The Confession (30 page)

And that was a lie, his voice betraying him once more.

“Then why was it never found? Even the bones?”

“It was never found? Fowler's body?” There was genuine consternation now.

“Mrs. Russell also died at River's Edge. Who killed her?”

“I wish I knew. We searched until we were stumbling over our feet, and still we kept looking, and there was no sign of her. I've had a long time to think about it since then. I knew she had to be dead. They whispered suicide, but she wouldn't have killed herself. It had to be murder. Was it the same person?” The tension in his voice was mirrored in the way he waited for the answer.

“It could very well be. If he'd taken Fowler's first family from him, why not the second? But we won't have an answer, will we, until we've found him.”

“Then he's killed all of us, hasn't he? Except for Cynthia. Except for Miss Farraday,” he corrected himself. “That's all I can give you. It's all I know. Just—find him. For the love of God, find him.” He waited, expecting something from Rutledge. When it didn't come, he simply walked away.

Rutledge let him go. But when he was nearly across the road and just into the shadows of the trees on the far side, yet still within hearing, Rutledge called in a normal voice, “Fowler?”

And before he could stop himself, the man began to turn. He said quickly, “My name is Finley. I told you.”

“I think not.”

“I didn't kill them—” he protested angrily, taking a few steps forward. The whites of his eyes were stark beneath the bill of his cap.

“I'm arresting you for the murder of the people who gave you shelter and love when you were a victim yourself. Did you kill Mrs. Russell and her son?”

“No. You can't—I'll be hanged—it's not true,” he began, not ten feet away, and Rutledge felt himself tense as he moved even closer. “My name is Finley.” He broke off as an older couple came out of one of the houses behind them, and turned to go the other way.

Rutledge waited until they were out of earshot.

“I suspect Harold Finley is dead. And you survived because he was.”

“You're wrong. I didn't have to come, I didn't have to meet you. I did it for the Major's sake.”

“You aren't a very good liar, Fowler. What really happened at River's Edge?”

The sudden shift in his weight betrayed him, and Rutledge said sharply, “If you run, I'll find you. No matter how long it takes. And when I do, I'll hand you over to the Army.”

“I didn't want them to die,” the man cried. “Dear God, do you think—it's why I ran. So that it would stop. But it didn't, did it? Whoever is doing this finally came for Wyatt too, didn't he? And I couldn't let Miss Farraday be the next victim.”

“If that's the truth, come with me, we'll find somewhere to talk. I give you my word I won't arrest you, if in turn you'll give me the truth.”

Rutledge expected Fowler to refuse. And then he changed his mind, almost against his will, a part of him needing relief from the burden he'd carried too long.

Finally, to Rutledge's surprise, he said, “Where?”

Russell was in his flat. And Frances was at the house. “Let me take you to Miss Farraday's house. It isn't public. You can leave anytime you like.”

“No. Anywhere but there.”

“Then name a place.”

“There's a pub some distance from here.”

“Too public.”

“I expect you're right.”

“My motorcar is not far from the Yard. We can sit in it.”

Fowler considered the risks and finally said, “Yes, all right. But I need another guarantee, that you won't ask the name I now live under.”

“Very well.”

Hamish was already questioning whether Fowler would make it that far. Before they reached the motorcar there would be a dozen opportunities to disappear.

But the man followed without a word, and under the brighter lamps by Trafalgar Square, Rutledge could see his haggard face and haunted eyes.

Before they reached the motorcar, Fowler said, “How did I betray myself?”

“You weren't shocked when I told you about the murders of your parents. No one else knew. Mrs. Russell had kept it a secret from the other two children. It wasn't likely she would confide in her driver. And you said, ‘He's killed all of us.' Not all of them.”

Fowler swore softly. “I thought I could carry it off.”

They reached the motorcar, and when Fowler stepped in and shut the door, he put his head back against the seat. “I'm so very tired,” he said, his eyes closed. “I thought it would never end.”

“Where did you start lying?” Rutledge asked after giving him some time to collect himself.

“It's true. Most of what I told you. Only it was I who arrived early that morning to find Finley dying down by the water's edge. He'd been shot in the back of the head. I wasn't sure what he said to me—it could just as well have been a gurgle of pain. But it sounded very much like
brother
. I didn't know if Finley had any brothers. And then I remembered that Wyatt had been a little jealous of me. We were the same height and build, Harold and I. A split second later, I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“There's something I never told anyone. Not even Mrs. Russell or the police. While I was in hospital recovering from the stab wounds, there were messages from my parents' friends, our neighbors, clients, general well-wishers. All of it very kind. The police and my solicitors opened them at first, to be sure they wouldn't be upsetting. After the first weeks, realizing that the messages were actually comforting, they just let me open them as they arrived. A week before I was released, there was one with just two lines on the page.” He stopped, trying to steady his voice.

