The Confession (32 page)

Wheeling to examine the injured, he heard Barber say with an effort, “See to Jessup. I think I'll make it.” But his face was already pale with the pain, and he was clenching and unclenching a fist.

Jessup was still, and Rutledge bent over him. The shot had struck him in the stomach, but as Rutledge examined him, he said, “It's bad. I've seen worse. We need to get him to hospital as soon as possible.”

He turned to look at Barber's chest wound, but it was high enough that he said, “You're right. You'll live. With care.”

“Damn good thing he was a poor shot. That close? By rights we should all be dead.”

“A knife is his weapon,” Rutledge said grimly, busy doing what he could for both men, using whatever linens he could find in the cottage.

He got Barber into the motorcar, and the man said, “What will we do about the van? And there's my wife.”

“There's no time to worry about it. I'll deal with it later when I come back to Furnham.”

“And Morrison?”

“I'll leave him here until I can retrieve him. I don't want him in the motorcar.”

Jessup was a big man, and it was harder to carry him outside, but then he opened his eyes, appeared to know what Rutledge was trying to do, and managed to get himself into the seat, his face pale and clammy from the cost in pain.

Morrison was only just coming to his senses when Rutledge was tying his hands and feet, looping the ropes through the pair of open windows and back again. Standing to one side, he regarded his handiwork. There was no way for the man to free himself without ripping out the heavy boards that separated the two windows. He didn't think Jessup and Barber together could break them.

He took up the revolver—there was one shot left—and stowed it in the boot of his motorcar.

He drove carefully on the rutted road, avoiding the deeper holes where he could. Listening to the grunts of pain from Jessup and Barber, he could still hear the low growl of warning from Hamish, crowded from his accustomed place.

Rutledge tried to think what he had overlooked, and failed. Shutting out everything except making the best time he could, he concentrated on his driving. His elbow was hurting like the very devil, and every time the wheel shook in his hands over a particularly rough patch, he could feel the knifing pain. But he shut that out as well.

There was a Casualty Ward in Tilbury, accustomed to dealing with men injured on the docks. He walked in and asked a nursing sister for help with two men suffering from gunshot wounds. It was an unpleasant reminder of bringing Russell to a similar ward in London. There would have to be a retraction in the
Times
about that, Rutledge reminded himself ruefully. The newspaper wouldn't care for it, but he hoped Fowler would see it, wherever he was hiding.

He got the two fishermen inside, and a doctor arrived to examine both of them. He looked up at Rutledge. “How did this happen?”

“Apprehending a killer. These men were caught in the cross fire.” Wincing, he pulled out his identification and showed it to the doctor.

“You did a fair job of bandaging them. In the war, were you?”

“Yes.”

The doctor nodded. “Field dressing. I recognize it. Sit down, you don't look very good yourself.”

“I'm all right,” Rutledge protested, but the doctor wouldn't take no for an answer.

Someone brought him a cup of tea and insisted he drink it. Then the doctor was back. “They will survive. Both men have serious but not life-threatening injuries. We can deal with them. Any next of kin to notify?”

“I'll see to it. Thank you.”

“Are you hurt?” the doctor said, looking him up and down.

“I'm all right,” Rutledge said again, and the doctor reluctantly let him go.

But he was stopped once more as he was about to leave the ward. A very angry man stood on the threshold, asking for the gunshot victims.

He was Inspector Hayes of the Tilbury Constabulary, and he'd been in the maternity ward with his wife when he heard there had been a shooting.

It took Rutledge another quarter of an hour to pacify him. “It's Inspector Robinson's case, in Colchester,” Rutledge said. “If you disagree, take it up with him.”

And as he walked out the door, he was fairly certain that Hayes would indeed contact Robinson.

Once more in his motorcar, he cursed Hayes for wasting precious time. He was fairly sure that Morrison would be unable to escape, but he felt an urgency he couldn't explain.

He was already into the turning for Furnham and the River Hawking, when he saw the van coming toward him. He didn't know the driver, but he recognized the van. He'd left it sitting outside the Rectory.

Someone from the village had found it, and he had a sinking feeling that whoever it was had found Morrison as well.

Picking up speed, driving with attention fueled by the certainty that he was too late, he covered the miles as best he could. But he could see even before he'd reached the Rectory that Morrison was free. His bonds lay scattered across the grass, and the cottage was empty when he stepped inside.

