by Charles Todd
He walked with her as far as the street in front of the Yard. “Shall I take you home? My motorcar is just there.”
“I’d rather walk,” she told him, and turned toward Trafalgar Square, leaving him standing on the pavement.
He drove to Essex, feeling the guilt of the liar. Telling himself that what he had done was necessary. But it didn’t help.
On the way he stopped and bought a copy of the newspaper.
Arriving in Furnham, he took the paper, already turned to the proper page, into the cool morning dimness of The Rowing Boat.
Barber was there, and Jessup as well, with four or five others. Rutledge realized that he’d just walked into a planning meeting for the next run to France.
They stared at him with animosity, and he told himself grimly that it was only to get worse.
He put the newspaper down on the bar in front of Barber. “I don’t imagine you’ve seen this,” he said.
With a glance at the others, Barber picked up the newspaper, found the article that Rutledge had referred to, and began to read it. Then he stopped and began again, reading it aloud this time.
There was silence in the room as he put it down. “What’s this got to do with us?” He nodded to the others.
“I should think you’d be interested in helping find his killer. Even if you had no interest in finding Ben Willet’s.”
“Perhaps it was suicide,” Barber said after a moment. “Did you think of that?”
“I should think he would have found it difficult to shoot himself in the back and then walk as far as the house, leave the revolver where he’d found it, and return to the marshes to collapse.”
As he stood there, waiting for them to answer, he found himself wondering if any of the shotguns the runners had carried had come from the gun case at River’s Edge. Something in the faces turned toward him told him they knew the gun case as well as Rutledge did.
Jessup said into the silence, “Why should one of us wish to kill Russell? We hardly knew him. He wasn’t one to come to The Rowing Boat of an evening and drink with us.”
“There have been too many deaths at River’s Edge. Beginning with Mrs. Russell and including Justin Fowler. Bodies don’t disappear in the river, not without a little help.”
Jessup stirred. “Don’t be a fool,” he said after a moment.
“What reason did we have?” another of the men asked.
“I was hoping you would tell me. There is something wrong at River’s Edge. I haven’t found out what it was, but I will.” He gestured to the newspaper as he picked it up. “As this says, any information will be treated with strictest confidentiality. So don’t be afraid to speak up. I should think Miss Farraday will be offering a reward as well.”
He turned, walking out the door, feeling a tightness between his shoulder blades until he had swung the door shut behind him.
At the Rectory, he saw Morrison trimming a hedge that ran along the back of his property. Getting out, he walked past the house and said, when he was in earshot, “I think you’ll want to read this.” Holding up the newspaper, he waited until Morrison had put down the wooden-handled hedge trimmers and joined him by the kitchen door.
“What’s that? It can wait, I’m thirsty. Would you care for a lemonade?”
Rutledge went into the small but tidy kitchen and took the chair Morrison indicated. An oiled cloth in a rather garish shade of green covered the table, and the hutch and the cabinets were old. After a moment he came back with a heavy pitcher in his hands.
“It’s not terribly cold,” the rector said apologetically. “It’s hard to come by ice out here. I’ve taken to keeping the jug in the root cellar.” He poured a glass and handed it to Rutledge. “Now. What is it I ought to read?”
Rutledge thanked him and pointed to the top of the page.
“Dear God,” he said after he’d finished it. “He’s dead? But I thought- Dr. Wade gave him a very good chance of living.”
“I was there yesterday. Just before his fever shot up. I’ve shown this to Barber and Jessup and a few of the others. And as you can see, I’ve kept your name out of it. I thought it best.”
“Thank you very much. I can do without any other quarrel with my parishioners. But this is sad news. After all our efforts to get him to a Casualty Ward. Did he ever remember anything more?”
“Apparently not.”
“Well, that will just make your task harder, I should think. Much as I hate to say it, it must have been one of the villagers.” Morrison shook his head. “But there’s no motive. He hadn’t been here for years. Why shoot him?”
