The Confession (28 page)

It was a fisherman named Jessup who had tossed the logbook overboard so that no one else would realize that this was a plague ship. The last survivor on board had written there,

All dead but me. I still don't know who brought the plague aboard. I do fear we stayed too long in Rotterdam. I watched them die, and now I find I can't face such an end alone and without comfort. If you find this, whoever you are, know that I chose self-destruction. I pray God will forgive me. But if I'm damned for it, then the devil must look for me in the sea.

So many more dying in Furnham all because of one man's greed. But it was what the villagers did next that was unthinkable.

The rector had gathered all the plague victims in the tiny church and was nursing them there, setting the dead outside on the porch, trying to contain the sickness as best he could, dependent on food and fresh water brought to him by villagers and left in the churchyard. The man had worked day and night to save as many souls as possible.

And outside, by the harbor, the man who had destroyed the logbook harangued the remaining people of the village, telling them that the only way to stop the spread of the plague was to burn it out. In the end, they collected wood and torches, blocked the exits from the church, and set it afire. The rector and the victims inside had screamed for mercy, but there was none. The church burned to the ground.

No one knew whether it was God or the devil who answered their prayers as the church burned, prayers that the plague would end and everyone else would be spared.

There were no more victims.

But Jessup, watching his own wife burn alive, hanged himself within a year on a tree near the harbor, in plain sight of the villagers. A pact was made then never again to speak of what had happened. It was Jessup's defiant son who had renamed the inn for the doomed ship. No one had dared to change it again.

Chapter 22

A
fter breakfast with his sister, Rutledge went to the Yard.

She had commented as she poured his tea that he looked tired and asked if he'd slept well.

He had lain awake most of the night for fear he would have a nightmare and start up screaming, frightening Frances. But he smiled and said, “Chief Superintendent Bowles has had a heart attack. The Yard is tense, waiting to see if he'll return when he's stronger or if we'll have a new Chief Superintendent. We all feel it.”

“I'm sure that's true. You and he never got on, did you? Well, I hope the new man, if there is going to be one, is more sympathetic.”

When he walked into his office there was a message on his desk from Gibson, and attached to it was a cutting of the request for information from the
Times
.

Rutledge read it again, then set it aside. He wasn't sure now what sort of response there would be. He doubted that anyone in Furnham read the
Times,
and he would have to take a copy to them. With what he knew now, he hoped he could finally clear up the murder of Ben Willet. He had a motive now and clear suspects. As for the attack on Russell, it would most certainly no longer be an inquiry for the Yard. It would be turned over to the Tilbury police, now that the Major had survived. The other deaths—if there were others—would have to remain unsolved.

Hamish said, “It willna' be resolved.”

True enough, Rutledge thought. Tilbury had never solved the disappearance of Mrs. Russell, just as Colchester had never solved the murders of Justin Fowler's parents.

Still, even though he couldn't quarrel with the evidence before him, he was not satisfied.

Another question was what Cynthia Farraday would do when Willet's new novel failed to arrive, even though he'd promised her a copy. Would she raise the matter with his Paris publishers?

He had no more than formulated the thought when there was a tap at his door and Constable Henry stuck his head in.

“A Miss Farraday to see you, sir. And she appears to be very upset.”

He wasn't surprised. He hadn't told her about the fabricated article, just in case Fowler tried to contact her.

She came in, her face flushed with anger, and he thought too that she had been crying.

“You didn't have the courtesy to come and tell me,” she said at once. “I was left to read the news in the
Times
. I would have gone to him, I would have been with him when he died.”

“I'm sorry. There has been no opportunity to tell you.”

“Did he suffer? Who shot him? When? Where? I don't know anything!”

He had been standing when she came in, and he offered her a chair. “Sit down. Let me tell you what I know.”

She did as he asked, but her eyes were still blazing with her fury, and he felt a surge of regret for what he was about to do.

He told her how he had finally learned that Russell had gone to Essex. “And I left the church before they could find me there listening. I went on to River's Edge and waited for him to come. But he didn't, and I believed that Morrison had relented and let him spend the night at the Rectory. The next morning I spoke to Nancy Brothers, who told me he hadn't come back to the church ruins, and I went myself to be sure. From there I drove to the Rectory. But neither Morrison nor Russell came to the door. I was just turning toward River's Edge when I saw Morrison coming from that direction. He'd been looking for Russell as well, and together we went back to the house to search more carefully.”

He glossed over discovering what he'd thought was Russell's dead body and the difficulty of carrying the wounded man to the motorcar. He said only, “We found him on one of the marsh tracks. We managed to get him to a London hospital, Morrison and I. I don't believe he ever regained consciousness.”

“And you don't know who shot him—or why?”

“We've had very little luck. That's why we asked the public for assistance.”

“And you think anyone in Furnham has even
seen
this article?” She shook her head in disbelief. “First Ben. And now Wyatt.” She angrily brushed away a tear. “And so far you've done nothing to stop it. Nothing at all. Scotland Yard, for heaven's sake! And no better than that poor drunken constable in Furnham. Do you realize that I'm alone now? They're all gone. Aunt Elizabeth. Justin. Ben. My parents. It's a frightening feeling, I can tell you. And you didn't have the courage or the decency to come to me and break the news yourself.”

She began to cry then. He handed her his handkerchief as she fumbled for her own. She rejected it, as if to take it would be to forgive him.

“I can only say how sorry I am.”

“Would you have come at all?” she asked finally.

“I was hoping to reach you before you'd seen the
Times
.”

“I don't believe you.” She rose to go. “Where do I find the undertaker who took Wyatt's body? I shall deal with the arrangements myself.”

It was the one thing he hadn't planned for.

“The hospital is sending that information to us. I'll see that you get it.”

“Just as you saw to it that I was informed before the
Times
arrived this morning?”

“No, Miss Farraday. I'll see that you know in good time. If I must send Constable Henry to you with the information.”

Turning toward the door, she said, “You've brought me only unhappiness. When I thought you were Wyatt's solicitor, I liked you. And then you tried to follow me home, and I was frightened. Since then, nothing has gone the way it should. I hold you accountable.”

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 wisdom 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.”