The Confession ir-14

by Charles Todd

  Rutledge said, “I take full responsibility. But he’s done this before, hasn’t he? And you failed to warn me of that.”

  She said nothing, watching the last of the searchers trudging wearily back to the house.

  One of the men said as he came close enough to be heard, “I think we should search the house again. In case he doubled back.”

  But Rutledge didn’t think he had. Still, the staff and those of the patients who were ambulatory set about going from room to room.

  “When did he disappear the last time?” he asked as Matron stood listening to the search going on over her head. “You can’t protect him now.”

  “Yes, all right. A month ago. He was gone for three weeks. We searched for him, looked everywhere we could think of that he might have gone. I didn’t wish to ask the police to help. After all, he’d done nothing wrong, he wasn’t dangerous. And my faith was rewarded. One morning he was standing here at the door when we came down. Disheveled, hungry, in need of a bath, but he knew who he was and where he was, and he apologized for worrying us.”

  “He gave no reason for leaving?”

  “He told me he needed to think, that he couldn’t here. He needed to be alone.”

  “Does he have access to his service revolver?”

  “No, most certainly not. There are no weapons here, I assure you.”

  “But he does have a house in London? Where he and his wife lived? Is it by any chance there?”

  She hesitated.“The orderly saw to it that the revolver was put away. It was his first responsibility when they arrived in London.”

  Although she was reluctant to give it, he got the direction of the London house.

  “But it’s closed now,” she protested. “It generally is, when he’s in residence here.”

  He thanked her and left. Then, as he was driving out the gates, a constable came peddling furiously up the road. Rutledge stopped the motorcar and asked, “What is it?”

  He had to identify himself before the constable would speak to him.

  “There’s been trouble in the village,” he said. “It must have been someone from here. He struck down George Hiller and took his Trusty.”

  The Trusty Triumph had been the workhorse of the war. Dispatch riders found the motorcycle the best and fastest way to reach the Front and keep sectors in touch with HQ. They took weather, the shelling, and the rough and treacherous terrain in stride, and the silhouette of the goggled figure, head down and hunched over his machine, was a familiar one.

  “Tell Matron, if you please. I’ll see if I can find him.”

  Rutledge didn’t wait for an answer. He drove as fast as he dared, given the state of the roads, but he knew-as Hamish was busy telling him-that the Triumph had a head start and would reach London long before it could be overtaken.

  But what had triggered Major Russell’s outburst?

  Rutledge had assumed that it was the photograph of Cynthia Farraday. But what had he said next? Be damned to my mother’s locket. Had he recognized it earlier, even though he’d said he didn’t know it?

  Or-was it the locket with Cynthia Farraday’s photograph in it? Had Russell thought then that she had had something to do with his mother’s death?

  Was she in any danger?

  He had to find Russell and George Hiller’s Trusty before the Major reached the Farraday house in Chelsea.

  Chapter 13

  Rutledge scanned the distance, searching for some sign that he was closing the gap with the Triumph, but it was wishful thinking, and Hamish relentlessly pointed that out.

  Whatever he’d set in motion, he had to stop it.

  And still there was nothing ahead, no small red light to guide him.

  Russell, he thought, was driving recklessly, his anger goading him.

  His own concentration was intense, passing through countryside, avoiding a horse cart moving slowly or a gaggle of geese waddling toward a pond, then through one village after the other with lamplight marking the street in tidy squares. Back into the countryside once more, before finding himself in a fair-size town where people were strolling in the warm summer evening. His eyes readjusting as he returned to the pitch-dark of farms and woods once more. Even Hamish was shut out, and the silence was unsettling.

  Had Russell turned off? Taken a different route from the one Rutledge had expected him to take? It was becoming more and more likely, and without a moon, it was impossible to push the motorcar any harder on unfamiliar roads.

  And then six miles outside London, he caught up with his quarry.

  He nearly missed it, all his attention on negotiating an unexpectedly sharp bend in the road.

  The Triumph lay in a ditch, front wheel twisted, and it was the brief flash of the headlamps on metal that caught Rutledge’s eye.

  Braking hard, slewing the motorcar halfway across the road, nearly sliding into the ditch on the far side himself, he came to a rocking halt, thanking God no one had been coming from the other direction.

  He got out quickly and ran to examine the wreckage, shining his torch across it, expecting to find Major Russell there in its beam, dead or dying, entangled in the ruins of the machine. Cursing himself and Russell in the same breath.

  George Hiller’s Trusty had suffered from the great flaw of its kind, the front fork spring that could take only so much rough handling before breaking. In France, where the roads were even rougher than here in England, a leather strap had often been added for extra support, allowing the rider to cut cross-country when conditions made it necessary.

  But the Major wasn’t there. Not beside the motorcycle. Not under it.

  Dropping to one knee, Rutledge shone the torch over the machine and the bruised grass beneath it, trying to comprehend how Russell could have escaped unscathed. It would have taken a miracle, he told himself. And then he saw the blood.