“Perhaps because he’d seen Ben Willet the night before he was killed. With someone from Furnham.”
Morrison’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you sure? In London? That’s a long journey for someone from Furnham. None of us has the luxury of your motorcar.”
“There are vans that come to the butcher’s shop and the greengrocer’s shop. Someone must come for the milk out at the farms. There are ways.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true. Well, then, it should be easy enough for you to find out. Still-I know these people, Rutledge. Which one have I failed to understand?”
“You told me that Jessup was dangerous.”
“Yes, that’s true, he is. He will hammer you within an inch of your life if you cross him. His fists are his weapon of choice.”
“Nevertheless, one of your flock shot Russell.”
“All right, yes. I just don’t want to think that men I’ve known and argued with and cajoled into coming to a service or letting a son or daughter be baptized are killers. Is it possible that someone from London followed him here? There was that business of the loose mare.”
“Probably very slim at best.” Rutledge could appreciate Morrison’s concern for the souls in his keeping, whether they wanted his keeping or not.
Finishing his lemonade, he asked, “Did you know the history of the church that preceded yours?”
Morrison roused himself from whatever he was thinking about the men of Furnham. “I was told it was struck by lightning and burned. Flat as it is out here, a steeple is the tallest point around. Not surprising.”
“Jessup told me the same story.”
“It’s one of the reasons why the new church, St. Edward’s, has a truncated tower. I suspect the beams were ancient and as dry as several hundreds of years could make them. They’d burn in a flash. I asked if it had been a Sunday, if anyone had been trapped in it. But apparently not, it was in the evening.”
Rutledge left it at that. Picking up the newspaper, he said, “I’m going to River’s Edge. It’s possible that in our concern for Russell we overlooked something.”
“I can’t imagine what. Do you want me to go with you? Two pairs of eyes and all that.”
“It’s just as well if I go alone. And then I’ll carry on straight to London.”
“Will you tell me when the funeral will be? I’ll take the service, if Cynthia-Miss Farraday-wishes me to.”
He was prepared this time. “The body won’t be released straightaway.”
“Yes, I understand. But you’ll pass along my offer, I hope.”
Rutledge promised, thanked him for the lemonade, and left.
“Are ye going to River’s Edge? Ye’ll be a target, if ye do, and no one to help.”
He answered Hamish aloud. “If it’s someone from Furnham, he’ll follow me to London. And there I won’t see him coming.”
“Aye. But watch your back.”
Rutledge stopped at the gates of River’s Edge, walked up the drive and around to the terrace. And although he stood there for nearly three-quarters of an hour, he saw no one. No one took a shot at him.
All the same, he could feel eyes watching him. From the high grass? Among the reeds across the river? Or concealed in the dozens of inlets and coves barely deep enough for a small boat?
He hadn’t thought to bring his field glasses. And he cursed himself for that.
Debating the wis
dom of spending the night in the empty house, he decided against it.
Hamish said, “Yon Major was shot after dark.”
“If I’m to be shot and killed, it won’t matter if I see who it is in broad daylight.”
“Aye, there’s that.”
“When next I come, I’ll bring Constable Greene with me.”
The drive to London lay ahead. Reluctantly he walked back to the motorcar. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find his tires slashed. But they were not, the crank turned and the motor caught, and nothing at all happened.
He didn’t feel reassured by that.
I t was too late to return to the Yard by the time Rutledge reached London. But he stopped at his flat to look in on Russell. He was sleeping, and Sister Grey, who had been nodding in her chair by the bed, assured Rutledge that there were no changes in his condition.
He found Frances waiting for him.
“I didn’t know if you were coming here again tonight. What did you do with the boxes? Take them with you this morning?”
“They’re evidence. I put them in the attic for safekeeping.”
“I’m glad they’re out of sight. I’m starving. Will you take me to dinner? I’m afraid you still owe me a lunch.”
