The Confession - Charles Todd [119]
“It went aground on a sandbar by the mouth of the river. When the village men went out to see why there was no activity on board, they found the ship abandoned. The cargo was rich enough to salve their consciences. One of the villagers who could read saw what was written in the ship’s log, then deliberately tossed it overboard. Then plague erupted in the village, and it must have run through it fairly quickly. I’ve seen the mounds in the back of the churchyard.”
“I’ve seen those as well. Many villages lost three-quarters of their population to some of the plagues. I don’t think it’s that unusual. ”
“Here it was considered a curse from God for taking the ship’s goods.”
“Where did you discover all this? In Furnham?”
“Willet was writing a novel about what happened. I collected those boxes of his from his lodgings. They were filled with manuscripts. I expect that’s why they were intended for Cynthia Farraday.”
“Good God. That history will set the cats among the pigeons, if it ever comes to light.”
“He told Miss Farraday that his next book would be a story of pure evil. I expect he was right. Tell me, how are you faring? Do you have everything you need?”
“I’m well enough. Sister Grey tells me I’m healing. It doesn’t feel like it. My chest still hurts like the very devil.”
“I expect it does.”
“Does Cynthia know where I am? It’s not all that far to Chelsea,” he said hopefully.
“Only Dr. Wade, Matron, and Sister Grey know you’re alive. Only Dr. Wade was told where I was taking you.”
“Foolishness. I’d have been safe in the hospital.”
“I’m sure you would have been. On the other hand, are you willing to risk another attempt on your life? I’m using you as bait to draw out a murderer. The Yard would take a dim view of your dying while in our charge.”
“Yes, all right.” He closed his eyes. “Good hunting.”
Rutledge left him to rest and went to Frances’s house. She had gone for the day with friends, and so he shut himself in the study and took out the manuscript.
It was close to eleven o’clock when she came through the door.
“Here you are. I saw your motorcar, but when I called you didn’t hear me. Have you had dinner? I think there’s a bit of cold chicken in the pantry. Shall I make you a sandwich?”
“I’d forgot the time,” he told her. “I’ll come with you.”
“I see you’ve been reading more of that manuscript. I hope it’s better than the part I saw.”
“It’s not as interesting as I’d hoped,” he answered her. “I’m continuing from a sense of duty rather than pleasure.”
It was a lie. He didn’t want his sister to know the truth about Furnham.
“I’m sorry. You’d said he appeared to be a talented writer.” And she began to tell him about her evening as she went to find a plate for him and bring in the cold chicken.
After he’d eaten, he went to bed so that Frances would also go up. And then when he was certain she was asleep, he quietly returned to the study and finished the manuscript.
Setting it aside, he considered what Ben Willet had done.
Was he exorcising ghosts—first the war, the French girl he looked for but couldn’t find, and the past that still hung over the village where he’d lived most of his life? Was it what had made him want to leave Furnham in the first place?
Would his next work have been the story of Wyatt Russell’s murder of Justin Fowler, out of jealousy?
Rutledge understood now why Jessup and Barber and others had not wanted the airfield to be brought to Furnham, for fear someone—bored, or clever, or simply looking to annoy the villagers in his turn—would stumble on a history no one wished to remember. It wasn’t so much change they feared, but that the more people who came, the more likely it would be for Furnham, now only a backwater village of no importance, to find itself famous for the wrong reasons. What had Barber said? That Jessup didn’t want Furnham to become notorious.
Did Jessup want that badly enough to kill Willet before the book could be published? Or had he thought he’d been in