Rutledge took the time to search each room as well as the back garden, alert for an ambush at any moment.

Where had Morrison gone? To the village?

No, he couldn't be sure who beside Jessup and Barber knew the truth. The village was for all intents and purposes a trap.

“In the van,” Hamish said. “As far away as he can go.”

Possible. Very possible. Still, he hadn't been driving. And Rutledge had a feeling he hadn't chosen to go that far. Not yet. There was unfinished business to attend to first. He knew Rutledge would be coming back for him, and he intended to choose his ground for that encounter.

Rutledge had taken Morrison's revolver. But there were other guns in the case in the house at River's Edge.

Had the van carried him that far? Or had he gone by way of a shortcut through the marshes? He'd said once that he didn't know his way through them, but that had been a lie. The only way he could have reached River's Edge ahead of Major Russell was to take an even shorter path.

Retrieving his torch from where Jessup had dropped it, Rutledge went back to his motorcar.

When he reached River's Edge, he left his motorcar by the gates for what he hoped would be the last time. And after removing the revolver from the boot and shoving it under his coat, he walked up the overgrown drive.

There were shotguns in the glass case in the study. The question was, did Morrison know where to find the shells?

“Ye ken, he was in and oot of yon house often enough. It wouldna' take him verra' long to find them and load.”

As carefully as he'd trod the dark approaches to No Man's Land, looking for snipers, Rutledge walked toward the house.

The sun was bright, but not bright enough to penetrate the deeper shadows. He moved cautiously, watching for movement, for the slightest sign that he had been seen. There was nothing he could do about the upper windows overlooking the drive. And so he ignored them. The undergrowth and the untrimmed trees offered more immediate danger.

The final sprint across the open lawn leading to the main door took him to the shelter of the house, and he pressed himself against the warm brick while he caught his breath.

Still no sign of Morrison.

Perhaps, Rutledge thought, I was wrong. He was in that van, out of sight among the crates and boxes.

But he had to be sure, and after two minutes, when nothing had happened, he quietly moved around the house toward the riverfront and the terrace, ducking under windows where a watcher could see him.

He reached the corner of the house, pausing again before leaning forward to peer around the edge.

He stopped, moving back out of sight.

For down by the water, at the landing, a launch he'd seen before was tied up and swinging gently with the current.

Chapter 24

C
ynthia Farraday had chosen today of all days to return to the house on the River Hawking. Because of the
Times
article, because she mourned Russell?

Rutledge swore under his breath, his eyes scanning the lawns and the edges of the marshes.

Where the hell was she?

And where was Morrison?

He waited, forcing himself to stop and to think. His mind was tired, Hamish hammering at the back of it.

If he'd been wrong about Morrison, if the man had cut his losses and escaped while he could, she was safe enough.

If he'd been right, was Cynthia Farraday already dead? Shot or stabbed, it wouldn't matter if Morrison had found her there. He would kill her, just as he'd killed the others. Rutledge needed to find out before he could know what his options were.

If Morrison was still expecting him, the launch was there waiting when it was over—or as a last resort if everything went wrong. If there was sufficient petrol in it, Morrison could very easily reach France or farther down the coast, past the mouth of the Thames and into Kent.

Were they inside?

It was where Rutledge would wait, in the same circumstances. There was no other way into the house without breaking a window or forcing a locked door and alerting his quarry. If Morrison had found the shotgun shells, he could wait in the garden room and control his field of fire.

The alternative was the first-floor master bedroom, with its long windows looking down to the water, giving a wide view of the lawns and the edges of the marsh.

There was no escape for Morrison from either place, if he himself could get in the first shot. But there was only one cartridge left in the revolver beneath his coat.

He could feel the rush of adrenaline now, as he had on the battlefield as he went over the top. Knowing what was waiting for him out there, knowing what his chances of survival were. But until he knew where Cynthia Farraday was, whether she was alive or dead, his hands were tied.

There was nothing for it but to walk out into the open and challenge Morrison.

Rutledge had taken the first step out into the open when he heard voices. Someone had come out onto the terrace. He moved swiftly back into the shelter of the house and pressed himself against the wall.

He could just hear Cynthia Farraday saying, “But I don't wish to sit in that chair. Bring me another.”

She was alive, then, and being used as a Judas goat. Rutledge waited.

“You'll sit where you're told. I shan't kill you until he's dead. Or at least I hadn't planned to. Push me too far, and I won't wait.”

