The Confession - Charles Todd [121]
Hamish said, “It willna’ be resolved.”
True enough, Rutledge thought. Tilbury had never solved the disappearance of Mrs. Russell, just as Colchester had never solved the murders of Justin Fowler’s parents.
Still, even though he couldn’t quarrel with the evidence before him, he was not satisfied.
Another question was what Cynthia Farraday would do when Willet’s new novel failed to arrive, even though he’d promised her a copy. Would she raise the matter with his Paris publishers?
He had no more than formulated the thought when there was a tap at his door and Constable Henry stuck his head in.
“A Miss Farraday to see you, sir. And she appears to be very upset.”
He wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t told her about the fabricated article, just in case Fowler tried to contact her.
She came in, her face flushed with anger, and he thought too that she had been crying.
“You didn’t have the courtesy to come and tell me,” she said at once. “I was left to read the news in the Times. I would have gone to him, I would have been with him when he died.”
“I’m sorry. There has been no opportunity to tell you.”
“Did he suffer? Who shot him? When? Where? I don’t know anything!”
He had been standing when she came in, and he offered her a chair. “Sit down. Let me tell you what I know.”
She did as he asked, but her eyes were still blazing with her fury, and he felt a surge of regret for what he was about to do.
He told her how he had finally learned that Russell had gone to Essex. “And I left the church before they could find me there listening. I went on to River’s Edge and waited for him to come. But he didn’t, and I believed that Morrison had relented and let him spend the night at the Rectory. The next morning I spoke to Nancy Brothers, who told me he hadn’t come back to the church ruins, and I went myself to be sure. From there I drove to the Rectory. But neither Morrison nor Russell came to the door. I was just turning toward River’s Edge when I saw Morrison coming from that direction. He’d been looking for Russell as well, and together we went back to the house to search more carefully.”
He glossed over discovering what he’d thought was Russell’s dead body and the difficulty of carrying the wounded man to the motorcar. He said only, “We found him on one of the marsh tracks. We managed to get him to a London hospital, Morrison and I. I don’t believe he ever regained consciousness.”
“And you don’t know who shot him—or why?”
“We’ve had very little luck. That’s why we asked the public for assistance.”
“And you think anyone in Furnham has even seen this article?” She shook her head in disbelief. “First Ben. And now Wyatt.” She angrily brushed away a tear. “And so far you’ve done nothing to stop it. Nothing at all. Scotland Yard, for heaven’s sake! And no better than that poor drunken constable in Furnham. Do you realize that I’m alone now? They’re all gone. Aunt Elizabeth. Justin. Ben. My parents. It’s a frightening feeling, I can tell you. And you didn’t have the courage or the decency to come to me and break the news yourself.”
She began to cry then. He handed her his handkerchief as she fumbled for her own. She rejected it, as if to take it would be to forgive him.
“I can only say how sorry I am.”
“Would you have come at all?” she asked finally.
“I was hoping to reach you before you’d seen the Times.”
“I don’t believe you.” She rose to go. “Where do I find the undertaker who took Wyatt’s body? I shall deal with the arrangements myself.”
It was the one thing he hadn’t planned for.
“The hospital is sending