The Confession - Charles Todd [0]
Charles Todd
Dedication
For Sally and for David, with much love. Rutledge is one county closer to Mill Barn . . . and next year will bring him even nearer. As promised.
And for Carolyn Marino, and everyone at HarperCollins/Morrow, for being the wonderful people you are. With much gratitude.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Charles Todd
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
The Essex Marshes, Summer 1915
The body rolled in the current gently, as if still alive. It was facedown, only the back and hips visible. It had been floating that way for some time. The men in the ancient skiff had watched it for a quarter of an hour, as if half expecting it to rise up and walk away before their eyes.
“He’s dead, right enough,” one said. “One of ours, do you think?”
“This far up the Hawking? It’s a German spy,” the second man said, nodding, as if that explained everything. “Bound to be. I say, leave him to the fish.”
“We won’t know who he is until we pull him out, will we?” the third said and leaned out to touch the corpse with the boat hook.
“Here!” the first man cried out, as if this were sacrilege.
The body bobbed a little under the weight of the hook.
“He doesn’t care,” the third man said. “Why should you?”
“Still and all—”
Turning the hook a little, he put the end under the dead man’s collar and pulled. Under the impetus of the hook, the corpse came out of the reeds obediently, as if called, and floated toward the skiff until the shoulder of his dark, water-sodden uniform bumped lightly into the hull.
“A bloody officer.”
“He’s been shot,” the third man said as the body shifted. “Look at that.”
“Turn him over,” the second man ordered, after peering at the back of the man’s head.
With some difficulty, that was done, and all three stared into the dead face, flaccid from hours in the water.
“None of our fishermen,” the second man went on. “Don’t know him atall. You?”
The first man shook his head. “I dunno. There’s something familiar about him. I just can’t put a name to him.”
“Let’s have a look,” the third man said, and reached out to clutch the front of the sodden uniform, pulling him close enough to thrust his fingers into the man’s breast pocket. He came away with a wallet stuffed with pound notes. He whistled in surprise.
The second man was already stretching out a hand for the trouser pocket nearest him, swearing as the skiff dipped alarmingly, and he had to kneel in the bottom of the boat. As the skiff steadied, he managed to dig into the wet cloth and extract more pound notes. “I’ll be damned!”
Opening the wallet, the third man searched for identification. “Ah.” He pulled out a card from behind the wet notes. Squinting a little, he read, “ ‘Justin Fowler. London.’ What’s he doing here, dead, then?”
“I told you. A German spy.”
“You’ve got spies on the brain,” the third man snapped. “Get over it.”
There had been a spy scare not long before. Several waiters in London restaurants bore German names, and it was reported to the authorities that these men had been listening to private conversations while guests dined, looking for information to be sent back to Berlin. Nothing had come of it, as far as anyone in this part of Essex could discover. Mr. Newly had not been back to the city to visit his daughter, and thus the source of this bit of news had dried up before the spies had been arrested, shot, or deported, allowing for considerable speculation in The Rowing Boat at night. Much had been said about what should be done with such men if they were caught out here, far from London.
“Who do you suppose killed him?” the first man ventured. “Someone who followed him from London? It’s not likely to have been anyone from the airfield. I’ve never seen them this