“He isn't coming. You said yourself he had taken those other men to hospital. He won't leave until he's certain they'll live. Those men are his witnesses, don't you see?”

“He's not the sort to leave a prisoner tied to a post any longer than needful. It's hot today. He'll remember I have no water. No shade. He'll arrive at the Rectory and discover that I've escaped. Then he'll come here. He knows me very well, Rutledge does. But I know him even better. He'll die to save you. Wait and see. I have only to say,
Show yourself, and I'll let her live.
He'll step out then, and you'll walk down to the launch, as I told you to do. He won't know I've disabled it. He'll watch you go, he'll stand there and watch you step into the launch. And then I'll kill him. It's quite simple.”

A silence fell.

Then she said, “You can't watch both of us. I can swim, I can leap out of the boat and you'll never find me in the marshes.”

“I'll come back for you one day. As I did for Justin Fowler. Remember that. You will never know when. My life had taught me patience. Russell learned that too.”

“Did you kill Mrs. Russell?”

“Oh, yes. I had to be quiet about it, so I cut her throat and then tied her to a stone. She's still down there on the river bottom, as far as I know. It's important that you understand me. Wherever you go, I shall find you. Eventually. Or now. It doesn't matter to me when you die. I'll even let you choose.”

“That's very kind of you,” she said with heavy irony.

Another silence fell. It lasted longer this time. Rutledge weighed the distance, and how quickly Morrison would react.

He didn't know how Morrison was armed. He didn't know whether he had brought out both shotguns or only one. Far more urgent was the question of what Cynthia Farraday would do. Whether he could depend on her to stay out of the way. It was just as likely she would try to throw Morrison off balance, and in that instant, put herself directly into his own line of fire.

There was no way to plan. No way to calculate the odds. Once he stepped out in plain sight, there would be chaos, with no chance to do anything but try for a kill with the first shot. After two years, was he still quick enough?

“You canna' fash yourself over the lass. If Morrison brings ye doon, she willna' live verra' long afterward. Ye canna save her. You mustna' even consider it.”

“Not by my shot, please God.” But Hamish was right. He had to stop Morrison any way he could. If he wanted to protect Cynthia Farraday, he himself would have to survive.

Bringing out the revolver, he checked again to be sure. One shot. That was all he had.

Then he put it back again.

One deep breath to steady himself, and then he walked out of the shelter at the corner of the house and into the open.

He heard Cynthia Farraday gasp. And Morrison turned to look his way.

There was no time to think, he'd been right about that. Waiting had dulled Morrison's wits. Danger had sharpened his.

Before the shotgun could swing up and be aimed, Rutledge had retrieved the revolver and fired.

The upward motion of the shotgun hadn't stopped. Rutledge had no defense.

He watched the man's finger close spasmodically on the trigger and prepared to throw himself to one side. Cynthia Farraday had her hands in the air, and then he realized in the same instant what she was doing.

Pulling the long pin from her hat, she rammed it into Morrison's side.

He didn't cry out. But his fingers clenched prematurely, and the shotgun went off even as his knees buckled and he went down. Rutledge could hear the shot raining down somewhere to the left of him, but he was already in a dead run toward the terrace.

Morrison had died by the time he got to the man, Rutledge's shot in his heart. In some far corner of his mind, he could hear Cynthia Farraday crying, and peripherally he could see that her hands had covered her face.

Rutledge's shot had been true. He wasn't sure how he had managed it, there had been no time to take careful aim. Still, he'd used his revolver all through the war, he had learned to make every shot count.

He was not proud of the skill.

Pushing the shotgun to one side with his foot, he turned to Cynthia. She pulled her hands down.

“I wanted him to
hang,
” she cried, staring at Rutledge with horror-filled eyes. “He murdered
my
family too. Why did you kill him?”

He reached out to her, but she spun away, running down the steps, across the lawns to the water. She leapt into the launch, and when she failed to start it, she sat down and stared at him numbly.

Leaving Morrison where he lay, Rutledge walked down to the landing and said, “Let me drive you back to London. There are some things you need to know.”

“I don't want to hear anything,” she told him, turning her back on him. “Why won't this launch
start
?”

“He told you. He disabled it. Leave it. It can be brought in later.” He squatted on the landing, next to the launch. “Listen to me. Wyatt Russell is alive. Notice of his death was a way of advertising for information to help us find this man.”

