The Confession - Charles Todd [112]
As far as Rutledge was concerned, Mickelson’s absence was a respite.
He went back to his office and made an effort to concentrate on a folder that Gibson had brought up earlier that morning. But his mind kept wandering to his dilemma.
Mrs. Dunner’s remark about the locket rang true.
And there was still the riddle of the charity school.
The elder Fowler’s support of it from such an early age must have some connection with his first disastrous liaison. Had he bought Gladys Mitchell’s silence about their annulled marriage by seeing to it that her son was properly educated? It wouldn’t have done for her to appear in a year or two with blackmail on her mind just as he was preparing to take another wife. The education of her son—but not his—would be the surest way of protecting his future. And a gift to the school, with the promise of more to come, as the boy’s education progressed, would keep him there.
But what did this have to do with murder?
It could be the connection that he had so far failed to find.
A bitter and forgotten child might look for revenge, if it had been fostered in him by a bitter and dying mother. First to kill the Fowlers. And when Justin survived, to look for him and destroy his new family.
Hamish said derisively, “Willet was no’ a member of the family.”
Rutledge took a deep breath. “He had the necklace. That somehow brings him into the circle.”
“They were all there the day Mrs. Russell disappeared. He could ha’ killed them all. And finished wi’ the past then and there.”
“He would have been hunted down.”
“He was no’ hunted down when the Fowlers were killed.”
Unable to sit still, Rutledge left the Yard, walked over the bridge to the far side of the Thames, then turned and walked back again. The exercise didn’t help.
Rutledge went to his motorcar and drove to the hospital where Major Russell was recovering, and found him propped up in a bed in the men’s ward.
“You’ve made progress,” Rutledge said, taking the chair beside him. “First, the Casualty ward. Now with the rest of the sufferers.”
Major Russell grimaced. “They snore like the very devil. I couldn’t sleep last night for it.”
“You probably wouldn’t have slept well anyway.”
“No. It’s hard to breathe. That keeps me awake. What do you want? Are you here to ask more questions? If I could answer any of them, the bastard would be in irons by this time.”
“I’ve come to ask you about Harold Finley. Mrs. Dunner regarded him as the son she never had. Cynthia Farraday cajoled him into taking her to London against your mother’s wishes. Your mother hired him to drive her. It’s how three women saw him. I want to know how he struck you.”
“Finley? I never gave him much thought. The groom usually drove my mother wherever she needed to go, until she bought the motorcar. She didn’t like it, she called it the contraption. And he couldn’t manage it. She advertised for a chauffeur who could work in the house if needed. The agency sent three or four men to be interviewed. She chose Finley. He worked out very well. Cynthia flirted with him outrageously, but she was a child, and he treated her like one, much to her chagrin. My mother was pleased with that. He dealt with Justin and with me just as easily. I took him for granted, I suppose, the way I took Mrs. Broadly and Mrs. Dunner and Nancy and the others. They were there.”
“Did he strike you as a man who was angry beneath the politeness of a servant?”
“I don’t think I ever saw him lose his temper.”
“Was he different when you were alone with him? When Mrs. Russell wasn’t present