The Confession (14 page)

“Murder? What are you talking about?” she demanded. “Who
else
was murdered?”

“He told me his name was Wyatt Russell, and that he was dying of cancer. He wanted to clear his conscience by confessing to a murder. I asked him who had been killed, and he told me it was Justin Fowler.”

She had not returned to her chair after handing him the postal card, standing by the window instead. Putting a hand to her forehead, she began to pace, clearly agitated.

“Why would he do that? He hardly knew who Justin was. And why pretend he was Wyatt? No, you must be mistaken—or lying.”

“It has been suggested that the morphine he'd been given for his pain might have caused hallucinations.”

“No. I still refuse to believe you.”

“I wasn't sure what to make of his confession, myself. And so I asked him to join me for lunch. We dined at The Marlborough. And I was never shown any reason to doubt that he was Wyatt Russell. He carried off the masquerade to perfection. Now I ask myself why it should be necessary.”

“Even if it was true—and I don't for a moment believe that it could be—how did Ben even know that murder had been done? I don't think he ever went back to Essex. He couldn't have been a witness to something. If he had, surely he'd have confided in me. It makes no sense at all.”

“You said yourself that you hadn't bothered to correspond with him during the war. Your duty done. Why should he feel compelled to tell you about Russell? Why would he wish to upset you?”

She took a deep breath, making an effort to steady herself and think clearly. “He must have been out of his mind. I knew he was ill, but not that ill. You don't understand. When I first met him, Ben smelled of fish, and there was no future for him but going out in the boats. Wyatt would have seen nothing in him that required more than a polite nod, if that. But I did. And I did something about it too.”

“If what he confessed to isn't true, then where is Justin Fowler? If he's alive and well, we can put an end to that part of the inquiry.”

She was silent for a time, then said softly, “I wish I knew.”

“Did they quarrel? Fowler and Russell?”

“If they were going to quarrel, it would have been before the war.”

“Hard feelings don't always go away.”

“Well,” she said tartly, “the cause of any quarrel went away.”

“You were free to go only because Mrs. Russell disappeared.”

She shivered. “When I came to live at River's Edge, I was frightened by the marshes. I didn't like the whispering when the wind rustled the dry heads of the grasses. I wouldn't sleep with my window open, for fear that one day I'd be able to hear the whispers clearly, and I'd know they were talking about me. After a few weeks I grew accustomed to the sound and thought no more about it. But when Aunt Elizabeth disappeared, I dreamed that night that the whisperers had come for her. They'd called her out into the river. I've never told anyone that, but it was the main reason I left so abruptly. The other was that I didn't want to be alone in the house with Wyatt and Justin. They were so certain they were in love with me. If there had been other young women in the vicinity of River's Edge, they'd have ignored me. But there weren't. And so I lost my only home for a second time.”

“Is it possible Wyatt Russell killed his mother? That her disappearance was his doing?”

“Oh, my God,” she said, sitting down as if her limbs refused to support her. “No.” She regarded him. “Even for a policeman you have an extraordinarily nasty mind.”

He smiled grimly. “As a policeman, I have seen more than one's imagination could invent.”

“Yes. I suppose you have.”

“I'm surprised, given your years there, that you care so much for River's Edge.”

“I loved the house. I'd have married Wyatt just to be mistress of it. But the thought of living with him happily ever after was too much. Even as a price for River's Edge.”

“Could money have been involved?” he asked bluntly. “Was that why Russell was so intent on marrying you? And if you spurned him, perhaps he needed his inheritance sooner rather than later.”

Frowning, she said, “I was left with a comfortable income. But the Russells didn't need my money. Besides, my inheritance was in trust until I was five and twenty—to protect me from fortune hunters, or so I was told. By five and twenty, I would no doubt be sensible enough not to run off with the dancing master.”

He smiled. “And how many dancing masters did you know?”

“Not one. I thought I might do better by going to London. It was said to be awash with dancing masters.”

“What became of Justin Fowler, after the war?”

“You're the inspector from Scotland Yard,” she retorted, suddenly tired of him or his questions. “I'm sure you will find him without my help.” She walked to the door and held it open. “After all, you found me.”

He stood as well.

“You know your way. Good day, Inspector.”

Leaving the house, he wasn't sure what to make of Cynthia Farraday. She reminded him of quicksilver. Just when one thought one had it within one's grasp, it was gone, elusive and tantalizing.

