The Confession - Charles Todd [110]
Hamish said, “If Willet’s murder was blamed on Wyatt, then someone wanted revenge.”
And that made sense.
But Rutledge wasn’t satisfied.
He watched the storm break over London, watched trees along the street bend before the sudden wind as lightning shattered the darkness and thunder rolled like cannon fire.
There was enough evidence to make an arrest, and Superintendent Bowles would argue that it was the role of the court to sort it all out.
Rutledge had always seen justice differently, that it was the policeman whose duty it was to sift the evidence and bring in the guilty party, while the courts judged whether or not the facts as presented supported punishment according to the law or the release of the accused without prejudice. A test, as it were, of truth. The rector hadn’t understood that. Even Mrs. Channing had once questioned why he had chosen the police over following in his father’s footsteps in the firm of solicitors.
Old standards died hard. Many people still expected a policeman to come to the servants’ entrance where he belonged. But that was the view of a generation ago, and it was changing.
Hamish said, breaking into his thoughts, “You must decide. Which man took the law into his ain hands?”
Jessup? Who had always believed that Ben Willet had made the wrong choice when he left his family and his village? Or Sandy Barber, who loved his wife and would protect her at any price?
There was still no answer.
The next morning Rutledge set out early, driving through rain-washed streets to stop briefly in the Yard. There he put in a telephone call to Mr. Harrison, the solicitor handling the affairs of the late Mr. and Mrs. Fowler.
When Mr. Harrison was brought to the telephone, Rutledge asked what charitable school for boys the Fowlers had supported.
“It’s the Jamison Baldridge School,” he replied. “Before seeing to the disbursement of the bequest, I took the opportunity to inquire about them. Mr. Baldridge was an MP and close friend of William Gladstone, who encouraged the childless Baldridge to donate large sums to a charity school in London. It’s soundly funded and responsibly managed. And so we carried out the elder Mr. Fowler’s wishes.”
“What was Fowler’s interest in it?”
“I’m afraid he never told me. He had begun supporting it before he returned to Colchester.”
“What sort of school is it?”
“It is for poor boys without reference to religion, only need and ability. It has a high scholastic standard, and most of the boys have gone on to do well in life. Several have served in the Metropolitan Police, a number went to the Army, there’s a clergyman or two, many became teachers, and a few have even gone into service.”
“Into service?” Rutledge was surprised.
“One was a valet to a cabinet minister. Another became an estate manager in Scotland.”
“And their failures?” Rutledge asked.
“I was led to believe that they did very well too,” Harrison replied dryly.
“None in prison, then?”
“If there were, the headmaster never saw fit to mention them.”
Rutledge thanked Mr. Harrison for his information and went to find the Jamison Baldridge Charity School for Boys.
It was in a respectable street near St. Paul’s Cathedral and had grown considerably since its founder’s day. The Victorian brick building was several stores high, with an arched stone doorway resembling a bishop’s palace, but rather than saints, the reliefs set into the stone ledge that ran across the front featured classical figures. As he rang the bell, Rutledge recognized Plato and Homer above his head.
A young man dressed in much the same fashion as a student at Harrow or Eton opened the door to him and politely asked his business.
“The Headmaster, if you please. My name is Rutledge.”
He was invited into a wide hall, the floor a checkerboard of white and black marble, and the young man excused himself. After several minutes, an older man with the look of a don greeted him and asked his business with Mr. Letherington.
“Scotland Yard. I’m here to inquire about a former student.”