She half turned her head and said, “Is it true?”

“I'll take you to him. He's in my flat at present.”

After a moment, she said, “I think you're the cruelest man I've ever known.”

“The motorcar is by the gates. I'll meet you there. There's something I must attend to first.”

She wouldn't take his hand. Stepping out of the launch herself, she started toward the house.

He walked as far as the terrace with her, then without speaking, she veered to the nearest side of the house and left him to do what he had to do.

He returned the chairs to the garden room, spread a dust cloth over Morrison's body, and closed the house door, taking the shotgun and the revolver with him.

The drive to London was made in a tense silence. There was one stop on the road, and that was in Tilbury, where he spoke again to the doctor in the casualty ward.

“Both men are out of danger. Did you reach Mrs. Barber?”

He had not. But his day hadn't ended.

He also begged the use of the only telephone, and put in a call to Inspector Robinson in Colchester.

He caught the man just leaving for his dinner.

Rutledge said, “Your murderer is lying on a terrace behind River's Edge.” He gave directions to the house. “I'm sorry. I had to kill him. There was a hostage.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line. “He's dead, you say? Damn it, Rutledge, I wanted him to stand trial.”

Rutledge rang off, rubbing his aching elbow.

Leaving the Casualty Ward, he debated telling Cynthia Farraday the truth about Justin Fowler.

And then he decided that it was not his truth to tell. Fowler had made a life for himself in the north of England. He was content. He was safe. Best to leave it that way.

“Ye must tell him so.”

That too could be done, an unsigned letter to a tobacco shop in Chester.

Cynthia Farraday looked away as he turned the crank and got in beside her.

It would be after midnight before he reached Furnham again, he realized, hearing a church clock in the distance striking the hour. He hoped to be in time to meet Inspector Robinson there, after speaking to Abigail Barber.

As he drove through the familiar outskirts of London, Cynthia Farraday said, “I have a confession to make.”

“Go on. I'm listening.”

“In the beginning, when I believed you were a solicitor for the Russell family, I liked you very much. I told you I wanted to buy River's Edge so that I'd have an excuse to see you again. I was flattered when you tried to follow me to my house. I thought it meant you liked me as well. Instead, you dragged me into a murder inquiry.”

“You were involved long before I came on the scene,” he told her.

“Did you know he held a knife to my throat when he caught me inside the house? I smiled at him when I first saw him in the doorway, thinking he'd come because he was looking out for River's Edge. That he had heard about Wyatt and wanted to offer comfort. He told me he'd hurt his arm and had walked up to the house, hoping to find something to use as a sling. I could see it for myself, it was red, bruised. And when I turned to look for a strip of cloth, he came up behind me and I felt the coldness of metal against my skin. I couldn't imagine what he wanted, I was afraid—but later he told me he'd cut Aunt Elizabeth's throat. I had no idea you were coming for him until he took out the shotgun. He was the
rector
. I'd known him for years, trusted him, and yet he told me he was going to kill me. I thought Wyatt loved me. And yet he burst into my house and shouted at me and even slapped me. That was your fault too. In the past few hours I have learned to hate you.”

He said, his voice tired, “Then why did you stab him with your hat pin, to stop him from shooting me as he went down?”

“For the same reason I wanted him to hang. I wanted him to feel the pain he'd made the rest of us feel. Justin, Wyatt, Aunt Elizabeth. Me.” She took off the hat and tossed it into the back of the motorcar, discarding it as she was discarding the truth. “You showed me how evil people are. You showed me how impossible it is to trust anyone ever again. You showed me that I can't even trust my own judgment. Even the war hadn't showed me those things.”

There was nothing he could say. And so he drove on to his flat and signaled the nursing sister to allow Miss Farraday to come inside.

That done, he started for Furnham, to face another woman's anger, even though it was not his fault that Jessup and Barber were shot.

He had almost reached the corner of his street when he heard someone calling his name.

Turning his head, he saw that Miss Farraday had come out of his flat and was running down the street toward him. He waited where he was, and as she got closer he could see that she was flushed, her eyes bright.

He took it for anger. And he didn't think he could endure another denunciation.

“Please? I'm sorry—so sorry,” she said, stumbling over her words as she caught the door of the motorcar with one hand. “I was—it was—you saved my life and I never even thanked you.” She broke off, bit her lip, and walked slowly back toward his flat, her head down.

He watched her until she had stepped inside and closed the door.