At the restaurant, they met several friends, but sat at a table for two. Rutledge was just as glad. The four people they had spoken with as they came in often included Meredith Channing in their dinner plans. He couldn’t sit there and listen to speculation about where she might be or why she was away so long. He’d told himself a hundred times to put her out of his mind. But it was harder to do than he’d ever imagined. The wound was still too raw.
Hamish’s voice, without warning, spoke from just behind him. “You willna’ walk away. It’s safer to love someone ye canna’ have. You willna’ have to tell her about me.”
Frances said, “A penny for your thoughts.” Stretching out her hand, she put a copper penny in front of his plate.
Collecting himself, he recognized the profile of Edward VII staring up at him and managed a smile. To gain time, he handed it back to her. “What else is there to think about? The Yard.”
She made a face. “Put it aside for tonight. Listen, the orchestra is starting to play. Talk to me, or I shall make a fuss until you dance with me.”
Laughing because she expected it, he cleared his mind of everything except for the ever-present Hamish and tried to pretend it was before the war and the golden summer of 1914 had lasted forever.
The next morning he went to the Yard early and found an envelope on his desk. Sergeant Gibson’s name was on the front, in care of the Yard. There was no return address.
Rutledge took out the single sheet of paper. I saw the request for information in the newspaper. Will you meet me? Just by St. Martin-in-the-Fields will do. 2:00?
It was unsigned.
The hunt was beginning. And he had a feeling he was the prey. But who was the hunter?
He walked out of the Yard at one-thirty and made his way to Trafalgar Square. He stood there for a quarter of an hour, surveying the people coming and going, trying to spot anyone looking for him as well.
At five minutes before two o’clock, he walked to the west door of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, its white facade bright in the afternoon sun.
He stood there until well after two o’clock, and no one came.
Giving it up, he turned and walked back toward the Yard. He was waiting at the corner to cross the street when someone came up behind him and said quietly, “Don’t turn around. You aren’t Sergeant Gibson. Who are you?”
“Inspector Rutledge. I put that request in the Times. Sergeant Gibson was merely the contact. What’s your name?”
“No, I told you, don’t turn. In exchange for what I know, I want one thing. Immunity from prosecution for desertion. Can you arrange that?”
A break in the traffic was coming, but Rutledge stayed where he was.
“I don’t have the authority to make such an arrangement.”
“Then you don’t need to speak to me.”
“Wait!” Rutledge said quickly. “I’ll do what I can. Give me twenty-four hours.”
“I’ll give you until dark. Come back alone. I know what you look like now. If you try to see me, it’s finished.”
“Very well.”
Another break in the traffic came.
“Go,” urged the voice behind him. And Rutledge crossed the street with six or eight other people hurrying on their way. Even before he reached the far side, he knew he was alone.
The encounter had yielded several pieces of information. He had met a deserter, for one. And he was absolutely certain the Army wouldn’t offer immunity in exchange for information that would bring a murder inquiry to an end. And finally, he hadn’t recognized the voice at his back.
Was it a trick? A deserter seizing the opportunity to help himself ? The man claimed he knew Sergeant Gibson. Or had someone actually come forward and been clever enough to ensure he himself wasn’t tricked?
Rutledge tried to replay the voice in his mind. Low, but not deep. Most certainly male. It reminded him of Ben Willet’s, the same timbre, the same cultured overtones. Willet was a good mimic, the voice of a gentleman coming naturally to him. But he was also dead, and his sister had identified the body.
Rutledge sent a message round to his sister’s house to say that he would be late. And then he went to see Major Russell.
“Someone contacted me,” he said as he came into the bedroom. “It wasn’t such a wild idea after all.”
Russell said quickly, “Who was it?”
Handing him the envelope, Rutledge said, “Do you recognize the handwriting?”
After studying it for a moment, Russell said, “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”
“Would you know Findley’s hand? Or Fowler’s?”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anything in Finley’s handwriting. And it isn’t Justin’s. His had more of a slant to it.”
