The Confession (5 page)

Who was she? Why had she been important in the life of one Wyatt Russell?

The woman staring up at him was silent, and after a moment he closed the locket and returned it to the envelope. Why had the dead man been wearing it?

Perhaps if he knew the answer to that, he told himself, he would know why Wyatt Russell had died.

When he reached London, Rutledge went directly to The Marlborough Hotel, where he and Russell had dined. If Russell's belongings were still in his rooms there, it was possible they could tell him more about the man than he'd wanted to reveal when he was alive.

There was a couple just arrived, and it took several minutes before they had registered and relinquished their luggage to the man waiting to carry it to their room. As they walked away, Rutledge stepped forward and asked to see the register for the date, twelve days ago, when he'd come here with Russell.

The clerk was reluctant at first until Rutledge quietly identified himself as Scotland Yard. And then he insisted on checking the register himself.

After going through the guest book, the clerk shook his head. “I don't find a Mr. Russell for that date or any other close to it,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

“If you would, go back through it again. He indicated he'd taken a room here. He wasn't well.”

The clerk ran his finger down the list of hotel guests, turning the pages slowly.

“No, Inspector, I'm sorry. I don't see that name.”

Either Russell had lied about where he was staying—or he had lied about his name.

Rutledge thanked the clerk and left. By the time he'd returned to the Yard, Chief Superintendent Bowles was waiting for him. Gibson gave him a warning, with an I-told-you-so expression on his face.

Knocking on the Chief Superintendent's door, Rutledge stepped inside. “You wished to see me, sir?”

“What's this business about Gravesend and a cadaver?”

“I recognized the photograph they sent to the Yard, and I went to see the body for myself.” He gave a brief account of Russell's visit and the information he'd learned in Gravesend. But he said nothing about the lunch with Russell or stopping at the hotel before returning to the Yard.

“And you're sure of this dead man's identity?”

“I'm sure he's the same person who came to my office,” Rutledge answered carefully. “I'd like to go to Essex, to verify the information I was given. And there may be people there who can tell me more about Russell.”

“Yes, yes, by all means. I don't put much stock in his confession, I suggest that you not waste your time in that direction. It's his death that concerns us.” He paused, taking up his pen and rolling it in his fingers, as if it might produce answers for Rutledge if he stared at it long enough. Then he said, “I'm acquainted with Inspector Adams's superior. It wouldn't do to let this matter drag on. If you take my meaning?”

Rutledge did. Bowles was pleased to take over the inquiry, bring it to a swift and certain end, and put his opposite number's nose out of joint.

An hour later, Rutledge was on his way to Essex.

This time he didn't have Frances to keep him company. This time it was Hamish. Although the sun was shining and the day was fair, the journey seemed to drag, and he would have sworn that Furnham was twice as far as it had been earlier.

He'd decided that perhaps the place to begin his inquiries was with the clergyman in charge of the isolated church that he and Frances had seen. It was roughly halfway between the deserted house at River's Edge and the village of Furnham. If anyone knew something about Russell's background, it would likely be the man who had ministered to his family.

As he passed the gates to the estate, he wondered again why Russell had deserted it. Because of his wife's death? Or because he had committed murder there and got away with it? Until someone had found him out and come for him.

An eye for an eye.

Ahead he could just see the peaked roof of the church, standing out like a sentinel in the long reaches of the marshes. The grasses had more color today, varied in texture as well as shade, and the river beyond was intensely blue as it mirrored the sky. And yet the warm late summer's day was chilled by the whispers of the wind through the grasses, setting them to move and rustle, as if hidden among them were crowds of people talking together.

Frances had noted it as well, but alone now, he realized that it was defining this place in a way that he hadn't expected.

As if I'm being watched,
Frances had said.

It would tend, he thought, to make a man with a guilty conscience nervous. Was that why the house stood empty? The whispers that a man's mind turned to accusation?

He drew up before the church. He had no idea where to look for the Rectory, although there must be one. But with luck, he might find someone inside who could direct him.

