The Confession - Charles Todd [114]
Yet he had carried that imposture off flawlessly.
Which brought Rutledge back to the likelihood that Major Russell had been shot because coming through the reeds along the riverbed, he’d been mistaken for the man from Scotland Yard. It would be easy to rid themselves of him in the middle of the night with no witnesses, and the reason why Ben Willet had had to die would be safe.
Even if the Yard knew to look for him here, a dozen inspectors sent out in his place would have no better luck finding a body than earlier searchers had had looking for Mrs. Russell.
“He didna’ come to see if you were dead.”
“No, that would have left footprints. If I hadn’t been found in a few days, whoever it was could safely put me in the river.”
Hamish said, “The house is his.”
“He must come there often enough to feel it is. And if he isn’t Jessup, I’ll wager Jessup knows who he is.”
“Aye, it’s verra’ likely true.”
Which meant a confrontation with Jessup was looming. He didn’t altogether regret it.
Rutledge left the window and went to bed shortly after that, but he lay there for a time, thinking about Cynthia Farraday and trying to decide what it was that made her so attractive to so many men.
No great wisdom arrived with the morning.
On the way to the Yard, he considered placing a request in the Personals of the Times, asking either Justin Fowler or Harold Finley to contact Scotland Yard. Both men were considered deserters by the Army, and the risk for them was too great to expect them to yield to curiosity. That avenue was effectively closed to him.
There must be another.
In his office, refusing to admit defeat, he played with the wording of such a request.
Hamish said, “Ye ken, Fowler hasna’ used a farthing of his ain money. He’s deid. It’s the reason why he’s shown as a deserter.”
“Then where was his body hidden?”
“There’s the river. The same reason Mrs. Russell’s body has no’ been found.”
“Then Major Russell’s body should have been put into the river as well.” But he knew the answer to that. There hadn’t been time to bring a boat up to River’s Edge and take the body aboard. Morrison’s concern and his own search of the high grass had seen to that.
An idea was taking shape.
Galvanized, Rutledge worked feverishly for three-quarters of an hour, crumpling sheets of paper as he made false starts and was faced with unexpected hurdles. Finally, satisfied, he went to find Sergeant Gibson.
“Read this. I’d like to see it in tomorrow morning’s Times.”
Gibson scanned the sheet of paper, then looked up at Rutledge. “Sir? Is this true?”
“Only half of it. Russell is alive but badly wounded. It’s possible that the person who shot him also shot Benjamin Willet. I need to draw him out before he kills again.”
“You believe he will?”
“If he discovers that Russell is alive, he will bide his time and try again.”
Gibson read the paragraph more carefully.
Major Wyatt Russell was shot three days ago on the lawn of his house on the Furnham Road, Essex, and taken to a London hospital where he was expected to recover and name his assailant. This morning at six o’clock, he succumbed to severe blood loss and infection. Scotland Yard is treating this death as a case of murder by person or persons unknown. Anyone with information that could help the police with their inquiries is asked to contact Sergeant Gibson at Scotland Yard. All replies will be held in the strictest confidence.
“I’ll see to it,” Gibson told him, but there was doubt in his voice. “You’ve told the Major?”
“I’m on my way now.”
At the hospital he caught Dr. Wade just coming out of surgery. They retired to an empty office and Rutledge explained his plan.
“I don’t care for it,” Dr. Wade said flatly. “The danger of infection hasn