The Confession - Charles Todd [106]
He ate his meal sitting by the window, where the cool evening air made him drowsy. Setting the empty dishes outside his door, he went to bed.
But the drowsiness seemed to evaporate as soon as he blew out the lamp and got into bed.
Instead, his mind went over and over what he knew about the three murders and the attack on Russell. And he didn’t like what he was beginning to conclude.
Cynthia Farraday had wanted River’s Edge, but not its owner. It would have been easy for her to murder the unsuspecting Mrs. Russell. But despite his protestation of his love, Wyatt Russell married someone else for the sake of an heir. If that was her motive, it didn’t make sense for her to kill Fowler or Ben Willet.
Wyatt Russell had the best motive—jealousy. He could have killed the men he perceived to be his rivals. But why kill his own mother?
Jessup, for reasons of his own, could have killed Mrs. Russell, her son, and his own nephew. But why murder Fowler?
And if the person who killed Fowler’s parents intended to return one day and murder the son as well, why had it been necessary to kill the Russells and Ben Willet?
Was it possible that there were two people at work here?
He was close to the answer when sleep overtook him.
And then he was back in France, the sound of the guns loud in his ears, the screams of the wounded and the dying all around him while the machine gunners whittled away the numbers coming toward them until only Rutledge was left on his feet, and struggling through the mud toward the gunners, his revolver in his hand and determination giving him the strength to keep going despite the bullets plowing into his body. But when he reached the nest, there was only one gunner, nothing but bones grinning at him from behind the gun sight. And Hamish’s voice at his ear was shouting to him, trying to make him understand that he too was dead.
“Fall down and let it be over,” the Scots voice cried. “For God’s sake, let it be over!”
Rutledge fought against it, clinging to life, struggling against the darkness that was overwhelming him, reaching out for a handhold and unable to find it. For he could see that the River Somme was filled with blood, and he would drown in it, in spite of all he could do.
With a shock he came wide awake, wrestling the bedclothes, crying out in the darkness.
He could feel the cold sweat drying on his body, and his chest was heaving as he tried to breathe again.
In the quiet room, unseen, Hamish said, “It will never go away. Not even when ye die. The dead dream too.”
He got out of bed and thrust his head out the window, letting the night air blow away the last remnants of the night terror.
Finally he dressed and went out to walk until the sun brightened the horizon, not caring if the smugglers had made a run in the night. It wasn’t until he could see his hand clearly before his face that he went back to his room and, without undressing, fell into a deep sleep.
In the morning he went to see Nancy Brothers, spending half an hour in her pleasant kitchen, and when he had the information he wanted, he thanked her and left.
And then, because he didn’t think he could spend another night in the room at The Dragonfly Inn, he packed his valise and drove out of Furnham.
When he finally reached London, he went directly to Somerset House and began his search.
The first name on his list was Mrs. Broadley, the cook at River’s Edge. According to Nancy Brothers, she had gone to live with her sister when the house was closed.
He hadn’t expected to encounter quite so many Broadleys, but it appeared to be a fairly common name in some counties. Finally he found the one he was after.
She had died in a village north of Derby during the influenza epidemic of 1918.
He turned next to Mrs. Dunner, who had taken another post in the Midlands.
There was no record of her death. And he had the address that Mrs. Brothers had given him.
The last name on his list was the young chauffeur, Harold Finley.
There was no record of his death.
It had taken him two hours, but he felt satisfied with the results.
On a whim, he