“And deadly?” Hamish reminded him.

Chapter 11

I
t was after six o'clock when he reached the little village of St. Margaret's, in Oxfordshire.

The church tower rose above the surrounding houses and shops, a sharp tower, as if to remind people of their duty to God. The clinic, he discovered by stopping at the tiny post office, was on the far side of town. It had once been a graceful country house, with a Dower House across from the main gates. Easily found, the postmistress had assured him.

And it was.

The Dower House was a mellow pink brick, and the late afternoon sun gilded the windows. Faced with white stone, it was set back from the road in a stand of trees, gardens following the short drive up to the door.

Across the road, the contrast was pointed. The gates to the main house were open, and he drove through what had once been a well-landscaped park. Now the rhododendrons were overgrown and dead boughs showed through the leathery leaves like the gray ghosts of other summers. The house too had seen better days, the gardens no longer luxuriant, the window shades uneven, giving the impression that no one had noticed how snaggletoothed this might appear to a visitor.

On the lawns were stone benches scattered here and there, some in the sun, others well shaded. None of them was occupied at present.

He left the motorcar to one side of the door and saw that it, like the gates, stood open.

Hamish said, “They're no' afraid that anyone will escape.”

A table stood just inside, in what had been the hall, and a middle-aged woman in a nurse's uniform sat there, sorting charts and patient folders.

She looked up as he came in, and smiled. “Good afternoon. Have you come to visit any particular patient?”

“I'd like to speak to Matron, if I may. Ian Rutledge.”

“She's just gone into her office. I'll show you.”

And she led him down the passage. At one time the spacious rooms had been divided into wards, but the thin partitions had been removed. Only the pale lines on the scratched and scuffed parquet floors marked where they had been.

Matron's office had been a morning room at one time. Now it was filled with filing cabinets while books crowded one another on a shelf. The desk was utilitarian and well used. An older woman with graying hair was seated behind it, and she looked up as he was shown in, then rose as the nursing sister gave his name.

“Mr. Rutledge,” she said, pleasantly. “I don't believe I've had the pleasure of seeing you here before.”

“I've come to visit a patient of yours, one Wyatt Russell. But before I go in to him, I was hoping you could tell me something about his condition.”

“Are you a relative, Mr. Rutledge?”

He could see that she was reluctant to divulge any information.

“I'm from Scotland Yard, Matron.” He took out his identification and passed it across the desk to her.

“Do sit down, Mr. Rutledge.” She sat as well, then examined his identification before handing it back to him. “I should like to hear why you are calling on Major Russell. Have you come to ask for his assistance? Or is he accused of something?”

“I don't know how to answer you, Matron. The inquiry is in its early stages. There was a man found dead in the Thames.” He gave her the date when Ben Willet had been pulled from the river. He knew, from the twitch of a muscle at the corner of her eyes, that he had touched a nerve. “The problem was, earlier on, this man had given Scotland Yard his name in another matter—but it was false. The name he gave was Wyatt Russell.”

“I see. But why should he do that? Had he ever met Major Russell, do you know?”

“I can't tell you how well they knew each other. Slightly, at a guess. But they both lived in Essex, within a few miles of each other. They most certainly were aware of each other's existence.”

He remembered suddenly something that he should have spoken to Miss Farraday about. “As it happens, this man was one of the search party trying to find Mrs. Russell, the Major's mother, when she disappeared in 1914.”

“Ah. I see.” She set the file she had been working on as he entered to one side of her desk and folded her hands. “Major Russell,” she began, seeming to choose her words with care, “has a problem with his memory. It is—to put it bluntly—imperfect.”

“Shell shock?” he asked, hearing Hamish loud in his mind.

Please, dear God,
he prayed.
Let it not be that.

And his prayer was heard.

“Not shell shock, no. He was severely wounded. And while he can function in so many ways that we consider normal—button his clothes, tie his shoelaces, comb his hair, count his money, carry on a seemingly intelligent conversation—he has difficulty with the past. He recalls it in very irregular and sometimes inaccurate ways. For instance, he told me two days ago that he was being called up again, that his train was to leave in a quarter of an hour, and he couldn't find his uniform. He was quite upset, as you can imagine. And he wouldn't believe us that the war had ended two years earlier. Another example of his confusion—he was allowed a leave, actually a test of his ability to cope in strange surroundings. This was two months ago, you understand. We sent someone with him to oversee his care. A valet, if you will, or a batman. Actually, this person was a trained orderly, and it was his duty to keep an eye on the Major for us.” She picked up a pen, looked at it, then put it down on the desktop again. “For the first week, he was a model patient. We were greatly encouraged. And then he came home late from a walk in such a state that we brought him back.”

