The Confession (9 page)

“I'll close up,” she said, her gaze once more on the river, as if she saw the past there.

“I should ask. What's left in the house that's worth stealing?”

This time the smile was amused. “Don't you trust me?”

“Still—” He left it unfinished.

“Anything of value is gone. Pictures on the wall. Jewelry. Silver in the pantry. Stored somewhere in London, I expect. I wouldn't make my fortune selling what's left. But it's lovely and familiar, and I'd want to keep what's here if I could.”

“Whatever happened to the locket that Mrs. Russell wore every day of her life?”

She was very still, her eyes on his. “If they ever find her—or her body—it will be there. I don't know that I ever saw her without it.”

He nodded and walked down the broad steps from the terrace to the lawns, making his way around the house to the drive without looking back.

He had let her believe he was a family solicitor. She hadn't realized that he was a policeman. He was of half a mind to go back and correct that impression. But then he decided that this wasn't the time to put her on her guard.

If she had nothing to hide, then no harm done.

Chapter 7

H
amish, who had only spoken once after Miss Farraday had stepped out onto the terrace, was busy now in the back of Rutledge's mind as instead of taking the main road to London, he drove along the headwaters of the River Hawking, searching for any spot where a launch could be rented. There were only three tiny villages along this narrower section of the road, mainly inhabited by families who made their living from the water, and while there were any number of boats drawn up along the shoreline, they were mainly skiffs, rowing boats, and other small craft, hardly resembling a launch that someone like Cynthia Farraday could manage. He persisted, but everywhere he was met with a shake of the head.

Nothing to hire here.

He was ready to concede that she'd lied to him when he followed a rutted lane through high grass and saw his quarry actually stepping out of a sleek launch, greeting a tall man in a white shirt and trousers.

Realizing that this was a private landing stage used by sportsmen—the half-dozen boats here were a far cry from the rough craft he'd seen until now—he pulled up and waited.

It was clear that the man knew Miss Farraday well, for they were laughing about something as he helped her secure the launch and then gestured toward the newly built shed to the left of the landing stage. On the far side of that he could see the bonnets of two motorcars, the late afternoon sun reflecting off the gleaming paint.

He hadn't been spotted, he was sure of that, and when the opportunity presented itself as Miss Farraday followed the man inside the shed, shutting the door, he reversed until he'd reached the main road, such as it was, and considered his situation.

He could hardly approach the man after Miss Farraday had gone, and ask who had borrowed the launch for the afternoon. Whoever he was, he would undoubtedly report Scotland Yard's interest in her as soon as he saw her again.

But it was just possible that if one of the motorcars was hers, he could follow it back to the city through the evening traffic.

There had been a tumbledown barn some distance back the way he'd come, and Rutledge decided it would offer some semblance of shelter. He thought it likely that Miss Farraday hadn't seen his motorcar outside the gates of River's Edge because it wasn't visible from the house. And he was fairly sure she hadn't followed him as far as the gates to make certain he'd left. There was no reason then that she would immediately recognize it, even if he stayed behind her for miles.

He found the barn with no difficulty and was able to drag one of the doors open wide enough to back his motorcar inside, pulling it nearly shut in front of the bonnet. And he stood there in the narrow opening, keeping watch.

The rank smell behind him was a mixture of damp, rotted manure, musty hay, mildewed floorboards, and bird droppings. Smothering a sneeze, he listened to Hamish's voice echoing through the rafters as a startled dove flapped away through a gaping hole in the roof.

He understood what Hamish was saying, that following Cynthia Farraday's motorcar was unlikely to work, that the Yard could find her more readily. But could it? And once lost, the opportunity might not arise again.

It was nearly half an hour before two motorcars came down the road. In the first one he glimpsed Cynthia Farraday's profile, strands of light brown hair whipping around her face. And in the second, he could make out the white shirt of the man who had greeted her at the landing.

He gave them a five-minute head start before going after them. They had already made the turning toward London by the time he reached it, and he had to drive faster than the rough road allowed before he sighted both motorcars in the distance.

It was not easy to keep up with the two of them as traffic increased on the road and an overladen lorry pulled out in front of him. At his next sighting, the man was ahead. He thought they were playing tag, one and then the other taking the lead, which kept them occupied but made it more difficult to follow them.