The sign announcing that this was the Church of St. Edward the Confessor had a new message today on the hoarding below:
Seek and ye shall find. He will welcome all who come to Him.

Rutledge hoped that a welcome would prove to be true. It had not in Furnham.

He opened the door, listening to the squeal of rusty hinges as he stepped into the plain, Victorian interior.

“Ye willna' have to seek anyone. Yon caterwauling will bring them running.”

And Hamish was right. A door at the rear of the sanctuary opened and a man stepped through.

He was wearing a clerical collar and an anxious expression on his square, sun-browned face. It was difficult to judge his age. He was one of those men who would appear boyish well into their forties. Rutledge found himself thinking that this must be a drawback for a clergyman trying to project an image of experience and wisdom.

He didn't come forward. He merely stopped where he was, seeing a stranger, and asked in a strong voice that belied his anxiety, “Are you lost?”

“Mr. Morrison? I'm from London. Scotland Yard. I'd like to speak to you about one of your parishioners.”

“Indeed?” It was a question, not a statement. “We have the usual number of reprobates here, but I can't recall that any of them has lately come to the attention of Scotland Yard.”

“Is there somewhere we could talk?” Rutledge asked.

The man gestured to the pews that filled the sanctuary. “There are seats aplenty here. Shall we take one of them?”

Rutledge walked forward, and the other man didn't move until he had come to the last row but one. “Will this do?”

“Yes. Thank you.” The man stepped forward and finally held out his hand. “I'm afraid you have the advantage of me.”

“Inspector Rutledge.”

“Ah. Well, Mr. Rutledge, I must confess that I'm not in the confidence of many of my flock, but I'll do what I can to help.”

They sat down on the hard wood of the pew, facing each other. Rutledge reached into his pocket and took out the locket on its delicate chain. Opening it, he held it out, but he already knew the answer to his question before he asked it. “Do you know this woman?”

“Yes. Yes, I did,” Morrison replied slowly, reaching for the locket, although it was clear he didn't require a closer look. “She once lived nearby.”

“Could you tell me her name?”

“Where did you find this locket? May I ask?”

“In Gravesend,” Rutledge answered. When the rector said nothing more, his eyes on the photograph, Rutledge added, “The police found it around the neck of a body taken from the Thames.”

“Dear God!” The rector closed the locket with a snap, as if he couldn't bear to look at it any longer. He turned his gaze toward the altar. “Who—has the body been identified?”

“We have reason to believe that it is, was, one Wyatt Russell.”

The relief filling in the rector's eyes was almost painful to watch. Rutledge looked away. “Did you know him?” he asked.

“I—yes, I knew him. He lived not far from here.”

“At River's Edge, in fact.”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“He came to see me shortly before his death. You haven't told me who the woman is.”

“Was he a suicide?”

“He was murdered,” Rutledge replied shortly. “What is her name, Rector?”

“God rest his soul,” Morrison said fervently, crossing himself. “As to the woman in the photograph, her name is Cynthia Farraday. She came to live at River's Edge when her parents died of typhoid. Her father and the late Malcolm Russell were cousins, I believe. She was too young to live on her own, and Mrs. Russell, his widow, was made her guardian. She was alive then. Mrs. Russell, I mean. Wyatt's mother. And then one day in the summer of 1914—August, it was—Mrs. Russell simply disappeared. ”

“Were the police called in?”

“Yes, the police from Tilbury. When it was realized that she was missing, there was a frantic search for her by the family and the staff. And then someone was sent posthaste to Tilbury. Men were brought out from Furnham to help, because they knew the marshes so well. But she was never found. The inquest concluded that she had drowned herself, for fear her son would die in the war. She'd lost her husband in the Boer War. Her son remembered that when she was a girl, a gypsy had read her hand and predicted that war would take all she loved from her. Her husband's death convinced her that the prediction was true.”