“What did it say?”

A constable came toward the motorcar, and Fowler tensed. But the man walked on by and went inside the Yard.

“ ‘He was my father and the woman with him was a whore, and you're my bastard half-brother. I'm not finished. Wherever you are, I will find you.' ”

“No signature?”

“Nothing. I knew one day he'd come for me. That it was only a matter of time. And so I stayed close to River's Edge. But I never expected him to attack the others. By the time Aunt Elizabeth went missing, I'd been to Cambridge, and I'd convinced myself that it had been a vicious prank by someone, because you see, nothing ever happened. It had been an empty threat from the start. A hoax that had haunted me, shaped my life. I didn't
want
to believe he'd killed Aunt Elizabeth.”

“Go back to the day you found Finley's body.”

“I did the unthinkable. I stripped Finley, put my uniform on his body, and shoved him into the river. I expected him to float down to where the fishermen would find him and report me dead. I started walking, and I didn't stop until I was too exhausted to go any farther. That's why I realized I couldn't return to France when my leave ended. If I did, I'd have to explain about Finley and how he came to be wearing my uniform and carrying my papers. On the other hand, if I simply disappeared, by the time Finley was spotted in the river, he'd be unrecognizable. And whoever was out there, stalking us, would think it was finished. There's be no point, would there, in killing Wyatt and Cynthia if I wasn't alive. And I was right. Nothing happened to them. When I saw that column in the newspaper, I had to do something. It had started again, you see.”

“Why do you think it stopped for five years? The killing?”

“I expect whoever he is, he was satisfied. And Wyatt stayed away. There was no temptation. No opportunity.”

“Did you know that Cynthia Farraday often went out to River's Edge for the day? She was there fairly often, I expect, and a perfect target.”

But he remembered—she borrowed a launch. There was no telltale motorcar outside the gates. Still, there could have been an encounter—it was only a matter of luck that she hadn't been seen by whoever watched the house.

“Dear God.” Fowler seemed to fold into himself, hunched over, almost as if he were in physical pain.

“Why didn't you tell the police what you suspected when Mrs. Russell vanished?”

Fowler roused himself to stare at Rutledge. “I told you. I hoped it was all my imagination. Besides, the Tilbury police didn't know about my past. I was afraid that if I told them, they'd think I'd run mad. The Colchester police were suspicious enough. In the beginning, if they could have shown that I'd killed my parents, they would have been very pleased. I was young, but not so young that I didn't understand where their questions were leading. If I'd reported a body at River's Edge, what do you think would have happened? I'd have been the chief suspect. I decided to let the fishermen report him for me. Four people dead, Rutledge, and I was present each time. What's more, I don't think Tilbury would have any better luck finding the killer than Colchester had done.”

“But they never reported a body.”

“Are you sure? Did you ask that man Nelson? The constable? They should have found him in the shallows. I'd emptied my pockets and put everything in his. I was in such a funk I forgot and left the pounds he was carrying and my own in the wallet.”

“How much money was there?”

“I don't know. I had almost fifty pounds with me because I was expecting to stay in a hotel in London for a few days. He could have had twenty or so. I cursed myself, I can tell you. That money would have made my disappearance a lot smoother. I dared not touch my inheritance.”

Had Jessup found the corpse—and just as his ancestor had done aboard
The Dragonfly,
had he taken the pounds and left the body in the water?

Jessup had much to answer for.

“You gave no thought to Finley's family?”

“He had none. That's why he went into service. But he was a decent chap, and I thought long and hard about what I was doing. He was still serving us, in a way. And if after the war, Wyatt reopened the house, he'd be all right. Safe.”

Rutledge remembered the man he'd seen at the landing. Looking. Waiting.

After a time he said, “Is there anyone—anyone at all—who could have been stalking your family before they were killed? Anyone you felt the slightest suspicion of ?”

“I was eleven.”

“Sometimes children see more clearly.”

“Do you think he would have taken that risk? That he'd be among the people the police interviewed?”

“I'll have to look through the statements the Colchester police took at the time. Meanwhile, what will you do? Where will you go? Is there a way to contact you?”

“I've made a life of sorts for myself. Perhaps not what I'd have wanted, if none of this had happened. But I was content. You can imagine what I felt when I read about Wyatt in the
Times
. My God, that was a shock, I can tell you. I had to make a choice then. I had to come forward.”

