The Confession - Charles Todd [115]
“I understand that risk. But if Major Russell survives this wound, whoever shot him will still be out there waiting.”
“You can’t be sure of that. Can you?”
“I’m not willing to find out.”
“Yes, there’s that. But where are you taking him? He needs care, he can’t fend for himself.”
Rutledge had considered the possible answers to that on his way to the hospital. His first choice had been the rector, Mr. Morrison. But the cottage was small, and if there were any changes in the Major’s condition, medical care was too far away. And the cottage was far too close to Furnham. Morrison would be no match for an angry Jessup.
The second choice was the clinic in Oxfordshire, but he was fairly certain the Major would have no part of that. And a careful killer just might think to look for him there, to see if the Times article was true.
The third option was to take the Major to Cynthia Farraday. That too had its risks.
Which left him with no alternative but to offer his own flat, with a nursing sister in charge of Russell’s care. And yet he had rejected that for personal reasons. His flat was his sanctuary, his dark corner where he could scream in the night when the war came back again. Here Hamish was at his most vocal, and his presence was a living thing.
His rational mind told him that the Major and the nursing sister would find nothing there to betray his connection with Hamish MacLeod. And yet the part of his mind that Hamish inhabited recoiled in terror and refused even to contemplate such an idea, even when Rutledge himself would not be in the house at all.
The rest of the journey had seen a battle with himself. But now he said to Dr. Wade, “My flat in London.”
And for the next half hour together Rutledge and Wade hammered out every possible detail until both were satisfied.
Dr. Wade said, “I’m still not convinced that this is necessary.”
“It’s important to try.”
In the ward, he found the Major sitting up against pillows and drinking a glass of water.
“I’m surprised to see you again,” he said as Rutledge took the chair by his bed. “I thought our business was concluded until you found my assailant. I’ve told you all I know.”
“I’ve come to arrange for you to die.”
“I’m damned if you are.”
He handed Russell a copy of the sheet that he’d given Sergeant Gibson. Setting aside his glass, Russell read the words written there and then read them a second time.
“Yes, I see what you’re driving at. All right, how do I go about dying? And where will you take me? Not to Oxfordshire or I’ll refuse to help you.”
“That was a bit of a problem, but we’ve found a solution. I’ll find a way to make it happen. You must play your part and call for the nursing sister in half an hour, then let her examine you and cover your face. Someone will come and remove the—er—body.”
“When you’ve got what you want, will you retract the death notice?”
“As soon as I can. Yes.” He took the sheet of paper and returned it to his pocket. Then he said, “Did you know that Justin Fowler is listed by the Army as a deserter?”
“Justin? You can’t be serious! Yes, you are, aren’t you.” He lay there for a time, then said, “That’s odd. Because Justin said something I’ve never understood. He told me that the war was too bloody for him, that it gave him nightmares again.”
Rutledge leaned closer, to make certain his voice didn’t carry, but a patient was coughing heavily behind him, covering his words. He said, “Did you know that Justin Fowler’s parents were brutally murdered, and he himself repeatedly stabbed and left for dead?”
“Good God. No. Is that true? Justin? Did they catch whoever did it? No?” He whistled softly. “Did my mother know? She never said a word to me. But that explains the scars on his body. Something was mentioned—surgery, I think.” After a moment he added wryly, “I was a boy, I didn’t believe her. I was envious because I thought he’d done something daring. And so I asked him. Do you know what he said? I have no scars. I thought he’d been sworn to secrecy, and it was rather exciting.”
Rutledge said, “It’s time we got started. I must