There had been a great deal of speculation that summer, after the Austrian archduke and heir to the Hapsburg throne had been assassinated in Sarajevo. Rutledge remembered it well. Would Austria demand a reckoning with the Serbs? And what would Germany do, if Russia insisted on protecting her fellow Slavs? Would France be drawn in, as an ally of Russia? Governments began to mobilize. And in the end, armies began to march. And Belgium, tiny Belgium with open borders and only a small army, had been overrun by the Kaiser's forces on their way to France, in spite of Britain's pledge to protect her. Britain had had no choice then but to declare war on Germany. And all Europe burst into flame.

No one had believed it would happen. And then everyone had believed that it would all be over by Christmas, that the heads of state would come to their senses.

Instead, the war had dragged on for four bloody years. Mrs. Russell had had every reason to be afraid for her son, although no one could have guessed it at the time.

“Was this a strong enough reason for her to kill herself ? Surely further inquiry would uncover a better motive for her disappearance? And I should think that if she had drowned, sooner or later her body would have surfaced?”

“You didn't know her,” Morrison said wearily. “Elizabeth Russell was obsessed with the news, reading everything she could find. She had daily newspapers sent down from London by special messenger. She corresponded with a friend who'd married a Frenchman, and a telegram was sent telling her when the Germans had marched. And in spite of everything, her son joined the Army not a fortnight after she vanished.” He shrugged. “The local people, in their wisdom, were just as glad she hadn't been found. The stigma of suicide, you see, and where to bury the body. They put up quite a fuss even when Russell wanted to set up a memorial to his mother in the family's mausoleum. I must say, that surprised me. Furnham is not a very religious parish, as a rule.”

“You said the local people had helped in the search. Could they have seen to it that her body wasn't discovered?”

“Dear God.” He was shocked. “I never thought of that.”

“Where is this Furnham mausoleum? Is there a churchyard associated with your parish?”

“Ah. The churchyard. The water table is too high, this near the river. It's the reason there isn't a crypt in this church. There's a turning between here and the village. It doesn't appear to be more than a dusty cart path. It leads to higher ground. The Rectory is there as well.”

“Forgive me, Rector, but isn't it odd to have a church this far from a village? And the churchyard in another place?”

“It's a long story,” Morrison answered. “And not a very pleasant one. I don't know all of it myself. Suffice it to say, this church was built several years before Victoria ascended the throne. It was felt by the Bishop of that day that one was needed in Furnham parish. But over the years very few people in Furnham have availed themselves of it. I have a handful of elderly farmers' wives, a few young children preparing for their first communion, often a bride and groom, and occasionally those who have nowhere else to turn in their misery but to God. I hadn't expected to serve in a parish like this. It has tried my spirit, I can tell you.”

And Morrison had very skillfully directed Rutledge away from his questions about Russell and the woman in the locket.

“When was the last time you saw Russell?”

“I don't believe he came home again once he'd joined the Army. Or if he did, I never saw him. I did learn that he was a major. His name appeared on a list of wounded.”

“And Miss Farraday?”

“Without Mrs. Russell there to act as chaperone, Miss Farraday went to London. A sad state of affairs, that. With Russell off to war, she might have stayed in the house without any criticism. But when she came to see me to say good-bye, she told me that the house was haunted.”

“Literally?”

“I asked her that question myself. She answered that it was filled with the ghosts of what might have been. It was ‘not a happy house,' to use her words.”

“I understand that Russell was married.”

“Yes, on his last leave before sailing for France. I don't believe he ever brought his bride to River's Edge. I'd have liked to meet her. Later I heard she died from complications of childbirth, and the baby with her.”

“Perhaps that was why Miss Farraday chose to leave. Because of the marriage.”

Morrison smiled, a sadness in his eyes. “If anything it was the other way around. Russell would have married her on the instant. It was my understanding that she refused him. I feared that he'd married just to provide an heir for River's Edge. If he did, it was not given to him, was it? But I understand he survived the war. So much for his mother's superstitions.”