Hamish spoke suddenly in the stillness of the motorcar. “Do ye trust him?”

And Rutledge, weighing all the evidence, wasn't sure.

“I shall go to Colchester tomorrow and look for the statements. Meanwhile, there's something you should know.”

He told Fowler about Willet's visit to the Yard, the accusation he'd made, and his subsequent death.

“He said Wyatt had killed me? But how did he even know I was dead? You said my—the body was never found.”

“A good question.” Had Willet heard something, believed it, and later tried to do the right thing without involving his family? A fisherman's son, he had a strong connection to the men who lived by the water. He could have heard whispers.

“What are you going to do about me?” Fowler asked after a silence.

“If I ask you to testify, the Army will take you into custody.”

“Yes. I know.”

“Give me a way of reaching you. If I find something, I may need to contact you.”

“If you sent a letter to the Pipes Tobacco shop in Chester, addressed to Finley, it will eventually reach me.”

“Fair enough. It's late. I'll take you to a train if you like.”

“Thanks. I'd rather walk.” He got out, thanked Rutledge again, and then said, “I've never dealt with such hatred as this. Such evil. You must find him. You know that.”

Rutledge said, thinking about a burning church and the screaming victims inside, “Evil is always there. If we look for it.”

With a nod Fowler walked on. Rutledge watched him go, wondering if he'd done the right thing. Or if he'd made the worst mistake of his career.

In the end, as he started the motorcar, preparing to drive to his sister's house, he rather thought that he had done the only thing possible in the circumstances.

If he could ignore small-scale smuggling, he could ignore a case of desertion.

But he was still not certain about Fowler, even when he let himself into his sister's house and climbed the stairs to the room that had once been his.

Hamish said, “Ye didna' face murder when ye were eleven.”

Rutledge, hanging his clothes in the wardrobe and preparing for bed, tried to put himself in Fowler's shoes. How would he have felt if he'd been awakened in the night by a murderer, and then barely surviving himself, learned the next morning that his parents had already been killed with the same knife?

It didn't bear thinking about.

Chapter 23

W
hen Rutledge walked into the police station in Colchester, he found that Inspector Robinson was elsewhere investigating a housebreaking. The constable who had been summoned in the inspector's place didn't remember the Fowler case—he had come from Suffolk—and spent over an hour searching for it in the cellar archives.

“And you're quite certain, sir, that the Inspector is willing to allow you to read the file in his absence?”

“He's knows of Scotland Yard's interest in these murders.”

He directed Rutledge to a small interview room and ten minutes later reluctantly turned over the box containing the statements taken when Fowler's parents were killed.

It took Rutledge two hours to sort through the statements. Everyone had been interviewed. The staff in the house, Fowler's partner, the neighbors, Mr. Harrison, who represented the family, anyone who made deliveries to the house, from the milk van driver to the man who brought the post. Anyone who had worked on the grounds or in the house, from gardeners to painters to the chimney sweep and the coal man.

No one had seen or heard anything. No one knew of any trouble touching the family. The killer had come quietly, finished his work, and left, taking nothing, leaving nothing but death behind.

Hamish said, “If the wife had screamed, and one of the servants had come running, there would ha' been another murder.”

“Very likely. But I don't think the killer wanted that.”

He replaced the statements in the box and sorted quickly through the other pieces of evidence in the file. The postmortem report that graphically described the number and placement of the knife wounds in the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Fowler, indicating the savagery of the attack and commenting that Mrs. Fowler's survival for even a few hours after it had been nothing short of miraculous, although she hadn't regained consciousness. That was followed by a statement from the doctor who had treated Justin Fowler, describing the severity of his wounds and expressing concern about telling the boy that his parents were dead, suggesting that the police wait until he was out of danger.

A sergeant had meticulously made a list of all the personal correspondence found in Fowler's desk in the six months before the murders, and another had been compiled of clients he'd dealt with in the past six months. The police had been meticulous, even to keeping a list of those who had called at the hospital in the first few days after Justin had been rushed to Casualty.

And there it was.

A name he recognized.

Rutledge sat back in the chair, telling himself it had to be a coincidence. A faint echo of memory awoke, something that Inspector Robinson had told him. What's more, it explained why Mr. Waring hadn't been able to find the right name when he'd been questioned at the school. Another discordant fact had fit well into the whole now.

And other odd pieces began to fall into place, making a pattern.

He just might have found the connection after all.

Armed with this new knowledge, Rutledge asked to use the station's telephone and put in three calls to London.