  He got to his feet and looked around. There was a house just on the far side of the bend, and a light shone from the front window. Stopping only to move his motorcar to a safer place than the middle of the road, he went quickly to knock on the door.

  A tall, slim woman with iron gray hair opened it. He was struck by her eyes, dark and intelligent-and red rimmed with weeping.

  “My name is Rutledge. Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. Did you by any chance see the accident with that motorcycle in the ditch?”

  She stared at him for a moment, then said, “You’d better come in.”

  He walked into the very handsome parlor and sat down on the dark blue couch that she indicated. “May I ask your name?”

  “Marilyn Furman.”

  “And did you see the accident?” he asked again.

  “I was just coming home, I hadn’t even opened my door when I heard the cyclist coming around the bend at great speed. And then something happened, I don’t know what it was. It was as if the front balked, like a horse at a fence. I heard the rider cry out, and then he was flying over the handlebars. The next thing I knew, he was in the ditch, and the motorcycle was coming straight toward him as it slid in the dust.” She turned away. “It was quite terrible. I heard him cry out a second time. And then nothing. I was afraid to go across to him. I didn’t even want to think about what I might see. But I took my torch and made myself do it, and to my astonishment, he was alive. People from down the road had heard the noise too and came running. I sent them for an ambulance and stayed with him. I couldn’t see his face for the blood. I asked him his name, but he couldn’t tell me.” She turned back to Rutledge. “I thought someone should know it, you see. In the event they came to look for him and saw the wreckage of the Triumph. And the hospital ought to know as well. But he couldn’t tell me.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she reached for her handkerchief. He gave her time to collect herself, then asked, “Was he still alive when the ambulance got to him?”

  “Oh, yes. They couldn’t understand how he missed being killed.”

  “Do you know where the ambulance men took him?”

&nb
sp; But she was still locked in the horror of all she’d witnessed. “They were so long in arriving. I thought they would never come. There was a young couple who appeared from somewhere and sat with me. They wanted to put him in their motorcar, but I was afraid to try to move him. He was in pain, moaning. I couldn’t even offer him a little water. I felt so useless, and then the ambulance was there, and it was all right.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?” he asked again.

  “I believe he was taken to St. Anne’s. It’s about seven miles down the road. I was too distressed to ask. And so relieved to have help for him finally.” She took a deep breath, struggling against the tide of memory.

  “Do you have any idea of the extent of his injuries?”

  “I asked the ambulance men to tell me what was wrong. So that I could reassure whoever came looking for him. They couldn’t be certain, they told me. The cut on his forehead was bleeding profusely, and it was possible that he had sustained internal injuries, even broken ribs. Then they were shutting the doors and driving away. I just stood there, watching them go, too dazed to think what to do next.”

  “Is there anyone here who could take a message to Oxfordshire?”

  “Is that where the cyclist is from? There’s the man who sees to my gardens for me. He won’t mind going, he has friends in Oxford. A head gardener at one of the colleges and his family. I’ll give him the day off tomorrow.”

  “I have the name of the Triumph’s owner. He will be glad to come and take it away.” He took out his notebook and wrote the direction, tearing away the sheet and passing it to her.

  “But Scotland Yard-what had he done? This man-were you following him? Is that why you know all this?” She indicated the sheet of paper in her hand.

  “I was following him to London,” Rutledge replied. That was true as far as it went. “Are you all right? Is there someone who could come and sit with you?”

  “I’m just a little shaken still, but I’ll be fine,” she said, collecting herself. “It was just-seeing him fly through the air like that. It happened so quickly, I couldn’t even cry out. And then the Triumph following, as if it were intent on crushing him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so horrible.”

  He sat there for a few minutes more, talking to her until she was calmer, and then said, “I must go.”

  “Would you mind terribly? Would you send word to me so that I’ll know if he lived or not? It would be kind. I really don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering.”

  “I’ll see to it. The doctors may not know anything at first. They’ll have to examine the man and determine the extent of his injuries. You won’t hear straightaway. But that will be good news, actually.”

  “Yes, I understand. I won’t worry. But it would be comforting to think I could put that terrible picture out of my mind, no harm done.”

  He left then, still concerned for her, and went back to look at the Triumph.

  And then he started his motorcar and drove directly to St. Anne’s.

  It was unexpectedly difficult to find. A small hospital in one of the larger villages that had all but been swallowed up by London’s growth, it was tucked away out of sight. He had turned around at the outskirts and driven through the village a second time, when he saw the Catholic Church down a side street. A signboard identified it as St. Anne’s, and just beyond it was a square building that was set back from the road in what appeared to be a park. He thought it might have been a small manor house at one time, or perhaps a rectory.

  Leaving his motorcar by the steps, he went inside.

  The nurses were nuns in white habits, and he wondered if this had originally been a lying-in hospital for difficult maternity cases. There was a small casualty ward in the back.

  The sister in charge came to meet him, prepared to make a decision on where he was to be sent, but he said, after she asked what his problem might be, “I’m here in regard to the accident case just brought to you. A man on a motorcycle.”

