The Confession - Charles Todd [125]
“Go,” urged the voice behind him. And Rutledge crossed the street with six or eight other people hurrying on their way. Even before he reached the far side, he knew he was alone.
The encounter had yielded several pieces of information. He had met a deserter, for one. And he was absolutely certain the Army wouldn’t offer immunity in exchange for information that would bring a murder inquiry to an end. And finally, he hadn’t recognized the voice at his back.
Was it a trick? A deserter seizing the opportunity to help himself ? The man claimed he knew Sergeant Gibson. Or had someone actually come forward and been clever enough to ensure he himself wasn’t tricked?
Rutledge tried to replay the voice in his mind. Low, but not deep. Most certainly male. It reminded him of Ben Willet’s, the same timbre, the same cultured overtones. Willet was a good mimic, the voice of a gentleman coming naturally to him. But he was also dead, and his sister had identified the body.
Rutledge sent a message round to his sister’s house to say that he would be late. And then he went to see Major Russell.
“Someone contacted me,” he said as he came into the bedroom. “It wasn’t such a wild idea after all.”
Russell said quickly, “Who was it?”
Handing him the envelope, Rutledge said, “Do you recognize the handwriting?”
After studying it for a moment, Russell said, “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”
“Would you know Findley’s hand? Or Fowler’s?”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anything in Finley’s handwriting. And it isn’t Justin’s. His had more of a slant to it.”
Rutledge told him what had transpired, ending with, “He asked for immunity from prosecution for desertion.”
“Good luck to him,” Russell said. “The Army will never agree to that. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn it’s someone from Furnham. You did see to it that they knew about the Times? All right then. I’ve dealt with soldiers from isolated villages. Some of them were so homesick they would have deserted if they hadn’t been too afraid to try.”
Rutledge himself had dealt with raw troops facing battle for the first time. “Or it’s a trap?” he said slowly. “I’m to meet him again when it’s dark.”
“What would he have done,” Russell asked, “if this man Gibson had met him? He’d have been prepared to put him off, wouldn’t he, and make certain that you would come.”
It was an interesting point.
“Take someone with you,” Russell added. “That’s my advice.”
“I’ll ask Constable Greene. I can’t risk taking Gibson with me.”
“No need to frighten him off. Have a service revolver, do you? The clinic took mine away. Carry it with you.”
“Good advice.” But policemen were not expected to go armed.
Later when Rutledge asked Constable Greene to accompany him to the meeting, the man said, “It’s my wife’s birthday, sir. I don’t think she’d forgive either of us.”
Constable Henry had already left for the day, and Sergeant Gibson was closeted with the Acting Chief Superintendent.
Rutledge left the Yard on his own, walking through the quiet streets back to St. Martin-in-the-Fields.
He wasn’t sure what he was facing. Still, he hadn’t brought his revolver. He would take his chances without it.
Arriving at the church, the first thing he saw was a white square of paper pinned to the door.
Taking it down, he walked to the pool of light cast by a streetlamp, unfolded the half sheet, and tried to read what was written there.
The words were a black scrawl. Not at all the neat writing on the first message. He thought, this must be the man’s true hand. Or else he’s apprehensive, afraid of a trap.
With Hamish uttering a warning in his mind, Rutledge finally deciphered the tangle of words.
Walk another quarter mile north, and I’ll find you.
Whoever it was, he was being very careful. But then the price for desertion was death.
Rutledge continued north, out of the square, coming finally to a dark street where trees blocked the light of streetlamps, casting long black shadows across the road. Half seen beneath one of the trees stood a tall slim man in country clothing, a cap pulled