He had intended to call on Mr. Morrison before he drove on to Furnham, but there had been no lights in the church and looking for the Rectory would have taken more time than he could afford, if he wanted a room for the night.
When he strode into the tiny Reception, there was no one behind the desk, but a bell stood to one side of the register, and he pushed it. It sounded rusty with damp, a grinding noise rather than a ring.
After a moment a man in his shirtsleeves appeared from the rear of the inn, frowning as he realized that here was custom he didn’t wish to serve.
“Looking for a room, are you?” he said, his manner surly. “Sorry to say, they’re all taken.”
“Indeed?” Rutledge answered. Before the man could stop him, he reached out and turned the register around, opening it to where the black ribbon marked the current page. “The last guest appears to have signed this page some ten weeks ago. Are you telling me he’s still here?”
“There’s no room available. A problem with the roof.”
“I’m here to call on Ned Willet.”
“Then you’re too late. He died not half an hour ago.”
Surprised, Rutledge said, “Then I’m here for the funeral.”
After a moment the man said grudgingly, “Very well. The room at the top of the stairs. You won’t be needing a key.”
“On the contrary. I insist on a key.”
As Rutledge signed the register the man fished in a drawer, eventually coming up with a key. He passed it across the desk, and Rutledge pocketed it.
“Good night,” he said as he turned and took the stairs two at a time. They curved slightly as they climbed, and the first room was in fact just at the top. On either side of his were two more rooms, and across the passage were three others, these overlooking the High Street. At the ends of the passage there were windows, the shades already drawn for the night.
Rutledge opened his door and fumbled for the lamp that must be near it. Finding it, he struck a match and lit the wick. As the flame strengthened, he took in his surroundings. The room wasn’t very large, but neither was it small enough to aggravate his claustrophobia. There were two narrow beds, a desk under the window, and a small wardrobe with two doors. Turning the key in the lock, he left it there and set his valise down between the beds. The coverlets were faded, a deep green that was now nearly the color of moss in the shade of a tree. There was a medallion in the center of each, with what appeared to be entwined initials, but they were spotlessly clean and the room smelled faintly of lavender and Pears’ Soap.
It had been a long day. Walking to the open window and looking out, he realized that his room was over the kitchen, and just beyond, the kitchen gardens. A lighted window cast a golden glow over the rows of vegetables, and as he watched, someone walked past
the beds and came up to the rear door of the inn.
He stood, half concealed by the curtains, and through the open window he could just hear what was being said, even though whoever it was spoke in a low voice.
“Did they tell you? The old man is gone.”
“Yes. Molly stopped in on her way home.”
There was silence for a moment, and then the first voice said, “How is she?”
“Well enough. Considering. She’s still grieving for young Joseph.”
“It will be hard on her, losing his dad. Molly and Ned were close.”
“Whose motorcar is that I see on the street in front of the inn?”
“Belongs to a fellow by the name of Rutledge.”
“Yes, I thought I recognized it. What brings him back so soon?”
“He came for the funeral. He says.”
“Damn. How did he know? It just happened.”
“I told him there was no room to be had. But he insisted.”
“How long does he expect to stay?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
There was a longer silence. “Hell. We can deal with him if we have to.”
“Not in my inn.”
“No.”
And then it appeared that the man in the shadows outside the kitchen must have left, because the squares of light vanished and the garden was quiet enough that Rutledge could hear the crickets.
He was nearly sure the man outside the kitchen door was Barber, from The Rowing Boat.
Hamish said, startling him, “I wouldna’ go wandering in the dark. No’ here.”
But sleep wouldn’t come, and Hamish was fretful in the back of his mind as well. In the end, Rutledge dressed, went quietly down the stairs and out into the night.
The stars were bright in the blackness of the sky, and across the road he could hear the unseen river moving toward the sea. Turning toward his left, he walked to the edge of Furnham and out into the countryside. Ahead he could just see the silhouetted barns that marked the three farms.
He was fairly certain that the airfield hadn’t been built at the middle farm, where Nancy Brothers and her husband lived. And if he were choosing, the land nearest the estuary would offer greater clearance for night fighters taking off in a hurry or crippled aircraft looking for an easy landing. It would also afford a better view of Zeppelins moving toward the mouths of the rivers that would point them directly into the heart of London. France was not so very far away, after all, and there would be no problem with navigation over a short stretch of open sea.
Looking over the low fence designed to keep cattle from roaming, he could see the massive black bulk against the stars that would be the house and barn. Far enough away, he thought, that he could do a little exploring without awakening the owner.
The fence was rusted and broken in places, although grasses and vines had mended the wire in their own fashion, running up the posts and making a heavier barrier than the original one. Finding a short gap some twenty feet farther on, he stepped through the tangle of briars and vines and into the field beyond. He kept walking, minding where he went, and soon enough he could see where the airfield had been laid out, including the rough foundations of the buildings that had been put up in haste. Where the actual flying field had been, the texture of the grass and weeds was different. Moving back to explore the ruins again, he tripped over a low-lying pile of stones and swore as he fought for his balance. In the distance a dog began to bark, and he stood still.
But it wasn’t chained by the farmhouse, as he’d expected. He could hear the barking growing louder as the animal raced toward him.
