The Confession - Charles Todd [123]
Rutledge thanked him and pointed to the top of the page.
“Dear God,” he said after he’d finished it. “He’s dead? But I thought— Dr. Wade gave him a very good chance of living.”
“I was there yesterday. Just before his fever shot up. I’ve shown this to Barber and Jessup and a few of the others. And as you can see, I’ve kept your name out of it. I thought it best.”
“Thank you very much. I can do without any other quarrel with my parishioners. But this is sad news. After all our efforts to get him to a Casualty Ward. Did he ever remember anything more?”
“Apparently not.”
“Well, that will just make your task harder, I should think. Much as I hate to say it, it must have been one of the villagers.” Morrison shook his head. “But there’s no motive. He hadn’t been here for years. Why shoot him?”
“Perhaps because he’d seen Ben Willet the night before he was killed. With someone from Furnham.”
Morrison’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you sure? In London? That’s a long journey for someone from Furnham. None of us has the luxury of your motorcar.”
“There are vans that come to the butcher’s shop and the greengrocer’s shop. Someone must come for the milk out at the farms. There are ways.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true. Well, then, it should be easy enough for you to find out. Still—I know these people, Rutledge. Which one have I failed to understand?”
“You told me that Jessup was dangerous.”
“Yes, that’s true, he is. He will hammer you within an inch of your life if you cross him. His fists are his weapon of choice.”
“Nevertheless, one of your flock shot Russell.”
“All right, yes. I just don’t want to think that men I’ve known and argued with and cajoled into coming to a service or letting a son or daughter be baptized are killers. Is it possible that someone from London followed him here? There was that business of the loose mare.”
“Probably very slim at best.” Rutledge could appreciate Morrison’s concern for the souls in his keeping, whether they wanted his keeping or not.
Finishing his lemonade, he asked, “Did you know the history of the church that preceded yours?”
Morrison roused himself from whatever he was thinking about the men of Furnham. “I was told it was struck by lightning and burned. Flat as it is out here, a steeple is the tallest point around. Not surprising.”
“Jessup told me the same story.”
“It’s one of the reasons why the new church, St. Edward’s, has a truncated tower. I suspect the beams were ancient and as dry as several hundreds of years could make them. They’d burn in a flash. I asked if it had been a Sunday, if anyone had been trapped in it. But apparently not, it was in the evening.”
Rutledge left it at that. Picking up the newspaper, he said, “I’m going to River’s Edge. It’s possible that in our concern for Russell we overlooked something.”
“I can’t imagine what. Do you want me to go with you? Two pairs of eyes and all that.”
“It’s just as well if I go alone. And then I’ll carry on straight to London.”
“Will you tell me when the funeral will be? I’ll take the service, if Cynthia—Miss Farraday—wishes me to.”
He was prepared this time. “The body won’t be released straightaway.”
“Yes, I understand. But you’ll pass along my offer, I hope.”
Rutledge promised, thanked him for the lemonade, and left.
“Are ye going to River’s Edge? Ye’ll be a target, if ye do, and no one to help.”
He answered Hamish aloud. “If it’s someone from Furnham, he’ll follow me to London. And there I won’t see him coming.”
“Aye. But watch your back.”
Rutledge stopped at the gates of River’s Edge, walked up the drive and around to the terrace. And although he stood there for nearly three-quarters of an hour, he saw no one. No one took a shot at him.
All the same, he could feel eyes watching him. From the high grass? Among the reeds across the river? Or concealed in the dozens of inlets and coves barely deep enough for a small boat?
He hadn’t thought to bring his field glasses. And he cursed himself for that.
Debating the wisdom of spending