When the last of these calls had been returned, Rutledge whistled under his breath.

Gladys Mitchell's son had been adopted when he was barely a year old—just about the time she met the young man who would later become the father of Justin Fowler. Ridding herself of an encumbrance in the hope of impressing a rich man? But it hadn't worked out the way she had planned. Meanwhile, the boy's new parents hadn't wanted to give him up. Still, they had sent him to the Charity School in London because he had had a scholarship there. They were too poor to do otherwise.

That much Rutledge had already worked out, but for the details.

What he had had no way of knowing was that Gladys Mitchell had become a matron at that same school, using the name Grace Fowler. Had the solicitor, Harrison, been aware of that? It was most certainly when she'd poisoned her son's mind against the elder Fowler and his family. The boy grew up to follow in his adoptive father's footsteps as a shoemaker, but he hadn't prospered. His adoptive mother—Gladys's sister—died soon after, followed within a year by her husband, and the boy, now a grown man, was penniless, unhappy, and in search of a new life. He had found it in an unexpected place.

Sitting down again at the table, Rutledge stared at the box of evidence in front of him. Hardly able to take it all in.

“Dear God,” he said aloud.

Behind him, Inspector Robinson replied, “He's not available, but I am. What have you found?” When Rutledge didn't answer straightaway, he said harshly, “It's my case. I remind you of that. The Yard hasn't charged you with this inquiry. You have your own.”

Rutledge turned as he collected the rest of the file and added it to the box. “Quite. I can't connect my murder to yours. I don't know why your killer should have shot my victim.” He rose and handed the box to Robinson. “I might add that your predecessor was a careful and thorough man. If anyone should have found this murderer, it was he. The only problem is, we aren't omniscient, are we? It's what gives the criminal an edge.”

Taking the box, Inspector Robinson said, “I don't appreciate your examining this file without speaking to me. What were you looking for?”

“Any tangible evidence that could be useful. A name, a coincidence, an irregularity, anything out of order.”

“If an answer comes of what you've discovered, I want to know.”

“There's no real proof, Robinson. Only a faint hope.” He was on his way to the door. “What I'm afraid of, if you want the truth, is that if I'm not careful, they will hang the wrong man. And even if I'm careful, that could still happen.”

Inspector Robinson was a zealot when it came to this particular crime, and there had to be some way of proving what he, Rutledge, suspected, without involving Justin Fowler or having him taken up for desertion. Rutledge didn't approve of what the man had done, refusing to go back to France. But that was a matter for Fowler's conscience.

He left then, faced with the dilemma of what to do with the information he had.

Wyatt Russell could probably tell him what he needed to know. But Russell hadn't seen his assailant. And Rutledge wasn't eager to put words in his mouth.

Who could answer his question?

Nancy Brothers?

When he came to the junction with the road to the Hawking River, he took it.

But halfway to Furnham, he changed his mind. Leave Nancy Brothers out of it. Go straight to Constable Nelson.

The rector was wheeling his bicycle along the road, on his way from Furnham to the Rectory. Rutledge slowed to keep pace with him.

“Back again, are you?” Morrison asked.

“I'm afraid so. Willet's death is still a mystery.”

“I thought you'd all but settled on Jessup.”

“In truth, I've yet to place him in London. But all in good time.”

They had reached the Rectory drive. Morrison went ahead and leaned his bicycle against the side of the cottage. “Come in. I'm making a pot of tea.”

Rutledge followed him inside and walked to the window to look out as Morrison brought down the teapot and filled it with cold water.

“I need more information. I considered speaking to Nancy Brothers or Constable Nelson. It's possible you can help me as well.”

“If I can.”

“When did you take up the living at St. Edward's? Were you here before Cynthia Farraday came to live at River's Edge?”

“I don't believe there was a priest here then. There hadn't been since 1902, I think it was. I refused the living twice myself before my bishop convinced me it was my duty to bring God back to this benighted place. Or words to that effect. He's dead now. I often wonder what he would have to say about my dealings with the people of Furnham. I'm not the most successful shepherd, I grant you, but this is not the general run of flock.”

Rutledge laughed. “What about Nelson? When did he come to Furnham?”

“About five years before the war, I should think. 1908? 1909? But you were asking me about Cynthia Farraday. I've told you most everything I can think of. Is there anything in particular?”

“I've spoken to her a number of times, and I've begun to think that she's still in love with Justin Fowler. She refuses to believe he's dead. She feels he must be among the missing. What she doesn't know—I didn't care to be the one to tell her—is that he's been listed as a deserter by the Army.”