  “Are you a relative?” she asked, pursing her lips, as if about to tell him he couldn’t go into the ward itself.

  “Scotland Yard,” he told her. “I was looking for this man to help us with our inquiries.”

  “Indeed. Well, then, you’re out of luck.”

  Chapter 14

  “He’s dead?” Rutledge asked, unprepared for this news.

  “No, he is not. But he ought to be. He may yet be. Bruises and scrapes all over him. But somehow he just missed breaking his head or another bone. And he left, refusing further treatment or a few hours of observation. He said his wife would be worried about him if he didn’t come home before midnight.”

  But Major Russell had no wife that Rutledge knew of.

  “Was he able to give you his name or tell you where he lived?”

  “Not at first, but then he did tell the sister in charge that he was Mr. Fowler, Justin Fowler. From London. Later on he asked if he could take an omnibus from here to London, most particularly one that would stop somewhere near Kensington Palace.”

  Damn the man! “And did he find an omnibus that would carry him to Kensington?”

  “He must have done. He asked one of the orderlies which to watch for, and I was looking out the window when he left.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  “If you please, tell him he must rest. In the event there are more serious injuries than we knew of. Even a concussion. It was very foolish to go rushing off like that.”

  “I will warn him,” Rutledge answered, and took his leave, his mind already dealing with the problem of Major Russell’s intentions.

  For Kensington Palace was within walking distance of Chelsea, where Cynthia Farraday lived. It was also where he could find another omnibus to carry him to Victoria Station and a train to Tilbury.

  Hamish said, “He’ll go for the lass. And then to Tilbury, and on to River’s Edge.”

  Rutledge was already turning the crank on the motorcar. “We’ll try Chelsea first. Just in case.” As he made his way out of the village and found the London road again, he added, “He still has a head start. But the omnibus will be slow. At least we have a fairly good idea where to look. And if he isn’t in Chelsea, there’s the house in London, and after that, Essex. He knows Matron will send someone to the house, but he may think there’s time enough to clean himself up and change his clothes.”

  London traffic was unexpectedly heavy for this time of night. Lorries filled with produce, motorcars, barrows, and carts vied with omnibuses and even a few larger horse-drawn vehicles, and while there were not that many of them all told, he found it difficult to make good time. The only consolation was that a lumbering omnibus would find it even harder to overtake them.

  A summer’s dawn was breaking in the east when he finally reached Kensington.

  A wagon laden with early cabbages was stopped stock-still in the middle of the road while the driver haggled with a woman shopkeeper over the price of his wares. Impatient, Rutledge left his motorcar in the queue and went forward to speak to the pair.

  They turned as one, glaring at him as he said, “How much are your cabbages?”

  The driver looked him up and down as the woman said, “Here, I was first!” Ignoring her, the man gave Rutledge a price.

  It was outrageous, but without comment, Rutledge paid him for ten, handed them to the woman, and then pointed to the high seat of the cart. “Drive on. You’ve made your first sale of the day.”

  Grinning, the man clambered up with alacrity and lifted his reins, calling to the horses.

  But the woman said, “Here, I wished to choose my own.”

  He gave her his best smile. “Madam, you have ten fine cabbages that didn’t cost you a farthing. Be grateful.”

  And he walked back to his own vehicle before she could think of a response.

  The rest of the way to Chelsea was uneventful, but Rutledge fretted over the delay as he threaded his way through the streets where milk vans stopped and started with no
regard to others. He had a very bad feeling about what he’d find at Cynthia Farraday’s house and hoped that her maid would have the good sense not to open the door to a bruised and bleeding stranger.

  But when he pulled up in front of Miss Farraday’s house and walked quickly to the door, he found it off the latch. Opening it only a little, he stood there for several precious seconds, listening for any sounds of argument or trouble, any intimation as to where he was needed.

  The house was quiet.

  He pushed the door wider, prepared for an attack if Russell had seen his motorcar on the street. But none came, and he stepped inside.

  The ticking of the long clock in another room could be heard clearly.

  The house was unnaturally quiet.

  Rutledge began to make his way from room to room on the ground floor, listening to the quality of the silence as he went. Each one was empty, and nowhere was there any sign of a struggle.

  A door closing behind him creaked, and he stood still, waiting. But no one came or called out.

  Worried now, he went quickly down to the servants’ hall and found no one there. Miss Farraday’s cook should have been feeding the banked fire in the cooker and preparing for breakfast. And the door to the back stairs was firmly shut. Returning to the hall, he cast caution to the winds and took the main stairs two at a time. In the passage at the top, he paused. There were several doors, all of them closed, and no way to judge which one was the master bedroom. He went to the one at the top of the stairs and opened it.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. What he found was a tidy and very feminine bedroom done up in peach and pale green, with windows overlooking the back garden. A great maple shielded them, the leaves moving gently in the early morning breeze.

  Nothing was out of place, neither the chair nor the octagonal Turkish carpet in the center of the room. A large wardrobe stood against one wall, and a door beside it led to what must be a dressing room.