The Confession - Charles Todd [101]
“Told me—he told me he couldn’t lie if you asked—if you asked where I was.”
“If we hadn’t found you in the marsh, you’d be dead by now. As it was, it was a close run thing.”
One hand lifted vaguely in the direction of his chest. “Dying?”
“Probably not. But we need to know who shot you. Do you remember anything?”
“Nothing.”
“If there’s anything on your conscience, I’d advise you to clear it. Morrison will hear your confession, if you like.”
Russell closed his eyes. “Hurts. The very devil.”
He asked Morrison to summon one of the nursing sisters. When he was out of earshot, Rutledge said in a low voice, “Before I go, I must ask you. It’s my duty. Did you kill Justin Fowler?”
“God, no.”
“Did you kill Ben Willet?”
“Told you. No. Refused.”
Hamish said, “Do you believe him?”
Rutledge didn’t answer him. Morrison was coming back with the sister, and she carried a tray with water and a small medicine cup.
Russell’s good hand tried to clutch at Rutledge’s arm, his fingers grasping at air.
“As I fell. Silhouette. I remember now.” He paused, and when the sister was about to hold the water to his lips, Russell shook his head, still watching Rutledge’s face. “Am I—will they send me back to St. Margaret’s?”
“Speak to Dr. Wade. He will have to work that out.”
Yet Rutledge understood how the Major felt about the clinic. He himself had left Fleming’s clinic a month before the doctor felt he was ready. And the doctor, as it turned out, was right, he hadn’t been prepared for Warwickshire.
Russell leaned back, taking the medicine the sister had brought. Rutledge waited until he had swallowed it, and then he left, promising Morrison to drive him back to Essex as soon as possible.
As he walked back to where he had left his motorcar, he debated his next move. And he came to a conclusion. He drove back to the center of London and once more availed himself of The Marlborough Hotel’s telephone, reluctantly shutting himself into the tiny closet and putting in a call to someone he knew in the War Office.
George Munro listened to what Rutledge had to say, then replied, “Do you know what you’re asking?”
“I do. A great deal of time and work. My present inquiry revolves around finding the answer. ”
He could hear the sigh down the line. “I know. I owe you, Ian. I’ll do it.”
“Thank you.” He put up the receiver.
George Munro had been a fellow officer during the third battle of the Somme. The bullet that tore through the femoral artery in his leg should have killed him. But Rutledge had managed to stop the bleeding and drag him back to his own lines, sending him to a forward dressing station where a doctor named MacPherson and three nursing sisters had saved Munro’s life—and more important than that to Munro, his leg. He walked with a permanent limp thereafter and had complained bitterly when he was sent to the War Office after his release from hospital rather than back to the front lines. In the end, he’d stayed in the Army and at the War Office, glad of the decision that had taken him where his knowledge of strategy and tactics had seen him promoted.
Meanwhile, his wife had named their first son Ian MacPherson, in gratitude for her husband’s life.
He had been absent from the Yard long enough. Reluctantly Rutledge left his motorcar in the street and climbed the stairs to his office.
No one seemed to have noticed his absence. Gibson had come in and taken several of the files on his desk, replacing them at some point with several more. He sat down and scanned them, added his signature to two, and noted that two others were ready to be filed.
Someone tapped at his door, and Sergeant Gibson came in.
“Sir. Constable Greene told me he thought he’d seen you.”
“What news is there of Chief Superintendent Bowles?”
“Resting comfortably. It was a near run thing. It appears now that he’ll live. But whether he’ll come back to the Yard—or when—is uncertain at best.”
“What do the Yard punters have to say?”
Gibson grinned sheepishly. “As to that, sir, it’s currently five to one against his returning. Much