Morrison's surprise was genuine. “Has he been, by God?”

Rutledge finished his tea. “Now I must beard Jessup in his den. Do you know where he lives?

“The house just past the bend in the road. On the right.”

But when Rutledge stopped in front of that cottage, he changed his mind. Reversing, he went instead to The Rowing Boat. It appeared to be closed, but he knocked at the door. There was no answer.

From there he drove to Abigail Barber's house. She came to the door, and as soon as she recognized him, she said, “My father and my brothers are dead. There's no more bad news to bring to me.”

“My apologies, Mrs. Barber. I need to ask you again. You had no word from your brother for months?”

“That's true. I expect he didn't want to tell us he was dying.” Her eyes filled at the memory. “He was so thin, lying there under that sheet. It broke my heart to see him.”

“Someone paid him a visit in London. The night before he died. He'd written a letter, and the visit must have been prompted by that.”

“He couldn't have written. Sandy would have told me. Nor would he have gone to London without me. Not if it was Ben he was seeing. He wouldn't have gone to London without me!”

“Your father was ill,” he reminded her.

“He would have taken me to see Ben. I'd have found someone to sit with my father. It would have been all right.”

He reminded her of the date again. “Was your husband away at that time?”

“No, of course he wasn't. Besides, there's the pub. He doesn't trust anyone else to manage it.”

“Your uncle, then.” When she hesitated, he added, “I know about France. It's not important.”

Her face wasn't good at hiding what was going through her mind. He had his answer. Jessup had been away. But where?

Mind reading couldn't put Jessup in London, and it was clear that Abigail Barber had no idea where her uncle had gone.

“He was in France,” she said finally. “He goes, sometimes.”

He thanked her and left.

“Now ye must ask the man himsel',” Hamish warned him. “Before yon lass asks him.”

“I'd have preferred not to. He's spoiling for a fight, and I'm not.”

“Aye, he is that.”

This time Rutledge walked up the path to Jessup's door. Before he could knock, Jessup opened it in his face.

“I saw you before, trying to gather your courage. I won't ask you in. It's my house, and I'm rather particular about who I invite to step across my threshold.”

“Yes, I rather thought you might be,” Rutledge said easily. “Where would you prefer to go instead? The strand there, where everyone in Furnham can watch you being taken into custody for obstructing the police in the course of their duties? Or shall we retire to the churchyard, where only the dead will be disturbed by your humiliation?”

Jessup measured his chances. They were nearly of a height, Rutledge slightly taller, while he himself was running to fat around the middle and could give Rutledge at least a stone.

Rutledge said, “You're wasting my time, Jessup.”

“Talk.”

“What did Ben Willet tell you in his last letter? That he was writing a book about
The Dragonfly
? About the plague and the burning of the church with a hundred souls inside? Is that why you went to London and killed him?”

Rutledge had prepared for any reaction. What he got was a frowning stare.

“What last letter? What do you mean, he was writing a book about
The Dragonfly
? God, if I'd known that I'd have killed him myself. Bloody coward. Are you sure? Damn it, he swore to me and to his father. He swore he would say nothing.” He was furiously angry, striking the frame of the door hard with the edge of his fist. “Is that why he was afraid to come home before Ned died? Did Abigail know this?”

“She did not. I don't know why he never told her about his books.”

“He's the one they were talking about in France,” Jessup said suddenly. “Not Ned. I thought they were putting us on. Georges and his son. They're bastards, but they get what we want. How did they know when we didn't? Besides, I thought they said the book was about smuggling.”

“They knew because the books were published in France under the name Edward Willet. Smuggling was in his second work.
Dragonfly
would have been his third.”

“If you're lying to me, I'll kill you.”

“Someone knew. Someone met him in London. There's a witness to the fact that he wrote that letter. The same witness can swear to the fact he met someone the night before he died.”

“I got no letter. He'd write to Sandy, not me. Or to Abigail.” His gaze moved toward the pub.

Looking up the street Rutledge saw Sandy Barber in the doorway of The Rowing Boat, watching them. He said, “Who found Mrs. Russell's body?”

“Found—she was never found.”

“But the locket was, wasn't it. Her locket.” He watched the man's eyes, and they gave Jessup away. “And who found Justin Fowler floating in the river and never reported it?”

Jessup looked toward Barber again. “Nobody.”

“You didn't want the police asking questions. That's why you didn't report the locket. Or Fowler's body. Who killed them, Jessup? Your merry band of smugglers? Or someone else?”

“Get the hell out of Furnham,” Jessup said through clenched teeth. “I'm warning you.”