The Confession - Charles Todd [133]
“He was in France,” she said finally. “He goes, sometimes.”
He thanked her and left.
“Now ye must ask the man himsel’,” Hamish warned him. “Before yon lass asks him.”
“I’d have preferred not to. He’s spoiling for a fight, and I’m not.”
“Aye, he is that.”
This time Rutledge walked up the path to Jessup’s door. Before he could knock, Jessup opened it in his face.
“I saw you before, trying to gather your courage. I won’t ask you in. It’s my house, and I’m rather particular about who I invite to step across my threshold.”
“Yes, I rather thought you might be,” Rutledge said easily. “Where would you prefer to go instead? The strand there, where everyone in Furnham can watch you being taken into custody for obstructing the police in the course of their duties? Or shall we retire to the churchyard, where only the dead will be disturbed by your humiliation?”
Jessup measured his chances. They were nearly of a height, Rutledge slightly taller, while he himself was running to fat around the middle and could give Rutledge at least a stone.
Rutledge said, “You’re wasting my time, Jessup.”
“Talk.”
“What did Ben Willet tell you in his last letter? That he was writing a book about The Dragonfly? About the plague and the burning of the church with a hundred souls inside? Is that why you went to London and killed him?”
Rutledge had prepared for any reaction. What he got was a frowning stare.
“What last letter? What do you mean, he was writing a book about The Dragonfly? God, if I’d known that I’d have killed him myself. Bloody coward. Are you sure? Damn it, he swore to me and to his father. He swore he would say nothing.” He was furiously angry, striking the frame of the door hard with the edge of his fist. “Is that why he was afraid to come home before Ned died? Did Abigail know this?”
“She did not. I don’t know why he never told her about his books.”
“He’s the one they were talking about in France,” Jessup said suddenly. “Not Ned. I thought they were putting us on. Georges and his son. They’re bastards, but they get what we want. How did they know when we didn’t? Besides, I thought they said the book was about smuggling.”
“They knew because the books were published in France under the name Edward Willet. Smuggling was in his second work. Dragonfly would have been his third.”
“If you’re lying to me, I’ll kill you.”
“Someone knew. Someone met him in London. There’s a witness to the fact that he wrote that letter. The same witness can swear to the fact he met someone the night before he died.”
“I got no letter. He’d write to Sandy, not me. Or to Abigail.” His gaze moved toward the pub.
Looking up the street Rutledge saw Sandy Barber in the doorway of The Rowing Boat, watching them. He said, “Who found Mrs. Russell’s body?”
“Found—she was never found.”
“But the locket was, wasn’t it. Her locket.” He watched the man’s eyes, and they gave Jessup away. “And who found Justin Fowler floating in the river and never reported it?”
Jessup looked toward Barber again. “Nobody.”
“You didn’t want the police asking questions. That’s why you didn’t report the locket. Or Fowler’s body. Who killed them, Jessup? Your merry band of smugglers? Or someone else?”
“Get the hell out of Furnham,” Jessup said through clenched teeth. “I’m warning you.”
“You’ve intimidated Constable Nelson, but you can’t intimidate Scotland Yard. I will have a dozen men here to search every house and question every person in this village. We’ll drag the river as well and tear every boat apart. The London newspapers will be kept abreast of our efforts, and when we’re finished, Furnham will be changed forever. And your name will be synonymous with the evil your ancestor did. I read the manuscript, Jessup.”
He knew that he’d pushed too far. If the shotgun had been to hand, Jessup would have used it.
Hamish warned him, and he realized that while he’d been speaking, Sandy Barber had come up behind him. He moved slightly so that he could watch both men, waiting for whatever would happen next. But he’d been