The Confession - Charles Todd [122]
“Just as you saw to it that I was informed before the Times arrived this morning?”
“No, Miss Farraday. I’ll see that you know in good time. If I must send Constable Henry to you with the information.”
Turning toward the door, she said, “You’ve brought me only unhappiness. When I thought you were Wyatt’s solicitor, I liked you. And then you tried to follow me home, and I was frightened. Since then, nothing has gone the way it should. I hold you accountable.”
He walked with her as far as the street in front of the Yard. “Shall I take you home? My motorcar is just there.”
“I’d rather walk,” she told him, and turned toward Trafalgar Square, leaving him standing on the pavement.
He drove to Essex, feeling the guilt of the liar. Telling himself that what he had done was necessary. But it didn’t help.
On the way he stopped and bought a copy of the newspaper.
Arriving in Furnham, he took the paper, already turned to the proper page, into the cool morning dimness of The Rowing Boat.
Barber was there, and Jessup as well, with four or five others. Rutledge realized that he’d just walked into a planning meeting for the next run to France.
They stared at him with animosity, and he told himself grimly that it was only to get worse.
He put the newspaper down on the bar in front of Barber. “I don’t imagine you’ve seen this,” he said.
With a glance at the others, Barber picked up the newspaper, found the article that Rutledge had referred to, and began to read it. Then he stopped and began again, reading it aloud this time.
There was silence in the room as he put it down. “What’s this got to do with us?” He nodded to the others.
“I should think you’d be interested in helping find his killer. Even if you had no interest in finding Ben Willet’s.”
“Perhaps it was suicide,” Barber said after a moment. “Did you think of that?”
“I should think he would have found it difficult to shoot himself in the back and then walk as far as the house, leave the revolver where he’d found it, and return to the marshes to collapse.”
As he stood there, waiting for them to answer, he found himself wondering if any of the shotguns the runners had carried had come from the gun case at River’s Edge. Something in the faces turned toward him told him they knew the gun case as well as Rutledge did.
Jessup said into the silence, “Why should one of us wish to kill Russell? We hardly knew him. He wasn’t one to come to The Rowing Boat of an evening and drink with us.”
“There have been too many deaths at River’s Edge. Beginning with Mrs. Russell and including Justin Fowler. Bodies don’t disappear in the river, not without a little help.”
Jessup stirred. “Don’t be a fool,” he said after a moment.
“What reason did we have?” another of the men asked.
“I was hoping you would tell me. There is something wrong at River’s Edge. I haven’t found out what it was, but I will.” He gestured to the newspaper as he picked it up. “As this says, any information will be treated with strictest confidentiality. So don’t be afraid to speak up. I should think Miss Farraday will be offering a reward as well.”
He turned, walking out the door, feeling a tightness between his shoulder blades until he had swung the door shut behind him.
At the Rectory, he saw Morrison trimming a hedge that ran along the back of his property. Getting out, he walked past the house and said, when he was in earshot, “I think you’ll want to read this.” Holding up the newspaper, he waited until Morrison had put down the wooden-handled hedge trimmers and joined him by the kitchen door.
“What’s that? It can wait, I’m thirsty. Would you care for a lemonade?”
Rutledge went into the small but tidy kitchen and took the chair Morrison indicated. An oiled cloth in a rather garish shade of green covered the table, and the hutch and the cabinets were old. After a moment he came back with a heavy pitcher in his hands.
“It’s not terribly cold,” the rector said apologetically. “It’s hard to come by ice out here. I’ve taken to keeping the jug in the root cellar.