Rutledge stayed where he was, and when the dog was fifty feet away, he whistled softly and held out one hand palm down. The dog, large and dark, slowed, legs stiff, tail straight, and the ruff on the back of his neck standing up. Rutledge dropped to his haunches and called, “Come on, there’s a good dog,” speaking quietly until it approached. All at once its tail dropped and began to wag, and stretching out its muzzle, the animal sniffed Rutledge’s fingers.
It had been a good two years since the airfield had been shut down, but clearly the dog remembered the men posted here and their friendliness, and soon accepted Rutledge as one of them, letting this newcomer scratch behind its ears.
Together they walked on across the field, and then turned toward the barn. Here Rutledge saw great stacks of wood and brick out behind the building, where the thrifty farmer had retrieved what the Royal Flying Corps had left behind. In another pile were broken propellers, cracked struts, and even torn bits of canvas and metal, where aircraft had crashed or been in a dogfight, and the equally thrifty ground crew had salvaged what they could. He wondered what the farmer intended to do with such bits.
The dog wandered into the farmyard, and Rutledge turned back the way he’d come. Finding the gap in the fence was harder from this side, but after several tries, he came across it.
On the road again, he walked toward the village. He was almost there, the river glinting in the distance, when he heard oars in oarlocks and quiet voices echoing across the water. Then close by, the sound of a boat being dragged up on the rough shale.
He stepped quickly into the shadows of the large plane tree at the bend in the road, well hidden beneath the broad leaves weighing down the branches overhead.
Three men strode up from the water, silent and staying close to one another as they made their way along the side of The Rowing Boat, keeping between the tall shrubs that marked the pub’s boundary line and the darker shadows under the roof ’s overhang. As they reached the High, Rutledge could see that each man carried a haversack slung over his left shoulder, hunching a little under of the weight of it. And under his right arm, each man carried a shotgun, the barrel just catching the starlight and glinting dully.
Smuggling, Rutledge realized, and slid deeper into the shadows until his back touched the smooth bark of the tree. He stood no chance against three shotguns.
The men separated without a word, two hurrying off up the High and the third coming directly toward him.
Chapter 8
There was nothing he could do but stand where he was, his back pressed against the tree trunk, his body braced for whatever he would have to do. There was no time to pull his hat lower to cover the paleness of his face or even to turn away. He carefully ducked his head so that his chin was nearly touching his collar, and waited.
Hamish, his voice a low growl, seemed to be waiting too, just behind his shoulder. But Hamish was not there, and no help if it came down to a fight.
Rutledge watched as the man cut diagonally across the road, grunting as he shifted the haversack a little to ease his shoulder.
Fifty feet. Thirty. Twenty feet and closing.
Near enough now to see him standing there, surely. And the men who had gone the other way were still within hearing. One shout and they’d turn. He could deal with one of them, he even stood a good chance of disarming the man nearest him, given the element of surprise. The other two could bring him down from a distance, and his only hope was to make it out of range before they fired.
Barber had had no qualms about clubbing him to death. These men would shoot first and worry later.
Something in the way the man walked was familiar. Had he seen him before? When he was here with Frances?
Just then, only ten feet away, the man grunted as he shifted the haversack again.
And the haversack was all that stood between them, blocking the man’s view of Rutledge there under the tree. He walked on, whistling under his breath.
It also prevented Rutledge from seeing the man’s face.
He wouldn’t have been able to identify him if his life had depended on it. Not in a courtroom. There was just that instinctive recognition. And it too could be wrong.
A door opened a little farther along on Rutledge’s side of the street and then shut again as quietly as possible. By that time it was too late to move away from the tree to see where the other two men had gone.
Hamish said, his voice seeming loud enough to be heard on the far side of the river, “Ye ken, this is why no one is happy to have Scotland Yard come to ask questions.”
Had they known anything about Ben Willet’s death? Or had they believed that it was only an excuse to look into other matters?
The inn was only a short distance ahead, but Rutledge waited until he was certain there were no watchers guarding the backs of the three men. He was just about to move when someone detached himself from the recessed doorway of The Rowing Boat and turned to jog up the High Street, disappearing into the small village school.
He waited another ten minutes, in case the watcher left the school and went home. Finally, satisfied that he was in the clear, he stepped quietly out of the shadow of the plane tree and walked without haste toward the inn.
Rutledge had seen Barber-or in point of fact, heard him-at the kitchen door of the inn hardly more than an hour ago. Therefore he couldn’t have been one of the three coming up from the river. Nor was he the watcher in the pub’s doorway, for that man was smaller in stature. Still, Rutledge wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Barber was the force behind the smuggling.
Smuggling wasn’t unheard of along the southern coast of England even in this day. Fisherman had long ago learned that they could supplement their meager living from the sea by dropping in at a French port and making quiet arrangements with their opposite numbers. War or peace, men needed to eat, and His Majesty’s Excise be damned. But this last war, with submarines as well as Naval vessels and German raiders patrolling the seas, must have curtailed the usual cross-Channel trade, much less fishing. Times would have been hard for villages like Furnham. The question was, why had the village turned its back on the airfield, which could have brought in much-needed revenue to the shops and pub?
He reached The Dragonfly without incident and, as silently as possible, climbed the stairs to his room. The innkeeper was nowhere in sight. And his room was as he’d left it. No one had come in to search it in his absence.