Rutledge told him what had transpired, ending with, “He asked for immunity from prosecution for desertion.”
“Good luck to him,” Russell said. “The Army will never agree to that. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn it’s someone from Furnham. You did see to it that they knew about the Times? All right then. I’ve dealt with soldiers from isolated villages. Some of them were so homesick they would have deserted if they hadn’t been too afraid to try.”
Rutledge himself had dealt with raw troops facing battle for the first time. “Or it’s a trap?” he said slowly. “I’m to meet him again when it’s dark.”
“What would he have done,” Russell asked, “if this man Gibson had met him? He’d have been prepared to put him off, wouldn’t he, and make certain that you would come.”
It was an interesting point.
“Take someone with you,” Russell added. “That’s my advice.”
“I’ll ask Constable Greene. I can’t risk taking Gibson with me.”
“No need to frighten him off. Have a service revolver, do you? The clinic took mine away. Carry it with you.”
“Good advice.” But policemen were not expected to go armed.
Later when Rutledge asked Constable Greene to accompany him to the meeting, the man said, “It’s my wife’s birthday, sir. I don’t think she’d forgive either of us.”
Constable Henry had already left for the day, and Sergeant Gibson was closeted with the Acting Chief Superintendent.
Rutledge left the Yard on his own, walking through the quiet streets back to St. Martin-in-the-Fields.
He wasn’t sure what he was facing. Still, he hadn’t brought his revolver. He would take his chances without it.
Arriving at the church, the first thing he saw was a white square of paper pinned to the door.
Taking it down, he walked to the pool of light cast by a streetlamp, unfolded the half sheet, and tried to read what was written there.
The words were a black scrawl. Not at all the neat writing on
the first message. He thought, this must be the man’s true hand. Or else he’s apprehensive, afraid of a trap.
With Hamish uttering a warning in his mind, Rutledge finally deciphered the tangle of words. Walk another quarter mile north, and I’ll find you.
Whoever it was, he was being very careful. But then the price for desertion was death.
Rutledge continued north, out of the square, coming finally to a dark street where trees blocked the light of streetlamps, casting long black shadows across the road. Half seen beneath one of the trees stood a tall slim man in country clothing, a cap pulled down over his eyes.
He was suddenly reminded of Furnham, when he had waited under another tree, this one by the bend of the road until three men with sacks over their shoulders had come up from the river. He’d been alone, tense, prepared for trouble, then had watched it walk directly toward him and knew that he stood no chance if he was caught there.
Rutledge understood what the other man was experiencing, knew the price he’d paid to come to this meeting. Stopping some ten feet from him, Rutledge waited for him to speak. All he could see was the pale glimmer of a face beneath the cap but no distinguishing features.
“They aren’t offering me anything, are they?” the man said after a moment, resignation in his quiet voice.
“I’m sorry. No.” He could see a faint lift of his shoulders as the man accepted the bald truth.
“Well. I’ll have to take my chances, won’t I?”
“I’ll do what I can. But I make no promises. Still, I need whatever information you can give me. I can’t find a killer without it.”
There was a pause, as if the man was considering how to begin. Finally he said, “All right. My name is Harold Finley. I worked at River’s Edge until it was closed and stayed on as caretaker until I was called up.”
Rutledge stayed where he was, waiting for an errant breeze to shift the leaves a little and show him the man’s face. It had nearly happened once already.
“I came back to the house twice after that. When my training was finished and I was given leave. And later in the summer of 1915, when I’d recovered from my wounds. I knew Justin Fowler was already in England, so I wasn’t surprised to find the terrace doors open. There was no one inside, and I decided to walk down to the water, and I stood there for a while. I was beginning to wonder where Fowler had got to, and just in case he’d brought in supplies at the kitchen landing, I thought I might go along and help him carry boxes up to the house. Do you know where it is, this landing?”