Hamish said, “It was a foolish notion.” His voice was gloating.

But Rutledge was patient, overtaking another lorry as soon as he could. On his left, the River Thames flowed in golden glory as the sun moved lower in the western sky. Ahead he could just begin to see the tower of St. Paul's when the man, with a short blare of his horn, turned off toward the north.

The motorcar driven by Cynthia Farraday continued through the dingy outskirts of London, where industry belched black smoke above their heads. And then she was threading her way through even dingier streets, where barrows and handcarts were a danger to motorcars and themselves. As he watched she narrowly missed a barrow boy who had ignored the warning tap of her horn. He shouted imprecations in her direction, fist raised, then turned to glare at Rutledge as he passed.

He nearly lost her in the swirl of traffic around St. Paul's but then caught up with her again by guessing which direction she might have taken. Finally they were in a maze of streets in the West End, where it was easier to keep her in sight and harder to hide himself behind other vehicles. Houses here were handsome, taller, and grouped around small fenced squares. It was a part of the city Rutledge knew well from his days as a constable with the Metropolitan Police, new to the force and eager to prove himself.

Cynthia Farraday turned left from the main road, and he recognized the square. Belvedere Place, with its tiny rectangular garden surrounded by tall white houses with dark mansard roofs. Spring bulbs had long since given way to perennials in full summer bloom. It was a fashionable address.

He paused some thirty yards from the entrance to the square, waited five minutes, and then drove slowly past Belvedere Place, searching for the Farraday motorcar.

And he saw it, stopped in front of a house at the far end of the square. Number 17, he thought as he kept going.

It took him ten minutes to find a constable. He was patrolling several streets away, but Rutledge was fairly certain the man would know the answer to his question. Showing his identification, Rutledge asked the man if he knew the name of the household at number 17, Belvedere Place.

Constable Prettyman frowned. “Aye, that would be the Raleigh family, sir. Mother, father, four girls. Staff of five. Is there anyone in particular you would be wanting to know about?”

“A Miss Farraday.”

“Indeed, sir. I don't believe there's anyone by that name in Belvedere Place. But of course she could be visiting the family, right enough. Shall I make inquiries, sir?”

“No. Thank you.” He could hear Hamish in the back of his mind. Nodding to the constable, he drove on, reversing at the first opportunity and returning to Belvedere Place. As he reached the corner, he looked for the Farraday motorcar at the far end of the square.

But it had gone.

Rutledge swore, then found himself laughing.

Cynthia Farraday had outwitted him.

He had no idea when she had discovered that he was following her—he had been damned careful!—but he thought it must have happened shortly before she turned into Belvedere Place, when his was the only motorcar in sight, even though he had stayed well back.

And that, he thought, must mean that she had a reason to cover her tracks.

W
hen he reached the Yard, he set Sergeant Gibson the task of locating Cynthia Farraday and Wyatt Russell.

“I thought Mr. Russell was dead in Gravesend,” Gibson reminded him.

“So did I,” Rutledge answered grimly. “But it appears the man is actually one Ben Willet.”

“But he said—”

“I'm aware of what he said. The question now is, where is the real Mr. Russell? And was Willet even telling the truth about a murder in 1915?”

“It could explain why this man Willet was killed. He'd come to the Yard with what he knew. Even if it was muddled, like.”

But from what Rutledge had been able to discover in Furnham, it wasn't clear whether the two men's paths had ever crossed during the war. Then how had Willet learned about what Russell had done? More to the point, why should it matter to him? And why the charade?

“Find Russell, and we could have a few answers.”

He thanked Gibson and walked on down the passage to his own office. The Duty Sergeant had already informed him that Chief Superintendent Bowles was not on the premises, “his being called to a murder scene in Camdentown.”

It was a reprieve of sorts, offering Rutledge an opportunity to think through the problem before having to present it to his superior. Bowles was not noted either for patience or for understanding. He demanded answers without a thought given to the difficulty involved in finding them. And Rutledge had already had a taste of the man's hasty interpretation of information brought to him.

He sat down at his desk and turned his chair so that he could look out the window, his view blocked by trees in leaf. They cast cool shadows across the pavement as the sun settled in the west.

River's Edge was isolated and had stood empty for upwards of five years. A perfect site for a quiet murder. Perhaps it had already seen one. Mrs. Russell.

