The Confession - Charles Todd [105]
It was clear that he’d forgot what Rutledge had told him about Willet’s confession.
“I’m still investigating Willet’s death. Were you in England during that summer of 1915?”
“I was in France. No, that’s not true. I was sent home on compassionate leave when my wife died.”
“Did you go down to River’s Edge? Or look up Fowler in hospital?”
“I don’t think so. It was—I don’t remember much about that time.” He grimaced. “I was ridden by guilt. I hadn’t loved her. She died because of me. I didn’t think I’d made her happy.” He turned his head aside. “Go away. Leave me alone.”
Rutledge was on the point of saying something more when Morrison came back.
“There you are,” he said, stepping in. “Is he asleep?”
Rutledge answered, “Yes, I think so. The nurse warned me not to disturb his rest. We should leave.”
He rose and got Morrison out of the room. Walking to the motorcar, Morrison asked, “Could you talk to him? Did he tell you anything else?”
“Only that he doesn’t know what happened to Fowler. It may be that he will never be able to remember. If he’s guilty of murdering him, Russell could well go free.”
Morrison digested that, then said, “You don’t intend to take him into custody?”
“Suspicion isn’t truth. I need facts.”
Morrison cranked the motorcar for Rutledge and then got in. “How, I wonder, did Ben learn about Fowler’s death and Russell’s role in it?”
“I don’t know. But the fact that he did tells me that whatever happened, happened in River’s Edge. Or somewhere along the Hawking. Not in London or Dover or Portsmouth. I told you before I don’t believe in coincidence. And it would have been difficult to kill someone and get rid of the body where hundreds of men are collecting and boarding their transports. But the River Hawking is rather isolated. If it swallowed up Mrs. Russell, it could swallow Fowler just as easily.”
“Then why wasn’t Willet killed in Essex as well?”
“I haven’t worked that out yet. Perhaps someone didn’t want him to reach Essex.”
“We don’t know he was intending to go there.”
“I’ve discovered that he was.”
That silenced Morrison. After a time, he said, “I’m tired. I’ll shut my eyes for a bit, if you don’t mind.” He leaned his head against the window strut.
Rutledge was grateful for the chance to think. With his eyes on the road, he let his mind review everything he knew.
Hamish said, “There’s no answer.”
“Exactly. And there’s only one reason I can think of to explain that. Somewhere is a piece of the puzzle we haven’t found. Not yet. And I’m not sure where to look.”
“Aye. Ye must start at the beginning.”
By the time he’d passed the gates of River’s Edge and made the turning to the Rectory, Morrison was awake and complaining of being stiff.
He said, preparing to get out of the motorcar, “I never thought he would live.”
“Nor did I. But if he had died, the inquiry on Justin Fowler would have to be closed. Without Willet and without Russell, there is no case.”
Morrison shook his head. “I watched you question a man who was in great pain. How do you live with the fact that the person you take into custody will be tried and judged and very likely hanged? Do you never feel merciful?”
“It’s not a question of mercy. I don’t judge people. I leave that to the courts. It’s my task to collect the facts that will help them arrive at the truth.”
“That’s very self-righteous, don’t you think?”
And then he was gone, shutting the Rectory door behind him.
Rutledge continued into Furnham, realized he’d eaten nothing since breakfast, and stopped by the tea shop-cum-bakery. But it was already closed, and he went on to the inn.
The clerk told him that he hadn’t asked for dinner, and so there was none to be had. But when Rutledge offered to pay him well for a meal, he agreed to prepare something. When the tray was brought to his room, Rutledge found under the cloth covering several sandwiches, a dish of fruit, and a square of cheese with rather stale biscuits.