“And he hasn't been away from the clinic since that time?”

She reached for the pen again, her eyes hidden from him. “We have not sent him out to live on his own since then. No.”

But the door to the clinic stood open, and the gates as well. Would Matron call in the local police if Major Russell—or one of her other patients for that matter—went missing?

Not, he thought, unless they were on a regimen of medicines and their health was put at risk. Or they posed a danger to themselves or to society.

He thanked her for seeing him, and asked again if he could interview Major Russell.

She told him that he could, and rang a little bell on her desk. There was a tap at the door, and a young nursing sister asked, “Yes, Matron?”

“Take Mr. Rutledge to visit Major Russell, if you please.”

And then he was in the passage following the young sister.

They entered a room that had once, he thought, been the billiard room. But there were chairs and small tables set about it now, and men were engaged in board games or cards. A few simply stared into space, their hands dangling over the arms of their chairs, their minds disengaged from the present.

Hamish said, “Ye see yoursel' still in their faces.”

He did. And the clinic where he'd been kept until his sister had intervened and had him transferred to the care of Dr. Fleming. In that first clinic men who were shell-shocked screamed at night and sat staring at nothing all through the long day. Dr. Fleming had taken a different approach, dragging out of unwilling patients the reasons for their withdrawal from themselves and the world. Rutledge had had to be pulled off the doctor after he had confessed to the death of Corporal Hamish MacLeod, ready to kill the man who had made him face his demons.

In spite of the warmth of the summer day that filled this familiar setting, he felt cold.

The sister went across to one man, broad-shouldered, fair-haired, in every way seemingly normal, and touched him lightly on the arm. “Major Russell? You have a visitor, sir.” He raised empty eyes to her face. She turned and smiled at Rutledge. “If he becomes tired or anxious, you'll let one of the staff know?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Sister.” He pulled an empty chair nearer to where Russell was sitting. “Good afternoon, Major. My name is Rutledge.”

Chapter 12

R
ussell turned a little, to see him better. It was then that Rutledge realized that one side of the man's head was slightly misshapen, as if the skull had been damaged. His hair nearly concealed the difference.

“Do I know you?” he asked, frowning as he studied Rutledge's face. With a nod, the sister walked away.

“I don't believe we've met. I was on the Somme.” He gave his rank and regiment.

“Were you? Patient here, are you?”

“No. I'm presently an Inspector at Scotland Yard. Someone came to my office not long ago, and I believe he knew you. Ben Willet, lately of Furnham, Essex.”

“Cynthia's pet. What did he want?”

“He was concerned about Justin Fowler. In fact, he rather thought that Fowler was dead.”

“He is. Died during the war as I remember. What about it?”

“Do you have any recollection of where he died?”

“I'm not in my dotage,” Russell snapped irritably. “In 1915 or thereabouts.”

“In France?”

“How do I know? I was busy as hell trying to keep myself alive, and my men.”

“There was some mention of the fact that he might have been murdered.”

“Wouldn't surprise me. He was a self-centered bastard. Probably shot in the back by one of his own men. I never cared for him, you know.”

“I understand you were married just before you went to France.”

“I was. She died in childbirth. My son with her.” He shook his head. “Do you know, I can hardly remember her face. I try sometimes. There's a photograph in my room, but I don't know if it's my wife or someone else.”

Rutledge reached into his pocket and drew out the locket. “I believe this may have belonged to your mother?”

Major Russell put out his hand and touched the locket dangling from its gold chain. But he didn't take it or open it. “Never saw it before. Are you sure?”

“The maid, Nancy, appears to think so.”

“Nancy. The quiet one. I can't quite bring back her face either.”

“How recently were you in London?”

“Last week? No, it must have been earlier than that.” He tried to think, his brow furrowed. “I'm sorry. I'm sometimes confused about dates.”

“Do you remember walking along the Thames?”

“No, I don't. But that doesn't mean I didn't. Or that I did.”