He thought again that it would have made more sense if Willet had come to the Yard to confess to murdering her.

The question was, had Ben Willet been killed because of the past—or for something else completely unrelated to his visit to Scotland Yard? He wouldn't have been the first—nor the last—man to have a finger in too many pies.

Hamish said, “D'ye believe the woman, that she wished to purchase yon estate?”

“It was a sound enough reason to explain her trespassing. I'd have said yes, it was the truth—until she played that game in Belvedere Place. If she had nothing on her conscience, she wouldn't have cared whether I discovered where she lived or not. But what does she have to do with a footman from Thetford who washed up in Gravesend?”

He set himself the task of finishing the paperwork waiting on his desk, but his mind kept coming back to the riddle of Ben Willet.

Mrs. Brothers had recognized his face but couldn't put a name to it. That would say that Willet could have come home to Furnham from time to time, but not often enough for Nancy Brothers to know who he was. And the men in The Rowing Boat had been reluctant to identify Willet in the photograph. True, Barber's father-in-law was dying, and the family had no wish to upset him with the news of his son's death. But was that another convenient lie? One that the man from Scotland Yard could investigate for himself, and then accept at face value? If so, the people in that village held a poor view of the police.

The barkeep at The Rowing Boat had been ready to kill to keep the truth from coming out. But what truth? That Willet was dead? Or that someone in Furnham recognized him?

Hamish said, “Ye ken, verra' likely it's no' the fact that Willet was dead but why he died.”

They had come full circle.

Signing the last of the papers in front of him, Rutledge rose and carried them down the passage to hand them over to Constable Benning.

Back in his office once more, he asked aloud, “Where is Wyatt Russell?”

It had been a rhetorical question, but on the other hand, if Ben Willet had felt safe in impersonating the man, it could well mean that Russell too was dead.

“Miss Farraday didna' appear to think he was deid.”

Rutledge left his office and went in search of Sergeant Gibson. “If anyone wants me, I'm going back to Essex. I expect to return tomorrow afternoon.”

“Where will you be staying, if I should need to reach you?” Gibson asked.

“I doubt there's a telephone within thirty miles of Furnham,” Rutledge said.

Hamish said something that he missed as Gibson asked, “Would it be best, then, to speak to the Chief Superintendent before you leave?”

“I think not,” Rutledge replied, and walked on.

On the stairs he realized what it was that Hamish had tried to interject.

If there was no way the Yard could reach him while he was in Furnham, then it would be equally impossible for him to reach the Yard in the event there was trouble.

R
utledge went home, packed a small valise, and set out for Essex once more. The sun was low on the horizon now, and ahead lay the dark lavender clouds of the North Sea, where evening had already begun to encroach on the day. And it was fully dark and very late when he pulled into yard of The Dragonfly Inn. He had intended to call on Mr. Morrison before he drove on to Furnham, but there had been no lights in the church and looking for the Rectory would have taken more time than he could afford, if he wanted a room for the night.

When he strode into the tiny Reception, there was no one behind the desk, but a bell stood to one side of the register, and he pushed it. It sounded rusty with damp, a grinding noise rather than a ring.

After a moment a man in his shirtsleeves appeared from the rear of the inn, frowning as he realized that here was custom he didn't wish to serve.

“Looking for a room, are you?” he said, his manner surly. “Sorry to say, they're all taken.”

“Indeed?” Rutledge answered. Before the man could stop him, he reached out and turned the register around, opening it to where the black ribbon marked the current page. “The last guest appears to have signed this page some ten weeks ago. Are you telling me he's still here?”

“There's no room available. A problem with the roof.”

“I'm here to call on Ned Willet.”

“Then you're too late. He died not half an hour ago.”

Surprised, Rutledge said, “Then I'm here for the funeral.”

After a moment the man said grudgingly, “Very well. The room at the top of the stairs. You won't be needing a key.”

“On the contrary. I insist on a key.”

As Rutledge signed the register the man fished in a drawer, eventually coming up with a key. He passed it across the desk, and Rutledge pocketed it.

“Good night,” he said as he turned and took the stairs two at a time. They curved slightly as they climbed, and the first room was in fact just at the top. On either side of his were two more rooms, and across the passage were three others, these overlooking the High Street. At the ends of the passage there were windows, the shades already drawn for the night.