“Perhaps you were walking east of the Tower, rather than nearer Westminster Bridge?” It was east of the Tower that the watermen believed Willet had gone into the river.

“Yes, thank you, I remember now. There was an accident on Tower Bridge. It was blocked by a lorry that had overturned, spilling marrows all across the road. I remember the blood. The driver was bleeding. You couldn't see his face for the blood. I walked away. I'd watched enough men die.”

“Was Willet there as well?”

“Ben Willet? No, he was waiting for me on the other side of the bridge. I didn't want to watch him die, either.”

“Why should he be dying? Was he involved in the accident?”

“Damn it, I told you he was on the far side of the bridge, waiting.”

“Did you have your service revolver with you?”

“I always carry it with me. Every officer does.”

“But the war is over.”

“Damn it, are you calling me a liar?”

“Not at all. I'm trying to establish a clear picture of events. It's my duty, although I grant you it can be tiresome at times. You had your service revolver with you, then. Did you use it that night?”

“I'd have liked to shoot that wretched lorry driver and put him out of his misery. His head was bleeding, all down his face. I know what that means. Doesn't stand a chance, poor bastard. They drilled holes in my skull. Did they tell you? Because the brain was swelling.”

“Ben Willet was suffering from a cancer,” Rutledge went on, trying to bring Russell back to that night on the bridge.

“That's right. He didn't want a slow death. But he couldn't bring himself to finish it. His father was strict, you see. A religious man.”

“He wanted you to help him die?”

It wasn't an answer Rutledge had considered.

“Yes, didn't I tell you? I was to meet him that night. On the far side of the bridge. I'd run into him in Piccadilly, he was on his way somewhere, someone was waiting. But he asked if I would mind having dinner with him. There was something he wished to ask me. I had to rid myself of my minder—”

Only half aware of what he was doing, Russell's fingers had been fiddling with the locket, which was still dangling from Rutledge's outstretched hand.

And then it opened without warning, swinging around to face him. He stared at it for a moment, then looked up at Rutledge.

“What the hell are you doing with her photograph? You've been lying to me all along, haven't you? My mother's locket be damned.” His face was suffused, rage flashing in his eyes, turning the blue almost incandescent.

Surging to his feet, he overturned his chair. The crash startled the others in the room, and they looked up in alarm.

“I thought this talk of London and Willet was nothing but a trick. You stay away from her, do you hear me? She's worth ten of you.” And before Rutledge could stop him, he'd flung the locket across the room and strode swiftly out the door.

One of the card players was on his feet as well, shouting at Rutledge.

As he listened to Russell's boots pounding down the uncarpeted passage, Rutledge managed to find the locket where it had fallen among a collection of canes in a porcelain stand. He reached the door just as the nursing sister came rushing in, almost colliding with him.

“What did you do?” she demanded, and behind her Matron was saying, “I heard someone running.”

Rutledge pushed them aside. “It's Russell. I think he left the house.”

Several other nursing sisters were coming from other parts of the clinic, and he had to dodge them as he ran.

Someone had thought to ring a bell somewhere, the clanging almost earsplitting. Reaching the door, he glanced up to see the bell hanging in a window above the door, and there was an orderly vigorously pulling on the rope.

“That way!” he shouted down to Rutledge, pointing toward the trees of the park.

Rutledge followed the direction he indicated, almost certain that he could hear someone crashing about in the straggling undergrowth. But he reached the road without finding the Major.

Hamish said, “He's gone to ground.”

Rutledge swore. He hadn't opened the necklace on purpose. It had been a fluke that it had clicked open at all.

He could hear Matron giving orders as the bell stopped clanging.

Rutledge crossed the road and went into the garden of the Dower House. He circled the house, then looked into the sheds behind the kitchen, swinging the doors wide, before turning back to the road.

“He couldna' have got far on foot,” Hamish said.

“I should have been prepared.” But he knew, even as he said it, that there had been no warning. Whatever had stirred in the dark recesses of the Major's mind, it had exploded into violent action.

“Ye ken, he mentioned the lass's name earlier, and nothing happened.”

Cynthia's pet . . .

But a name was very different from a photograph in the hands of another man.

They searched until the sunset colors faded into lavender, purple, and then deep blue, and there was no light to see under the trees. Matron, standing in the doorway, said, “I warned you that his mental state was uncertain.”

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.